12. Chase
CHASE
The moment I swing the utility closet door open, I know it’s too early.
“Woah, yo!” somebody says right as Logan and I step out of the small room, and I see that the group of fans who had been waiting by the elevators are now in front of the bar. “Is this bar open—wait, Damien! Shit, sorry. Landon Stone.”
“Logan Stone,” I correct the guy gently. He’s clearly very drunk, as are all the other people in his group. They’re wearing glittery hats, feather boas, and shirts that say I Bit Into the Big Apple.
“Right, right, Logan,” he says. “Goddamn, dude. Hey, my friend Willa didn’t get a good picture with you earlier. Can we take another?”
Logan looks over at them, a broad smile appearing on his face. “Of course. Let’s do it.”
Logan steps over and takes another shot with one of the girls in the group, and soon a couple of the other drunk people want more pictures, too.
As they’re taking their time, another group of people walk by the other end of the hallway and when they glance down, they start doing double takes.
“It is him,” I hear one of them say.
And then they’re cascading down the hallway, too.
One picture has rapidly turned into dozens of pictures. Logan stays smooth throughout it all, making small talk about the city and asking them about their own trips into New York.
He’s always been kind to his fans, but he’s even better at it now. He acts like all of the other stars I’ve seen on red carpets, charming people and getting them to laugh, always making sure to make eye contact with people so they won’t think he’s dismissive.
But when yet another group of people starts peering down the hallway, looking at the gathered little crowd, I see something falter in Logan’s eyes.
“Okay,” I say in a louder, authoritative voice. “Mr. Stone needs to head upstairs now. Thank you all.”
I am in a Bellwood uniform, after all, and these people don’t have to know that I just work in a kitchen making desserts.
“Mommy! He’s on the football show!” a little girl says, eyes wide as she runs down the hallway.
“You’re not supposed to be watching Yard Line,” the girl’s mom says. “That show is for grown-ups.”
“I only saw a little bit,” she protests, a wicked smile on her face.
“One more photo, for her,” I say, gesturing at Logan.
Logan crouches down to take a picture with her, and afterward, I reach for the small of his back, placing my arm around him.
I act as a meat shield for him as I quickly walk him down the hallway toward the main elevator bay. There are people in the lobby, rolling in suitcases and gawking at Logan as we glide past them. A few guys who are also drunk come over and say “football man! Let me get a selfie!”
But I hold out my arm, forming a bar between Logan and them.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen. Bellwood Policy. We can’t allow guests to congregate here.”
I reach over and jab the elevator button, beeping my access card. I return my palm to the small of Logan’s back, not letting anyone else get too close.
People start to take out their phones anyway, and their flashes go off, snapping pictures and filming videos of Logan waiting to get into the elevator. I know I’m going to be in some of the shots, but it shouldn’t matter if I’m in uniform.
Finally the doors whir open.
I let Logan get in first, then blockade the door with my body and outstretched arm, telling people they’ll have to catch the next elevator.
I’m glad that no one tests me and tries to get inside.
If enough of them mobbed up, they could easily push past my arm.
The doors finally close, and Logan and I are in the elevator alone. I keep my hand on the small of his back, rubbing slow circles there, watching him visibly try to decompress in real time.
The smile drops away from his face, and relief floods his expression. He pulls in a slow breath and turns to me.
“Thank you,” he says.
“I’ve got you.”
I realize my hand is still on his back when the elevator doors slide open on the top floor.
I step out into the hall, and we pause outside the elevator.
“Ah. Sorry about that,” I tell him as I pull my hand away from his back.
I’m surprised when Logan reaches out and takes my hand in his, clasping it. “You never have to apologize for that. I know you’re touchy-feely. It doesn’t bother me, and it never will.”
I nod. “Okay. Well, if you ever need me to be your human shield again, that doesn’t bother me, either.”
He gives me a half-smile. “I should head to bed.”
“Get some beauty rest,” I tell him.
I lean in to wrap my arms around him in a quick hug, but once I’m there, it doesn’t end up being very quick.
As I pull him close, my lips are close to his neck.
It would be so easy to kiss him there. Just a peck, a little soft kiss on his skin. I know that would make me want to kiss Logan everywhere, though.
I jump as a sound comes from down the hall, but it’s just a member of the room service staff bringing up a tray for one of the other suites.
I pull away and give Logan a little salute.
I feel a little like a wolf on a leash as I walk off, heading back down the elevator and out into the world.
I take a long walk back to my apartment. It’s early summer and the air is balmy, humid, almost like I’m on a tropical island rather than one covered in brick and concrete. A warm breeze blows through the trees along the sidewalk, and the city feels alive in a way it hasn’t in a long time.
He’s here again.
Like a comet flashing through my world, brightening the entire atmosphere around me.
Later that night at home, I crawl into bed and take out my sketchpad, drawing Logan’s face from memory. The way I see him in dreams. Half-lidded, soulful, and hungry. Beautiful.
I don’t post a shot of it to my Instagram. This piece of art is just for me.
I turn out my light and throw my head back onto the pillow, looking out through the cracked window at the dim glow of a lamp post outside.
I don’t even know that I’ve dozed off when the dream starts.
In the dream, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, stroking myself, when I look up and see Logan sitting on the armchair in the corner of my room. He slides off, getting onto his knees, and looks up at me.
We’re filming something, too.
Not something for one of his shows. Something just for me.
There’s a video camera set up in the opposite corner of the room, and Logan’s eyes snap over toward it with a calm determination.
“Eyes on me, my love,” I murmur in a deep tone. “Take out your cock.”
Even in the dream, calling him my love, and him accepting it, strikes me as impossible.
I’m not allowed to call him that.
Or am I?
He follows what I say, though, reaching down to pull out his long, perfect cock. Every time I dream of Logan, he wants to do exactly what I tell him, and it makes me so fucking hard it aches.
“Touch yourself while you watch me,” I command him.
“It’s all I want to do, Chase.”
“I know it is. I want you to get as close as you can, and when you’re about to finish, you’re going to stop. Okay?”
“Fuck. Don’t make me stop. Why do I have to stop?”
I stand up and loom over him, placing my hand underneath his jaw. “Because I don’t want you to make yourself come. I’m going to bend you over and fuck the cum out of you. Ever had a hands-free orgasm?”
Logan groans.
I bend over and bring my lips close to his, hovering just a few millimeters away from his mouth. I breathe him in, pausing to speak.
“Say it,” I tell him, my lower lip so close to brushing against his. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Chase…”
“Say it,” I breathe against his mouth like I’m trying to tame a beast.
His pupils blow wide.
“I missed you.”
“I know you did,” I tell him as I see his mouth open for me.
My body jerks awake in bed right as I’m about to kiss him, and I turn over into my pillow and let out a frustrated groan, pounding my fist against my mattress.
“Fuck,” I say into the pillow.
Why do my dreams always have to end before I can have him?
I’m so painfully hard that my dick feels like it’s going to blow. My skin is heated, and I reach below my covers and grip myself hard, fucking my fist and wishing so badly I could fall back into my dream.
I come harder than I have in a long time.
And I come back down to Earth, catching my breath as I clean myself off, and I’m finally tapped out.
When I fall back into sleep, it’s dark and dreamless.