“Are you fucking serious?” he whispered with a hoarse laugh.
He needed help if he seriously thought being stranded on the island was better than his normal life. Maybe he’d gone crazy after all. Maybe this was all a weird dream, and he would wake up any moment now to Logan’s hand threading through his hair and the heavy, comforting weight of Logan’s cock in his mouth.
Andrew flushed. Fuck, he really needed help. He shouldn’t long for the comforting feeling of a cock in his mouth, what the hell. How messed up was that? He wasn’t a… He wasn’t gay. He was normal. What had happened on the island didn’t matter. He didn’t want to suck Logan’s dick. He didn’t miss sucking Logan’s dick—or miss him, period. The island had just fucked him up. That was all.
This sickening longing… it would pass.
It had to.
Chapter 14
Vivian’s funeral was on a Friday.
Andrew stood by the Rutledges and stared at the coffin numbly, trying to feel something other than unease and discomfort.
He hadn’t been sure how he felt about Vivian’s body being transferred from the island to be buried next to the other Rutledges, but he hadn’t said no when Vivian’s family asked for his opinion. Now he was beginning to regret it.
It was just strange. He felt like a fraud among all these crying people. He felt so guilty for no longer feeling grief. He was sad, of course, and he missed her, but that pain was duller now, tinged with affection and good memories. He’d had time to grieve his wife. He’d buried her with his own hands ten months ago. It didn’t feel right to have her funeral again when he felt so far removed from that time.
He was glad for his dark sunglasses. He didn’t need more judgmental looks than he already got.
Finally, after what felt like forever, it was over.
Andrew hurriedly walked away, the knot in his chest lessening with every step he took. God, why wasn’t this getting easier? Why couldn’t he stay among other people without feeling like he wanted to jump out of his own skin?
“Andrew!”
He cringed but stopped at the sound of his aunt’s voice.
“Yes, Aunt Rebecca?” he said, turning around reluctantly.
His aunt was glaring at him. “You have been back for two weeks, but you haven’t bothered to visit me even once. I had to find out about your survival from the news!”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I meant to visit you, but things have been crazy, you know—”
“No, I don’t know,” she said, her tone scathing. “Because you haven’t even bothered to call me, you ungrateful, heartless boy.”
Andrew tugged at his collar, but found the top button of his shirt already undone. He wasn’t actually choking. It was all in his head. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better, Auntie,” he said, looking around desperately for an escape route. Any excuse to leave.
None was presenting itself. No one seemed interested in approaching him, everyone too busy offering their condolences to Vivian’s grandmother and brother. Never mind that he was her husband.
Swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, Andrew said, “I just got caught up in the legal issues, I swear. I’ll visit you soon—”
“This Sunday,” Aunt Rebecca said in a tone that brooked no argument.
“Right. On Sunday,” Andrew said, forcing a smile onto his face.
Dammit.
***
After the funeral, Andrew went to a liquor store and bought a few bottles of cheap whiskey.
Vivian had liked expensive red wine, but Andrew’s tastebuds didn’t notice any difference between a bottle that cost a thousand dollars and one that cost ten. He used to buy high-end booze anyway, pretending that he knew the difference. Well, he had no one to pretend for anymore.
He returned to his hotel room and got smashingly drunk.
At least this time no one was there to judge him.
The memory of dark eyes looking at him disapprovingly flashed to the forefront of his mind, and he was hit with a wave of unbearable, crushing longing. Normally he pushed these thoughts—these feelings—away, tried to squash them down, but he was too drunk for that now.
He reached for his phone and opened Chrome with unsteady fingers.
In his defense, looking Logan up was laughably easy. Information about him was in every article about their miraculous survival.
Logan McCall. Thirty-four years old. An owner of a rather popular hotel chain.
Andrew’s lips curled into a faint smile. He’d suspected that Logan wasn’t a simple owner of a hotel when his family had sent a goddamn private jet for him, but this was kind of funny. Way to downplay one’s business.
Apparently, Logan’s family lived near Boston, but he lived by himself in NYC. His address and phone number obviously weren’t listed anywhere, but it wouldn’t be hard to find out. All he had to do was go to one of Logan’s hotels and talk the manager into giving him Logan’s number. After all, everyone and their dog now knew that he had been Logan’s fellow plane crash survivor. The manager was unlikely to refuse to give Logan’s number to the person he had spent nine months living—surviving—with.
After looking up the nearest hotel that belonged to Logan, Andrew grabbed his unpacked suitcase, tossed in the few things he’d bothered to pull out of it, and called a cab.
As he stood in front of Logan’s hotel, a sliver of doubt crept into his alcohol-addled mind. He shook it off and went inside.
“I’d like a room,” he said at reception. He was pretty proud of himself for not slurring.
“Of course, sir. Your ID please,” the woman said with a polite smile that didn’t quite mask the curious look in her eyes. So she had recognized him. Considering how often his face had been plastered next to her boss’s, it probably shouldn’t have been surprising. Oh, well. Maybe it was for the best.
Giving her his ID, Andrew said quietly, “I have another request. I need Logan McCall’s phone number.”
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “I’ll have to ask the manager,” she said, her voice hesitant. “We don’t give Mr. McCall’s private information to anyone, but… I’ll ask.” She added softly, “And I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Reyes.”
The sincere sympathy in her voice made his chest hurt.
“Thanks,” Andrew said, clearing his throat a little. He didn’t like that his private life had become so public, but it was what it was.
After being given the key card, he headed to his room, already wondering if he’d made a mistake. He had a feeling his sober self wasn’t going to appreciate this tomorrow.
The room was nice and tastefully decorated, but Andrew kept fixating on the fact that it was Logan’s hotel. It was probably fucked up and ridiculous, but the mere thought that all of this belonged to Logan made him feel oddly comfortable here. Yeah, it was beyond ridiculous.
He undressed and fell into the bed.
The mattress felt like a soft cloud. The sheets smelled clean and pleasant. He was tired. So, so tired. But sleep still refused to come to him. It was a problem he’d had for weeks, ever since… his return. He’d say he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a full night’s sleep, but that would be a lie. He knew.
Andrew didn’t know how long he’d lain like that, his face buried in the pillow and his mind drifting on the edge of sleep when the phone by the bed went off.
Reaching out, he answered it. “Hello?”
“Why are you in my hotel?”
Andrew’s eyes flew open, his heart jumping into his throat.
It was stupid, but he hadn’t actually thought about what he was going to say when he called Logan. He hadn’t expected Logan to call him. Logan was calling him. Logan wanted to talk to him.
Andrew found himself smiling stupidly into his pillow. Hey, he was drunk. Drunk people could smile for no reason, right?
“Why do people go to a hotel?” he mumbled evasively. “I needed a place to stay at.”
“Are you drunk?”
Andrew wa
sn’t sure what it said about him that he’d missed that judgmental tone. He was being stupid. But then again, drunk people were stupid.
“So what if I am?” he slurred, unsure why he wasn’t bothering to hide his inebriated state anymore. He could if he made an effort, as he’d done when he’d spoken to the receptionist. But it was Logan. His body seemed to think it was perfectly fine to act like a whiny, stubborn child now. It was Logan. Logan. Logan had seen him at his worst.
“At least you aren’t denying it,” Logan said dryly.
Andrew said nothing. He wasn’t even sure anymore what they were talking about, his eyelids becoming heavier as he listened to Logan’s breathing. This felt… so familiar. Disturbingly comforting in its familiarity. All that was missing was a hard body pressed against his back or better yet, a… He pushed his thumb into his mouth and made a contented noise as he sucked on it.
“Christ, are you jerking off?”
Andrew froze. “No,” he said around his thumb.
“You’re lying.”
“Am not.”
“You’re doing something. I know how you sound when you—” Logan cut himself off, muttering something frustrated under his breath. “Tell me.”
The demanding edge to his voice made a shiver run through Andrew’s body. He pulled his thumb out of his mouth and blinked at it as the realization of what exactly he was longing for hit him. He flushed. What was wrong with him, seriously?
“This is all your fault,” Andrew complained. “You got me used to— things, and now I feel all messed up and on edge without…” Without your cock in my mouth. Without your smell all over me. Without your arms around me. Without your heartbeat against my ear.
The words were on the tip of his tongue, but even drunk, he couldn’t say them, knowing that he would hate himself when he sobered up.
Logan was silent on the line.
Andrew wondered if he could guess what he wasn’t saying. He wondered if Logan felt as off balance as he did. He doubted it.
Finally, Logan sighed. “You’re such a mess.”
“I buried my wife today—again. I’m allowed to be a mess.”
Thankfully, Logan didn’t say that he was sorry. Andrew wasn’t sure he wouldn’t burst into tears if he did. His eyes were stinging, his throat tight. The worst part was, he wasn’t sure why he was feeling so sad, lonely, and needy all of a sudden when he hadn’t felt that way at the funeral.
“I think you need a therapist,” Logan said.
“Fuck you.”
“I’m serious,” Logan said, his voice grim. “I did notice that you started associating… certain things with comfort a while ago. A good therapist should be able to help you.”
Andrew laughed. “And how do you suggest I tell my problem to a therapist? Please help me sleep without a cock in my mouth? You do realize how humiliating it sounds, right?” He cringed, already hating himself for speaking about the elephant in the room.
Logan, the asshole, snorted. “I’m sure they’ve heard stranger stuff.”
Andrew scoffed and said nothing.
The silence stretched, both of them just breathing into the phone like two weirdos. But he couldn’t make himself hang up. God, he felt like he’d burst into tears if Logan hung up on him.
“I really hate you,” he whispered, his voice catching. “How are you so well adjusted already while I’m such a mess?”
There was no response for a while.
A breath, then another.
Logan said stiffly, “I wouldn’t be calling you in the middle of the night if I were well adjusted.”
“I think that was an insult, but I’m too drunk to get offended.” Andrew wished it were true. He might be drunk, but Logan’s words stabbed something deep inside of him, stabbed and twisted. No one needed him. No one wanted him. No one wanted to need him.
It was fine. Fine. He didn’t want to need Logan, either.
Logan sighed. “Drink some water and go to sleep, Andrew.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said, even though he was already getting up to go to the mini-bar. He opened a water bottle and drank as much as he could without feeling sick, the phone still pressed to his ear. He was irrationally afraid that Logan would hang up on him, and that fear creeped the hell out of him. He really was messed up in the head, wasn’t he?
Feeling tired, Andrew climbed back into the bed and lay on his side.
“Now sleep.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Andrew mumbled, just to be contrary. I don’t need you to sleep, he wanted to say, but it kind of felt like too much of a lie.
Logan made an irritated noise. “Then why did you want my number?”
Andrew said nothing to that, turning onto his stomach and hugging his pillow. “Don’t hang up,” he ordered. Pleaded.
God, he’d never felt so pathetic.
There was silence on the line.
“I won’t,” Logan said at last.
Andrew breathed out, relaxing a little.
He didn’t even notice falling asleep.
Chapter 15
The hangover the next morning wasn’t as bad as the ball of humiliation that had settled in Andrew’s stomach ever since he’d woken up. Fuck, had he really gotten drunk enough to go look for Logan? Like some kind of pathetic stalker? Ugh. And then he’d basically begged Logan not to hang up on him. Double ugh.
“Stupid,” Andrew whispered, staring at the ceiling of the room.
The room in Logan’s hotel. Just great.
If life could give him one blessing, he would have forgotten what happened last night, but nope, he remembered the mortifying phone conversation with perfect clarity. It figured.
He considered getting up and going to the office, but it wasn’t like he was needed there. He wasn’t needed anywhere.
The thought just made him feel sorrier for himself, and he hated it, hated feeling so weak and pathetic. He refused to be that pathetic.
Andrew forced himself to get out of bed, take a shower, and go outside. He might not be needed anywhere, but it didn’t mean he should let himself sink into a well of depression. He should at least take a walk, be around other people, and hopefully become a functional human being instead of a… whatever mess he was now.
It was easier said than done.
The longer he spent outside, around all the noise, around all those people, the more anxious he became. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel so alone on a busy street, but apparently it was. No, “alone” was the wrong word. He felt like he was some kind of alien from another planet, like he couldn’t connect to all these people at all. He couldn’t understand them, he didn’t want to be around them, and the more he stayed around them, the harder his heart beat, his anxiety rising and transforming into a panic.
He returned to his hotel room, feeling mentally wrung out and physically shaky. He plopped down onto the bed and dropped his head into his hands, feeling defeated and freaked out.
What was wrong with him? Had he developed some kind of agoraphobia? He didn’t… He didn’t think so. The thought of being outside didn’t really make him anxious. He just didn’t like all the noise and people and—it was too much. God, the island had really fucked him up, hadn’t it?
A knock on the door made him lift his head.
“Enter,” he said listlessly. It was likely a maid wanting to clean the room.
It wasn’t a maid.
It was Logan.
It felt like everything stopped, the world coming to an abrupt halt.
Andrew stared at him, wide-eyed, his mouth going slack.
Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud-thud, his heart beat in his chest, as though trying to escape it.
Logan closed the door, leaned back against it, and stared back, his dark eyes bottomless.
Andrew had to grip the bedspread in his fists to stop himself from doing something stupid. Something stupid like launching himself at Logan and clinging to him like a monkey.
“What are you doi
ng here?” Andrew managed, glaring. At least he hoped he was glaring and not staring at him hungrily.
Logan raised his eyebrows, his inscrutable expression contradicting the stiff, tightly coiled tension in his body. He looked like he’d put on some weight. He looked good. Definitely more put together than Andrew was feeling. But then again, it wasn’t a high bar to clear.
“This is my hotel,” Logan said. “And you were the one who came here looking for me.”
Andrew felt blood rush to his face. “I thought you were in New York.”
Some emotion flashed across Logan’s face and then it was gone, too quickly for Andrew to recognize it.
“I was,” he said curtly.
Andrew moistened his lips with his tongue, unsure.
Silence fell between them, charged with something terribly familiar. It felt awful but also incredibly comforting. Easy.
To his utter disgust, Andrew felt more like himself than he had in weeks. The restless, maddening anxiety under his skin—the sense of wrongness—was almost entirely gone. He just looked at Logan, and everything felt right with the world. But he’s still too far—need him closer—why is he so far away—
Andrew clutched the bedspread tighter. Fuck, if he could bleach his own brain, he would. Seriously, what was wrong with him?
“Maybe I do need a therapist,” he said with a hoarse chuckle.
Logan’s expression remained sour and unhappy. He didn’t ask for clarification. In fact, he looked as though he’d rather be anywhere but there, something faintly irritated about him. Except his dark eyes remained fixed on Andrew with frightening intensity.
“You didn’t get a haircut,” Logan said.
Andrew blinked. He cocked his head to the side, confused. His haircut, or lack thereof, was the last thing he’d expected Logan to comment on.
Frowning, he ran a hand through his hair. It really was long now, almost touching his neck in messy curls. It probably looked like a bird’s nest. He really should get a haircut. He’d always cut his hair short for Vivian. It wasn’t that she hadn’t liked him with longer hair—the curls just made him look younger, making the age difference between them more pronounced. Andrew knew it had made his wife uncomfortable and self-conscious, hence the short haircut. But with Vivian gone, he hadn’t bothered. Self-grooming had been the last thing on his mind.
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