6. Chase
CHASE
When Logan invited me up, I was certain he just wanted to get in my pants again.
It didn’t bother me.
I know the effect my cock can have on people, and honestly, it was just as flattering to have a guy be that hungry for it again that quickly.
But when we got to the top floor, it became obvious that Logan had absolutely no plan for what he actually wanted to do when he invited me upstairs.
There are only four total suites up here on the 20th floor, and the biggest one is the VIP suite that belongs to him.
He opens the door and lets me in.
“Damn. This place is bigger than it looks in the pictures,” I mutter as I slide off my boots near the front door. “Quite a fucking far cry from my chaotic apartment.”
“What’s it like at your place?”
“Let’s see. Every surface is littered with piles of everything I own. All the walls are painted different colors, and I painted murals on two of them. I can find random keepsakes from three years ago, but I can never find my keys.”
“Bowl by the door. Get one, and you’ll never lose your keys again.”
I laugh. “You underestimate me.”
It’s the first time I’ve actually been inside the penthouse. It’s almost offensively luxurious. The other rooms in this hotel don’t have shit on this suite, and that’s saying a lot, because the entire Bellwood is impressive.
But the view here is staggering.
It’s a different direction from where we faced earlier tonight on the roof, where we were looking south at the concrete jungle, toward the lower half of the city and endless buildings, streets, and lights.
Instead, the penthouse looks out onto the endless lush green of Central Park. Lights glow beneath the trees during the night.
I’ve drawn sketches of the park so many times.
Taken pictures in it, from ground level.
But never from a view like this.
The coffee table next to one of the sofas is covered in a few booklets of bound paper, probably something to do with Logan’s job. As I get closer I see that they’re something like scripts, potentially.
They’re all in neat stacks, and there’s an iced coffee on a coaster beside them.
“Do you write scripts or something?” I ask, looking over at the stacks on the table.
“I’m in the industry. But I talked about work for hours at dinner, and I can’t take the idea of talking about it more right now.”
I hold my hands up in the air. “No problem. Stay mysterious.”
His gaze lingers on me for a moment and I can tell he’s even more sauced up than I’ve ever seen him before.
“I’ll tell you what my job is in the morning. Trust me, it’s not exactly something I can shroud in mystery.”
I grin at him. “You’re like a dad saying you’ll tell me something when I’m older.”
He puffs out a laugh, his lashes pointed downward for a beat. “I’m not your dad. You were having the silver tequila, right?”
“Always.”
He strides over to the bar behind the dining table that’s nearly half the size of the lounge bar. He reaches for the tequila and nearly pours some in a diamond-patterned short glass.
“Got any lime for that?” I ask.
“I was under the impression that you take it straight from the bottle.”
“Only when I’m being stupid. Which surprisingly isn’t 100% of the time.”
He gets a bottle of sour margarita mix from the end of the bar. “This good enough?”
“Perfect.”
He also goes for the brown bottle of single malt, and I eye it as he pours heavy for himself.
“You can’t actually be drinking that glass of Scotch. If you do, I’m going to be holding your hair back over the toilet like you’re a freshman frat-boy pledge later tonight.”
He furrows his brow, echoing what I said earlier. “You underestimate me.”
He hands me the glass of tequila sour.
There are two fireplaces in here. One in the middle of the living space and one along the far wall. A sleek black grand piano sits in one corner of the room by the windows. A hallway leads down toward multiple bedrooms and bathrooms and probably another fucking private city, as far as I can tell.
I sit down on the long, cream-colored sofa in the living room and look up at the TV, which is playing a loop of Bellwood Hotel general information.
I stare at it as it goes through the cycle, showing a map of the hotel, a local map of the city, and entertainment recommendations. I get lost in my thoughts as it goes through the cycle another time, and then another.
Both of us haven’t said a word since we sat down.
It feels surprisingly okay, though, and I’m not going to prod Logan to chat if he just wanted drinking company.
Sometimes drinking makes me feel like my brain is slightly less of a wild rabbit, but it’s probably not the healthiest way to cope.
I glance over at his dining table, then out the window, then back at the TV screen again.
There was something my brother had asked me to do tonight, too, but I can’t remember what it was, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s going to be pissed.
That cigarette would have helped, but only for a few minutes. Being up here with Logan is better anyway.
His expression is drawn tight as he stares at the fireplace. He looks serious and so sad again that it erases every other nagging thought I had in my head.
I put my legs up on the chaise part of the sofa, which is so wide and cushy it practically feels like a bed.
“Why do you keep saying this week is so bad for you?” I ask. “You look devastated sometimes.”
Maybe that was too blunt of a way to ask.
He blinks, pulling in a breath as he looks over at me. After a moment it seems like he doesn’t want to talk, and I wave it off.
“Nevermind. Come here.”
I beckon him over with my hand and he looks confused for a moment. He takes a small sip of his drink.
“I’m fine, Chase. Was just lost in thought.”
“Cool. Now come here.”
I reach over and tug on his shirtsleeve, pulling it harder and harder with each passing moment.
“What are you doing?”
I set down my glass on the table, and then I take his Scotch out of his hand, placing it down next to mine.
“Put your head in my lap. Quit acting like you haven’t been intimately familiar with it already.”
I raise my eyebrow, patting my thigh.
I’m surprised when he doesn’t protest. He shifts over on the sofa and rests the very edge of his head on my leg, then I move underneath him so that way more of him is lying on me.
“I really am fine,” he says. “I’m usually smiling, so when I don’t, people always think I look sad. You don’t have to do anything.”
“I don’t think it’s gay to touch you, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Did you think it was gay to jerk me off?”
I snort a laugh. “I don’t regret doing that. If you’re having some guilt-fest about it, you can fuck off with that, too.”
I start to card my fingers through his silky hair like I did earlier, and instantly it’s like some scattered part of me feels settled inside.
His chest rises and falls for a bit as he finally fully rests on my lap.
I get a chance to gaze down at him. For fuck’s sake, his bone structure is just unfair.
It’s like God himself came down and blessed Logan with every good-looking gene the moment he was born.
“I’m bad at talking about myself, Chase,” Logan finally says. “Which is funny, because I’m great at talking about anything else. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“Sometimes I feel like I never shut up about myself. You have no idea how much I’m holding back saying at any given moment.”
“Like?”
I shake my head. “I can’t explain my ADHD-ass inner monologue, Logan.”
“Well, try.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Okay. It’s like…
Logan’s hair is so soft. Is he comfortable?
Did he invite me up to ask for another orgasm and now he’s too afraid to say it?
What was I supposed to do tonight, again?
Are Logan’s eyes blue, or actually just grey?
Do grey eyes exist? They definitely exist. A guy who used to sell me cheap Molly had grey eyes.
Fuck that guy. Fuck Molly, too. Sitting on this couch is honestly better than rolling and feeling like shit the next day, anyway.
Did I bring my phone up from downstairs?
Right, I did. Am I so drunk I’m sober, or just full-on drunk? Fuck, Logan’s hair is soft.”
He hums softly, and I give his hair a little tug, then relax again. “To answer your question, I invited you up here because you don’t know who I am.”
“Oh.”
I run my fingers lower, kneading at his shoulder, pondering the different things he could mean by that.
I’m dying to know what the fuck he does for a living.
But he said he’d tell me tomorrow. For once, I force myself not to push him on it.
He shifts his head on my lap, looking up at me. “Do you like documentaries?” he asks.
“Depends.”
He lazily reaches over to the table and grabs the remote. He navigates to a documentary called Edwardian Britain: The Strength Before the War, and it starts to play on the TV.
It’s boring as hell.
But in a way that kind of relaxes me.
I can't look at Logan’s lips without remembering how they looked wrapped around my cock, so I try to focus on historical Britain, instead.
He sucked dick like the only way he could continue to live was to make me come. Do all guys give blow jobs that good? Is it just a Logan thing?
He was able to take me so deep. And everything he did with his mouth was fucking amazing.
As I relax on the couch, my mind finally isn’t running at a million miles an hour.
When I’m with friends I usually feel like I need to entertain them, but all Logan needs is somebody to touch him and a dry history flick, apparently.
At first I’m wishing it was an indie horror movie, or something animated so I could try to study the drawing techniques.
But as it plays, Logan seems to look a lot more comfortable and I’m glad for that.
It’s very weird to be up in a stranger’s hotel suite, but it’s better than…
Shit. Right.
That’s what I was supposed to do tonight.
Julian wanted me to meet a girl at some club down near Soho. Set me up with her, probably. But he’s with a huge group of friends. They won’t miss me.