by A. F. Henley
She responded unquestioningly.
August
Great. So now, through no fault of his own, he was the one who couldn't sleep. Like somehow, lying peacefully, in his own room, not bothering anyone, his conscience had somehow let this become all his problem.
He drew himself out of bed, just to walk, just to get rid of some of the nervous tension. His body felt more awake then it had ever felt in his life. Not the wet interior of the coveted sleeve tucked away in his suitcase, not the adored little toy he'd had since he was sixteen and finally managed to get the nerve to put something inside him, not even his own palm had felt as good as that simple touch had. Which was ridiculous, wasn't it? Surely it couldn't make that much difference just because a touch came from was someone else? Or was it because it had been Doren? And if so, exactly how many men had Doren touched to know how to make it feel that good?
The thought shouldn't have made August feel as sick as it did.
"Okay," he told the room. "I want him. I like the way he feels." But that wasn't even true. Yes, Doren had felt good lying beside him. Yes, Doren's touch made him hungry to feel it again. That didn't make August want him though. What August wanted was someone. The someone. Mister Perfect. Mister I Will Love You Forever. Doren didn't even come close to that. Roll in some good old-fashioned musing on the whole concept of disease and virus, spiritual cleanliness—as ridiculous as that sounded even to himself—and the whole "want" idea became as unstable as a muddy slope after a rainstorm. Besides, he liked the fact that he felt clean. Whole. Unused. It made him different from the rest of the people he knew, even if he was the only that knew it.
So then why was he up? What was he doing wandering towards the door? What exactly, he asked himself, were his plans and how did they involve resting his palm on the latch? He lowered his forehead to the door and closed his eyes. He could muse all he wanted about life paths and future husbands. He could make up every excuse in the book and tell them to himself again and again. The fact of the matter was that he was scared, terrified even. He was scared of getting hurt, physically and emotionally. Scared of having to deal with loss—both on a personal level and the potential of having to shoulder the grief of someone else's. Mostly he was scared of not being good enough. Again.
Against his better judgment August twisted the lock, released the latch, and tried the door. He allowed himself a moment's hope that Doren had locked it from his side, of saving himself the requirement of making the decision to step through the doorway, but that wasn't the case. The door swung open, the room beyond still lit, the bed unmade, and the space completely void of life. It was a big room, but certainly not big enough to hide in. The bathroom door was ajar and August had a mental image of Doren drowned in the hot tub or drugged up and passed out cold on the tile floor. It was fleeting, however. The room was empty.
August sat on the couch and sighed, making errant curls dance on his forehead. So Doren was out wandering the night again. And what delights would he find this time? August shook his head and smiled when he thought of the pool. What a cool thing to find. And then to come looking for him to share it with … Who else would have done that? Surely it hadn't been just with the intention to get laid? Surely there were dozens of people he'd have a lot easier time banging if that's what Doren really wanted.
Was he at the pool, August wondered? Was he sulking? Was he out on the streets? God help him, August shook his head, if Doren had wandered outside of the hotel. The rain was vicious. He stood up and slapped both thighs. He should at least try to find Doren. Just to make sure he was all right. If nothing else, it was his job.
It only took seconds to slip on jeans and a hoodie and grab his keycard. The hallways were all but silent and visions of pensive little boys on Big Wheels waiting to round corners in front of him had August's nerves squirming worse than worms on a fishing hook.
He searched the obvious areas first: the lounge, the lobby, and the kitchen. He was walking past the reception desk when he caught eyes with the night clerk. They exchanged smiles and something about the honesty of the man's bright, white smile against rich, chocolate-dark skin made August pause. The man's voice was as smooth as the polished desktop he stood in front of. "Are you looking for something in particular? Someone, perhaps? Can I be of assistance?"
August laughed. "Actually, yes I am. But if you're doing your job right you won't tell me where he is."
"Ah," the clerk said, nodding. "Then I know who you're looking for. But you don't seem like a crazed fan to me."
"No, I'm his assistant. Not that I could prove that to you if you asked me to. I was just worried about him." August shrugged. "He's a big boy. I'm sure he's fine."
The clerk stared, suddenly serious—old eyes in a young face. "Are you now? Me, I'm not so sure maybe."
August's apathy wrinkled into frown. "Why? What do you know?"
The clerk responded with his own shrug. "Like you said, sir, if I'm doing my job right I won't tell you. But maybe, just maybe, I could tell you some of the things that I do know. Things that I wouldn't get in trouble for. Perhaps they would take you on the right path?"
August stepped towards the desk. "If you know something then please tell me. If it's money you want …"
The clerk waited, reading August's face, searching August's eyes. "Please. If he's in trouble I need to help."
The clerk nodded, as if his appraisal had come back clean and he'd deemed August worthy. "Well, I do know there's a party in the basement. And that if you go down the stairwell here it should take you to a corridor that will lead you almost dead to it. I also know that the security code for that stairwell happens to be three-six-nine." He reached for a folded newspaper and laid it out in front of him, drawing the first page open carefully. "These are the things I know. If you care to do anything with any of that information, I guess that's up to you."
August was already turning for the door. "Thank you. Really."
As the door closed behind him, August barely heard the man's reply. He was grateful. Because what he did hear, what he must have misheard, sent goose bumps up his spine. "Be careful, boy. In here lie demons."
For such a nice hotel, the basement reeked of something August couldn't put his finger on: mold, mildew, maybe even urine, and the odor of something from his childhood, like lit matches or kerosene flames. The code provided entry, as promised, but from there he was lost. So he acted on instinct, leaning against the wall, resting his ear against the concrete block and spreading his fingers open beside his face, feeling and listening for the reverberation of sound. Every party, especially one centered on a rock star, had music. And it would be pounding.
"Come on, Doren," August asked the concrete. "Where are you?" He leaned in closer, pressing his ear until it hurt, and he was just about to give up when he got a sudden image of Doren lifting his face to the ceiling and taking a deep breath. It was stupid; why he did it August couldn't even say. But he pulled from the wall and planted his feet. He took his own deep breath, lifted his face to the jungle of pipes and twisted wires, and whispered, "Send it."
It was barely sound, but he heard it, bouncing lightly against the pipe-work—the thrum of a distant bass. He let it guide him down the hall.
The room he found was alive with music and light. People swayed against one another, shouting into each other's ear. The floor was sticky with spilled booze and the walls slippery with condensation. The atmosphere was entirely overwhelming. August didn't like clubs, hated them for that very reason—far too much sensation being thrown at a person all at once. It was stifling.
He caught the eye of someone he recognized—the drummer, he thought—and stepped through the crowd to push between him and a clinging girl. "Where's Doren?"
The drummer waved at the air, pulling back from August's words. "What?" He motioned at his ear and shrugged. "I can't hear you?"
"Doren," August tried again. "Where's Doren?"
Again the point to his ear. And even as August leaned forward, the dr
ummer attempted to pull back. "Have you seen Doren?" August all but screamed into the man's ear.
Another shrug. "Nope."
"Really?" August looked around the room. "Not all night?"
The drummer lifted and dropped his shoulders again and August was about to ask him if he had a twitch issue when August finally realized what was going on. The drummer was protecting him: two guys sticking together, backing each other up, comrades in the fight against the corporate people.
Great. Even the band thought he was the bad guy. August sighed in frustration. Now was not the time to prove how he was one of the guys. If the drummer was going to be a dick, then he'd use the resources at hand to make things work. August grabbed the front of the drummer's jacket, leaned close, and dragged the man's face towards his lips, speaking directly against his ear. "Tell me where the fuck Doren went or I swear to God I will have you fired within an hour."
A look of concern clouded the drummer's eyes. He knew who August was; they'd been introduced on the bus. And from the man's hesitation August could tell he wasn't really sure if August had the power to keep his promise, but he was damn scared August just might. He pointed to the door at the back of the room. "I swear I don't know. But I saw him head that way."
August didn't even bother to thank him.
The hallway seemed even darker and grungier than the previous one. Areas that were farther away from customer eyes tended to mean they were also farther away from the kind touch of disinfectants and repellents. Dark corners seemed to squirm with life, life that existed only in his imagination August was sure, but it made him tense and nervous. He could hear the distant hum of machinery, laundry or heaters, maybe even something else, something harsh and forced. He followed it, keeping his hand on the damp concrete blocks for security, his eyes flashing at any movement, his ears perked for every sound.
When he turned towards a far room, sound became stronger: a woman, having sex, her voice loud and her words dirty. August cringed at the growled rampage. As raunchy as his roommate could be, Guy spewing "fuck me harder" couldn't even compare to what this woman had going on. Her voice had an awful rawness to it, like a feeding animal, ripping open the belly of its struggling prey.
He knew that he should walk away, but something compelled August to move forward; it pulled him to the doorway like he was on a rope. With his heart pounding August steadied himself against the wall and peeked around the door-jam. Just one quick look, just a glance, and he'd be on his way.
Doren lay, still clothed but obviously freed in the most urgent of spots, underneath the gyrating blonde woman. Her teeth were bared, her head thrown back, nails embedded into Doren's chest. Angry drops of blood ran from where the talons dug. And Doren, he seemed disoriented, so far away; was he drunk? Had he taken something? Surely he wasn't in any trouble, but then why did he look so drained and drawn?
Doren opened his eyes, pulled a shaky breath and gasped, turning his head quickly towards the doorway, the writhing mistress on top of him all but oblivious. Their gazes locked. For a moment August felt the transfer of energy, and Doren lifted his arm, reaching out. Embarrassed, August pulled back quickly, hiding behind the door, cheeks burning with shame. Now he was some kind of pervert. Just keep adding the names up, August, he berated in silence. Just keep throwing them on the pile: tease, bitch, ice-prince, pervert. He shook his head. He had to leave. But Doren's eyes ... so strange, so … odd. Should he … help? Or …
No, he told himself fiercely. Just go.
And he did, spinning on his heel, soles squeaking as he walked down the hall and away from the rutting frenzy.
Doren
His senses came back to him quickly, compounding with every breath he took. He hadn't been sure when it started to happen; just that he'd begun to feel so weak and tired. But he'd heard August call him from a distance and he'd reached out to August's voice, and August had come for him—infusing Doren with light, bringing the music back. He looked up at the woman on top of him and then at his chest where her nails had left their angry marks. "Ursula. Stop. Wait."
He sat up, dragging her with him, forcing her off his body. "I can't. I'm sorry. I ... I don't feel well. I think I had too much to drink or something."
She blinked, confused, responding in a sexy drawl, "You feel just fine to me."
"No," he insisted, standing and zipping his jeans. "I'm sorry, really, thank you. I just can't. Not now."
He stopped at the door and took one final look at the naked beauty, her legs spread, hair entangled, and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. August, his mind whispered. August was wrong with him. The thought alone was enough to force him into the hall, leaving Ursula stunned and, no doubt, steaming. He only took two steps before leaning against the cool wall to reorient himself. "Where did you go?" he mumbled. "Where are you?" He turned his head to the sound of retreating steps and ran after them. The movements made him feel better, alive, like he'd been given a shot of adrenaline. Dodging the carts and bins that scattered the halls, he followed the sound of rubber soles on tile. "August? Auggie? Wait, please!"
The elevator doors were already sliding closed when Doren reached them. "Shit!" He yanked open the doors to the stairs and took them two at a time until he reached their floor. He didn't have time to catch his breath, but he didn't need it; the surge of strength that ran in his blood was strong and he moved like a thoroughbred. He heard the click of August's door as he met the hallway, the muted sound of empty space against carpeting and papered walls much more hushed and subdued than the echoed clanging of the stairwell.
Doren flung himself against August's door and pounded it on it, even though something inside him was shrieking at him to stop being such an idiot. Why did he even care what August thought? Hours ago—had it even been that long—Doren had written August off. Now he was desperate to make contact, to tell August he was sorry. And for what? What was he even sorry for?
He leaned against the door. "Auggie, please open up." The room behind the wood slab was silent. He tried again. "Please, Aug." There was a click, a swish, and August freed the barrier, almost tumbling Doren into the room.
August looked stricken, mortified. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be there. I didn't mean to intrude. I was worried and I couldn't find you and—"
Doren didn't know what else to do; he reached for August's hand. He brought it to his mouth. "Don't be. Thank you. I ... wasn't well." He walked into the room and shut the door behind him. "I'm sorry you saw that."
August lifted his other hand to Doren's chest and chased the wounds with his fingertips. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine. Now, anyway." August looked up, his expression unreadable, and Doren wanted to drop to his knees in penance. "I'm sorry that I said I wouldn't listen if you called me. If you hadn't called me tonight, I ... I don't ... well, I wasn't well, that's all. Thank you."
He was left standing at the door when August turned away. Unsure, Doren walked in, sitting hard in the chair beside August's bed. August was back with a cloth before Doren could miss him. The cloth was touched to Doren's chest and he laid his head back, groaning. It was yanked back just as quickly.
"Sorry. Is it bad?"
Doren shook his head and pressed his hand over top of August's, drawing it back to him. "Can I stay here, Aug? Just for tonight? Hands off, no crap, I promise. I just don't want to be by myself in there. Everything's all fucked up. I'm all fucked up."
Just the simple act of swiping a cloth over his skin felt like magic. It woke things in Doren that were too hard to fight. He couldn't help it; he groaned again.
August clucked his tongue. "Doren, you're hurt. Let me get a doctor or something."
"No, I'm fine." It wasn't that kind of pain, he wanted to say. He didn't.
Doren had a flash of panic when August walked through the door separating their rooms, for why he couldn't say. But the relief was overwhelming when August walked back in with two beers. He popped the first, handed it to Doren, and then opened the second for himself.<
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"Thanks, Aug," Doren mumbled, his eyes suddenly heavy. The lack of sleep was catching up to him. When August touched his eyelids, closing them, Doren took the prompt and left them that way. A couple of minutes later he pulled up his legs and tucked into the chair. He felt his body get covered by a blanket. Then the springs of the bed and soft swish of covers alerted him to August's own retirement. He opened his eyes and waited for his irises to adjust to the darkness. Then he just watched, listening to the increasingly deepening sounds of August's breath. He was no closer than he'd been before, not really. But it was nicer to listen from where he was then through a door. He let the music of August's breath soothe him to sleep.
Have You Ever Seen the
Rain
Anton
"What do you mean it didn't work?" Anton snarled into the phone. "How could it not work?" He slammed the receiver in frustration and the harsh clank clambered around the open office.
"Calm, Anton," Morana cooed, attempting to soothe him with a shoulder rub, "you must be patient. Everything will work out."
He shooed her away, and a frown crinkled her otherwise smooth features. He ignored it. "Don't tell me to calm down! That stupid whore can't even keep the interest of a boy? Perhaps it's time to start trading these hags in for some younger models."
Anger flashed in Morana's eyes. "Watch your tongue, Anton. You should know more than most that age means nothing. Or do I have to prove to you again how I can turn you to putty in my hands?"
He swiveled in his chair and caught Morana's eye, sighing heavily. "You know I don't mean you. You're different. Your beauty is enhanced with power and grace. These … girls … I mean she had him right there! Instead she sends him running for the arms of the very prick we're trying to keep him from!"
