Chapter 16
Crane
One year ago
I can’t stop staring. The man has been coming into the opium joint for the past few nights.
He never speaks to anyone, except a few words to the meister, who arranges his pipe for him.
Then he takes his pipe and sits in the farthest corner, disappearing into the dark until all you see of him are puffs of smoke and the occasional shine of his black eyes.
There’s nothing unusual about a single man coming in here and lying down in one of the beds or on a rug on the floor and smoking for hours, and yet, I can’t help but be drawn to this one.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s beautiful. Tall, with wide boulder-like shoulders, and when he takes off his coat, you can see how much muscle he has.
He’s just brimming with power, the kind that makes me wet my lips.
And then there’s his longish hair, his beard, those eyes of his that are so brown they’re like teak and ebony.
All these things call to me. Makes my cock perk up, even when the opium is competing for my body’s attention.
But that’s not why I’m so fixated on him these past few days. It’s because when he’s in the corner of the room, he’s not blissfully unaware of the world like everyone else seems to be. He’s watching. He sits there and smokes, and he watches everything.
He watches me.
Just as I watch him.
Except he looks like he’s watching for something. Or he’s running away from something. The only difference between him and the rest of us users is that he’s not running away from himself.
I put down my pipe and get up, moving through the haze of smoke and across the room until I’m standing right in front of him.
“Can’t help but notice you’ve been staring at me,” I say.
He tilts his head back and glares up at me. His eyes could cut through steel.
“I think you have it the other way around,” he says. His voice is gravelly and rough and stirs something primal inside me.
“Perhaps we’ve both been staring at each other,” I say to him. I crouch down so that I’m at his level. I can’t see him much better because of the shadows he’s in, but the energy just radiates off him. Dark and wicked and all the things I love, all the things I’ve neglected.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He puts the pipe to his mouth and inhales. He lets the smoke fall out slowly, his eyes locked on mine. “Abe,” he says eventually.
“No last name?”
“Don’t need one here.”
“Well, I’m Ichabod Crane,” I tell him.
“Ichabod,” he says through a cough, his dark eyes becoming heavy-lidded. “You don’t hear that name too often.”
“You can call me Crane,” I tell him. “If it pleases you.”
And if you want to please me, you can call me Daddy.
“What would please me is if you got the fuck out of my face and left me alone.”
I grin at him. “That’s a nasty mouth you’ve got there. Care to put it to good use?”
He lets out a low growl and attempts to get up and perhaps tackle or punch me, but the drug has him in its grip. I merely push back on his rock-hard shoulders until he’s against the wall.
“You’re new at this, aren’t you, pretty boy?” I say, leaning into him. I’m straddling him now, my knees planted on either side of his hips.
He gnashes his teeth together like a rabid dog, but his movements are too slow.
“A pretty little animal who doesn’t know his limits.”
“Fuck you,” he snarls.
I just give him a half smile.
“I’ll tell you what, Abe,” I say to him. “I’ll leave you alone, and you can continue to smoke yourself into a stupor, but answer me this one question.”
He lets out a raspy growl as an answer.
“Are you in any danger?” I ask gravely.
He goes quiet at that, blinks at me like he doesn’t really see me. I know questioning people when they’re high isn’t the best way to get information, but I can’t help myself. Something in me wants to find the threads that are barely holding him together and unravel him.
“Why do you say that?” he manages to say thickly.
“Because I see it in you,” I tell him. “I see many things in you. I know you’re running away from someone. Something, perhaps? And that you’re having a hard time finding peace, thinking that death and danger are lurking around every corner. It doesn’t have to be that way.”
He watches me for a second, his eyes growing heavy. “It is that way.”
Hmmm. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s not giving up his secrets to a stranger. Against my better judgment, I reach out and grab his hand and try to read him.
His eyes go wide as they stare into mine, big black pools that I’m drowning in, and I feel so much all at once.
Fear, anger, shame, and something dark and terrifying, enough that I almost let go.
But try as I might, I can’t see into his mind, can’t see his memories.
I can only feel him and all he’s going through. It is a lot.
“What are you looking at?” he asks me, swiping his hand out of mine in a clumsy manner.
“Truth,” I tell him. “What are you looking for?”
He wiggles his jaw back and forth, his breathing becoming more labored, but remains quiet.
I don’t think I’ll get anything else from him tonight.
“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 and 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 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. 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 hint 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 to 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 my funds.
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 whiskey and find a clean mug and glass among 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 even his actual name. “Are you all right?”
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 him 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.