13. Drew

Ifind myself increasingly horny over the next few days, randomly popping boners through my shifts even though Olivier continues to hold up his end of the bargain like an award-winning porn star.

I haven't been back to my apartment in a few days, but I'm off tomorrow night, so I'll need to somehow work my way off his couch this morning after he sucks out my life force and swallows.

Fuck, I love it when he swallows.

And just like that—another boner.

He gives me the darkest look when he comes in with Elodie Tuesday night—their "big" night, and I get the weirdest sensation. Beyond the nearly immediate hard-on it gives me just to see those pouty pink lips, I also notice a feeling that feels an awful lot like resentment roiling through my veins.

Upon further examination of the feeling and various pokes and prods at it, I rule out pity—I do not feel sorry for him for having to fuck a hot, freaky woman in his Upper East Side penthouse. It's not resentment, either, because I don't want to fuck her either. It's not jealousy because I don't have any feelings for him besides gratitude that he's so good at getting me off, and I've needed that more than I can say.

It's irritation.

I'm annoyed.

The idea of him fucking her is an itch I can't scratch. It's sand in my shorts. I don't want to smell her En Passat perfume on that couch while I'm trying to get off. I might need to slap him more than once in the morning—wait—that's it.

I'm not going to get to see him in the morning.

Fuck.

I grind my teeth and press the heel of my hand down on my boner to make it quit. Now I'm extra annoyed.

As feared, dawn comes, and Elodie Lafayette fails to leave the building. When Killian arrives, there's no sign of either one of them. No deliveries for 1204 either.

Fine. Whatever. I can't hide out on the Upper East Side indefinitely. It's been fun pretending I don't have anything going on in my life that needs addressing, but let's face it—I'm just delaying the inevitable. I hand off to Killian, grab my coat, and head for the train.

Truth is I've been sleeping great the last few days. It's not easy to sleep during the day—doesn't really matter how long I've been on the night shift. I live in a constant state of exhaustion. My roommates are respectful—quiet. Even when they have guests over, they keep it down, but Jericho doesn't work nights. Therefore, if I spend time with her, she prefers me to be awake.

Speaking of Jericho. We've talked a few times on the phone during my shifts, but I'll get busy enough to where I can't be on the phone, or she's asleep when I've got a stretch of downtime. I'm not sure how I'm going to deal with her yet.

In my head, she and I have never been a forever thing, and I feel like we're petering out, if everyone will please excuse the pun. Since my libido started suffering along with my pocketbook and my pride, let's just say my need to see her has felt less urgent. But she's so kind and patient, she'll never bring it up—what a loser boyfriend I am, and now look at me.

Redefining asshole one blow job at a time. I wish I could say what I've been doing with The Heir makes me hate myself, but I've hated myself for a while now, so the self-loathing isn't new. If anything, Olivier is a side effect of it.

That's exactly what he is, now that I'm thinking about it.

The longest conversation he and I have had was the one in his kitchen when I was waiting for my broccoli beef. Since then, it's been mostly snarky jabs and utter depravity. I usually pass out right after I come and sleep, wake up, rinse, repeat, and go to work. His neck looked so bad yesterday morning, though, that I stuck with hair pulling and slapping.

His exact words after he came were: "Well, that was disappointing."

Little shit.

My phone buzzes while the subway stops at Grand Central. It's a text from Peggy.

What are you going to do about the leak?

There's no point responding to her right now, the message won't send once the train starts moving again, so I have time to come up with an answer. It's not like I can ignore her, though. She knows where I live, and she works in the city. The last time I ignored one of her calls, I woke up to her demanding Christian show her to my room. It was noon.

She's a bitch. What her exact beef with me is, I've never been sure, but she's got one, and no matter what I do, it doesn't change a thing.

Which leaves me pondering the age-old question: what am I going to do about a leak in a bathroom in New Hampshire from my apartment in Manhattan? It's not like I can go on Next Door and ask for a reference. And it's not like I can afford to pay a plumber if it's something serious.

I'd almost rather kill myself than tell that to Peggy though.

Going into the Male Escort Service business is looking more and more attractive, except, I'm assuming—that's a night job, too.

And then I'm back to wondering what kind of job I'd get if I moved home. The one plus is Peggy might lay off me some, but I wouldn't be making as much money as I make here. I'd also have to finally admit my modeling days are over. That I've failed. Fallen on my face. And I only have a handful of catalog photos to show for my effort.

I fucking hate my life.

I hate everything.

The train pulls to a stop at 14th Street, and I text Peggy on the short walk to my apartment.

I'll call a plumber. Tell mom and dad I'll take care of it.

What's more debt? I still have one credit card that isn't maxed out.

Finding Eric and Chris outside the building putting boxes into a U-Haul serves as a bitter reminder that I've got two weeks left before March rent is due. I try to act like Eric isn't seriously ruining what's left of my wasted life and help with the last few boxes, giving him a hug and waving him off on his way.

Chris and I share a look before heading back inside where it's warm. "We'll be fine," he says to me.

"Yeah." I force a smile and nod.

"I mean, there's always Queens," he says.

I laugh. Since Christian doesn't have work tonight, he generously offers me the bedroom. Which is good, because as soon as I lie down, I flash back to yesterday morning and pop another boner. "Fuck."

I clench my jaw and deal with this one the old-fashioned way. Lotion and tissues. The weakness of the release compared to the powerful way I've been getting off the last few days feels indicative of a deep-seated problem. My dick has clearly picked a person. That person is a very rich man who lives uptown and has a fiancée he fucked last night.

I don't like this. I really don't.

I flop onto my face once I toss the tissues to the side and pass the fuck out.

On my day off, I manage to fit in a workout and a trip to the store, but mostly I sleep.

When I wake up Thursday before work, it's dark, and I haven't moved an inch. I take a shower, eat some leftovers, brush my teeth, pack my backpack, and head uptown. Maybe it's wishful thinking or just manifesting, but I added a change of clothes to my bag this time. Fresh underwear, a t-shirt, and a pair of gym shorts.

When I get to work, Hakeem, one of the fill-in guys, gives me the low-down on who all's in and out of the building. After he's gone, it's a pretty boring night overall. The most interesting thing that happens is Babs's homosexual friend from overseas arrives with four pieces of Samsonite luggage and a gray duffel bag.

"Drew Riley, this is Jeremy, the one I told you about, remember?" Babs is beaming.

I offer him a hand, and he quickly checks me out. "You're the doorman?"

"Yes. Anything I can help you with?"

"No, I just mean—they don't make them like you in London."

I blush. Have men always hit on me and I've just never noticed before?

"He has a girlfriend, dear," Babs says.

Jeremy has a kind smile, dark, floppy hair, and black-rimmed glasses. He's about as tall as Olivier but lankier. "Babs, it's important to make your availability known to everyone you meet. You never know who might lead you to the one. I've so much to teach you while I'm here. Lovely to meet you, Drew."

I help them to the elevator. "I do live with two queer men, so—I'm a good place to start," I tell him.

Jeremy grins, and Babs laughs. "Let me know the next time you lot have a night out," he says to me.

I nod politely and wave off his attempt to give me a tip.

So, there—proof that I can be nice. My friends like me, my girlfriend still wants me around, and Babs thinks I'm a gem.

I think I may have given the impression that my bitterness bleeds into every interaction I have. It's only true during the very dark times, and in general, I reserve my bitterness for Peggy and The Heir. Even though now I sometimes call him Peach.

And I want to know how his big night went.

I'm honestly having trouble not thinking about it.

When he doesn't come and go for dinner or drinks or anything, I get even more annoyed. Did she wear him out that bad? Is there trouble in fake engagement paradise? Is he upset? Where the fuck is he?

I check twice to make sure there haven't been any deliveries for him, but there's nothing.

Best-case scenario, I'm thinking—around four a.m.—he might order takeout to give me some excuse to go up there. Because it'd look pretty fucked up to Killian if I head into the service elevator for no reason instead of heading home where I belong.

Goddamnit, I want to see him.

This.This is why I don't like the whole situation. Could I give a fuck what Jericho is doing right now? No.

I mean, I hope wherever she is, she's resting or having a nice time, but I'm really wound up with not having a clue what's going on in 1204.

The elevator doors slide open, and I look up at the clock. It's the dead zone for comings and goings. Everyone in town who's expected to be home is home, and no one ever leaves this late unless there's a medical emergency. Or a new puppy, and Hakeem didn't mention a new puppy.

I stand to see who's coming out, and there he is in a t-shirt and sweats.

"Hey," he says, arms braced on the elevator doors, not leaving the car to step into the lobby, but holding it open instead.

"Can I help you?" I ask.

"Can't sleep. You coming up after work?"

"No reason to," I say and yeah, it comes out sorta bitter.

He gives me a look like I should know him better than that. "There'll be a reason to," he says. "Although this should be all you need."

He sticks out his tongue in a weirdly sexy way, then closes his mouth and gives me a soft smile. He's drunk.

"Doesn't look like you can handle it," I tell him.

He pouts—also uncomfortably sexy. "I'll try to sleep again. Promise."

"Mmhm."

"Jaaacckkk…"

"Was it as bad as you thought it'd be?" I can't help it. I'm fucking dying to know what happened Tuesday night with her.

"Yes. It was. Don't make me beg. I'm about to."

"You better not be this drunk when I get up there."

"I won't be. I swear."

I walk over, put my hand square in the middle of his chest and shove him back into the elevator. "Sober up. I'm not kidding."

He grins up at me, all smug. "Okay, Andrew Riley. Whatever you want."

The doors close, and I smirk. The boner I've got—totally understandable.

I've never had a secret as dirty as this.