Page 53 of Hollow
“If you’re on the run from someone, you better take it easy on the opium,” I tell him, getting to my feet.
“You’re here all the time smoking the same as I am,” he grunts.
“Yes, but unfortunately, I’m only running from myself, and I have a lot of experience. It takes time for your body to adjust to the drug. Until it does, you’re a sitting duck. Tell me, where are you staying?”
“None of your business.”
I shrug. “None of this is. But if you want to make it my business, you can always stay with me. I have a hotel room not too far from here. It’s small but clean, and I lucked out with a bathtub with hot water. You could get yourself cleaned up, soberish, and we could talk about what to do with you.”
He continues to stare up at me, eyes hard and disbelieving.
“Why? What are you planning on doing to me?”
“Oh, me? I don’t plan on doing anything,” I tell him. “I might be a man of various appetites, but I’m also a man who looks out for another in need. I think you need help, Abe. And it would please me greatly if I could help you.”
He makes a low noise in his throat, and for a moment, I think he may yell at me. But then he closes his eyes and leans back against the wall. “I don’t need any help,” he says, his words drifting.
I watch him for a moment as he falls deep into the haze, and then I go back to my pipe across the room and sit on the bed. I smoke a little more, and I watch him as he drifts in and out.
Eventually, I decide to go home. I leave the den and step out into the night. The October air is hard, and it’s bitterly cold despite it being hot a few days ago. I pull my collar up against the cold and walk, looking forward to bed.
Then I hear footsteps behind me, stumbling, and a low voice call out, “Ichabod.”
My heart leaps in my chest, and I turn around to see Abe coming toward me, shrugging on his coat.
“Well, well, well,” I say to him. “Are you here to come home with me or here to punch me in the face?”
He glares at me. So much anger in this man. I would love to fuck it out of him.
“I’m here to come home with you,” he says gruffly, as if he hates the idea and is doing it anyway.
I just smile and put my hand on his shoulder. “Good choice, my friend.”
We walk to the hotel and don’t say a word to each other. This is not the first time I’ve brought a man back to the room. Women are always harder to convince, especially if you live in a hotel. Men are so much easier. The ones I meet don’t care where we go as long as we both get to fuck with abandon.
Still, as we go through the hotel to my room, I feel a hit of shame at how threadbare and plain the place is. I sold the house in San Francisco years ago, and that money is almost gone now. What I should have done was try and get into the real estate market here in New York City, but I was too afraid to put down any roots, and my lifestyle has eaten its way through it. I tend to change hotels every few months, and they keep going down in quality. At least with this one I still had enough money to splurge on a private bathroom.
But Abe doesn’t seem to mind or notice. Of course he doesn’t—he’s still high, which works out well for me because when we go to my room, I realize I left it a disaster. I quickly putter around, cleaning things up, but Abe is already in the bathroom and running the bath for himself.
I decide to give him privacy. I have a bottle of whisky and find only a clean mug and glass amongst the mess, and I sit on the corner of my bed and wait. And drink. And wait. I don’t hear any slosh of water, nothing. It’s just silence.
What if he’s drowned? Or found my razor and killed himself? I don’t know the man and what he’s been going through.
I can’t shake the troubling thoughts, so I call out, “Abe?”
I put down the drinks, get to my feet, and open the door to the bathroom.
He’s in the bathtub, just staring at the wall. His eyes are so dark against the white room and brimming with intensity that it makes a shiver run down my back. This is generally the opposite of a drug comedown.
“Abe?” I ask again. I’m starting to wonder if it’s his actual name at all. “Are you alright?”
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.
I slowly walk over to him and perch on the side of the tub. I can’t help but stare into the water at his body. Every inch of his is hard-packed muscle. I’m strong, but I’m lean, not a lot of fat on me, but his body is thick and tight all at once. He must weigh a ton, and I imagine pushing his body into the floor as I ravage him from behind, how good it would feel to shove him around, make him obey my every command. His cock is especially magnificent, even when it’s submerged and half-hard, and the soap that’s floating in the tub bumps into the tip of it.
Finally, he looks at me with a slow turn of his head, and I make sure he knows I like what I see. I let my eyes linger on his body, let him feel the heat in my gaze. His cock twitches under the water, growing large, stiff, and magnificent under my watch.
“I was worried,” I say after the tension in the bathroom seems too thick to bear. I meet his eyes, and I’m startled by what I see. How utterly focused and carnal he looks. Gone is the sullen scowl or the simmering fear or the fog of the opium.