The bartender laughed as he poured his drink. “I know how you feel, bro. Some nights all you need is a stiff one.”
He looked at Danny, and they shared a laugh. Ash gulped the second one as quickly as the first, wanting to drown out the voices in his head scolding him for his shitty treatment of his friend. Two drinks in this short a period of time, coupled with his earlier vodkas, had him swaying on his seat, slightly dizzy and unfocused.
As he tossed down half of his third drink, a hand touched his back and caressed his shoulder. The heat of the man’s palm seared his skin through his shirt. He jerked away, stood, and faced the man whose hand remained on his body.
Long, buttery-yellow blond hair framed a pale, high-cheekboned face. Deep brown eyes stared at Ash with a hunger that kick-started the blood singing through his veins. Ash raised a brow as he pushed the hand away from him. “Can I help you?” He knew he was drunk but didn’t give a shit. Fire gnawed at his body, and he needed to quench its hunger.
A slow smile crept over the blond man’s face. “I know I can help you.” He took Ash’s hand. “Let’s go to the back.” The press of the crowd pushed Ash’s body against the stranger, and he could feel every dip and curve of the man’s lithe yet muscled torso through his thin T-shirt.
This was what he was here for, to drown himself in another hot, willing body. As he walked to the back, Ash couldn’t wait to feel the man’s lips slide over his cock. He needed to bury himself inside of someone, anyone to forget about Drew.
“Hey, man. This is good, right?” They entered the restroom, and the man locked the door behind him.
Ash didn’t answer, having no use for petty small talk. He unzipped his pants, then closed his eyes and stroked himself, picturing the face of a hot, green-eyed angel with silky dark curls staring up at him. His head spun from all the vodka he’d gulped down at the bar.
Wet warmth enveloped him as a twisting, flickering tongue swept over the head of his cock. He widened his stance, bracing his back against the wall, and none too gently began thrusting into the willing mouth.
His mind blanked until all feeling and sensation centered around his groin, and he grabbed the head of the man on his knees before him. “Christ, Drew, fuck me yeah.”
Hazy with desire, he opened his eyes, expecting to see the dark-haired Drew at his feet. At the sight of his hands buried in blond straight hair, not black curls, Ash grew confused. His blurred mind couldn’t separate who was between his legs, with who was in his head and he yanked himself away, his erection wilting.
“Wait, what the fuck is going on? Where’s Drew?”
The blond let go of his cock with a wet, sucking sound, his hand still wrapped around his own erection. “What the hell, man? Are you on something?” His pale face, flushed with lust, tightened. “I was close and so were you.”
Dizzy and slightly nauseated, Ash shoved his now limp cock into his pants and zipped himself up. “Uh, look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come in here with you.”
By now the other man had finished jerking himself off and stood, brushing his knees with his hands. “You’re right. I don’t know who this Drew guy is, but you need to figure it out if you’re gonna call his name when your dick is in someone else’s mouth.”
The stranger unlocked the door and opened it. “Better get your fuckin’ head together, man.”
Ash leaned back against the coolness of the tiled wall. A fucking perfect ending to this shitty night. He relieved himself, washed his hands, and splashed cold water on his face. After leaving the bathroom, he wove his way through the crowd and left the bar to go home.
By the time he reached home it was three o’clock in the morning. Ash fell into a restless sleep, where the old nightmares mingled with new. He jolted upright to a sitting position in the bed, eyes wide open and bulging with alarm, a name on his lips.
“Drew…”
Then, with a sinking heart, he remembered he’d sent Drew away, and not nicely either, but rather dismissively and brusque, as if they’d finished a business transaction. Sort of like the way he usually ended all his sexual encounters, except this time he knew the man’s name and had to see him again.
“Shit, I really fucked this up.” Wide awake now, he peered over at the glow of the bedside clock. Five thirty-five. Well, wasn’t that fucking wonderful. Knowing there was no more sleep for him tonight, he tossed back the covers and walked naked into the living room. The bottle of vodka awaited him like a long-lost friend, offering warmth and forgetfulness. Exactly what he needed after the complete shit storm of a night. He poured a little in the glass and drank it back straight.
Warmth, such as it was, seeped into his chilled body but couldn’t erase the coldness of the way he’d treated Drew. “Fuck.” He poured out a little more, the neck of the bottle knocking against the rim of the glass, but he couldn’t bear to drink this one warm. With a sigh, he grabbed the bottle, crossed the living room, and entered the kitchen. After filling his glass with ice, he poured it full and waited a moment, letting it chill, as he wrapped his mind around the phone call from Martinson.
The news he’d received tonight was the closest he’d ever come to concrete information about one of his friend’s whereabouts. Luke might be in New York City. Even knowing how many millions of people lived in the city, the fact that he and Luke might see each other soon set his heart pounding. Once again, he allowed alcohol to numb his fear. He was such a goddamn coward. That’s why he’d pushed Drew away, or tried to, at least. At the thought of Drew, he drank a little more vodka. How many did that make tonight? Not nearly enough to dull the pain that seared through him, remembering how he’d basically thrown the best man he’d ever met out of his apartment.
Could he finally let someone share his hurt, his life? Could he tell Drew about what really happened to him as a child and young man? He grasped the edge of the countertop, then pulled open the drawer. He was a little drunk, to be sure, but in the twilight of early morning, he knew the ritual and could do it with his eyes closed.
The smooth edge of the knife handle comforted him in a macabre sort of way. Still holding his drink in his left hand, he slid to the floor, his legs pressed up into his chest so his chin rested on his knees. With deliberate care, he placed his drink on the floor, then rubbed his right arm, searching for a smooth, yet unblemished spot.
As the thin blade slipped into his skin, he welcomed the sting. A thin line of blood appeared, and he smiled.
Absolution.
Each cut on his body reminded him not only of how he’d failed his friends, but in a twisted way gave him strength to push the nightmare of Paul Munson’s abuse behind him. Now he could add the cruel and callous way he’d treated Drew to his litany of failures. It didn’t matter if it made no sense to anyone. He knew. It was his body and his choice to do with it what he wished.
The knife clattered to the white tile floor, sending tiny drips of blood splattering across the pristine surface. He watched with almost clinical disinterest as the tiny rivulet of red trickled down his arm to land on his knee. Years of experience now enabled him to judge when to stop to prevent losing too much blood. In the early years he’d had some close calls and the heavier, deeper scars to show for it.
Drew would know how to help him prevent further scarring, but he wanted them, needed those scars to prove he was still alive and capable of feeling pain.
