Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“What’s your name?” he asked the kid.
His new best friend swallowed down his own pair of pills, stuffed the empty bag back into his jeans and shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Was he an ass if he admitted it didn’t? Probably. But what else was new? He smiled. “Nope.”
“Come on, the bathroom door locks,” the twink shouted. His pupils were dilated and his lips swollen. How many times had they kissed? Ansel couldn’t remember. It hadn’t affected him. Not like the kiss he’d shared with Fitch.
Fuck, no, he needed to forget about that.
Get your dick sucked. Yeah, there was the cure.
He nodded and let the guy lead him toward privacy. As they pushed through the crowd he focused on the kid’s pert round ass, trying to picture it naked and spread open for his cock. He didn’t even get a tickle of interest at the image. It was like his libido was weighed down by some invisible stones and his mind had been separated from his body, floating up above in the clouds, calculating the probability of a dire future. The odds were good.
Ansel Becke’s demise was imminent and inevitable.
But high as he was, it didn’t bother him. So his limbs propelled him forward, moving toward the next tragic event, and he allowed it to happen. On autopilot.
In the bathroom the twink pushed him against the door and flipped the lock like he’d done it a million times. Maybe he had. And that was fine because Ansel had been around the block a few times too. As long as they both got what they were after, who the fuck cared?
The kid tasted like cinnamon candy. Every time he shoved his tongue into Ansel’s mouth the spice burst like he’d swallowed a handful of Red Hots. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, certainly not as pleasing as Fitch’s chocolate and mint flavor. Kissing Fitch had been like eating one of those after-dinner mints his grandmother used to give him when she’d visited.
Why did he keep thinking of Fitch when he had a hot twink ready to blow his mind? Ansel refocused and shoved him to his knees.
“You said you wanted to suck. So suck.”
The kid blinked up at him and smiled before reaching for his zipper. As the kid’s mouth engulfed his semi-soft dick, the euphoria unique to his Molly cocktail fully washed over him and he was lost in the tide of hazy bliss. Maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn’t remember a goddamn thing in the morning.
* * *
The sun was rising over the horizon when Ansel finally stumbled up the stairs to the apartment he shared with his best friend in West Vill. It was a run-down building and the stairs were worn in places, making it hard to walk up without holding on to the wobbly railing. They lived on the third floor and there was no elevator. Usually he didn’t complain, but after spending most of the day in heels, his feet were crying so much he practically crawled up the stairs.
Plus, his head pounded and he wanted to puke. Who was the sadistic bastard that invented the forty anyway? He gripped the bottle he’d bought at the bodega near the club. It was almost empty. He’d chugged half of it before he got on the subway. It hadn’t helped. He sat on the stairs and pressed his temple to the wall. Maybe he’d just stay right here and die. He pulled off his pink peep-toed sling-backs and massaged his foot.
He was a fucking mess.
He knew it, but when you were holding on for dear life while the ride whipped you around and around, there wasn’t much you could do to stop the insanity. You just had to close your eyes and pray you didn’t vomit before it all stopped spinning.
That was what he did now. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the pain and the regret that burned in his stomach. After he’d unloaded on the poor twink he’d done little to reciprocate. The kid had taken himself in hand and finished the job without complaining. Afterward Ansel had wandered back out to the dance floor and searched the club until closing, but the boys had already left.
It wasn’t until he was outside, standing under the light of a streetlamp, that he thought to check his phone. He’d missed four calls and had a dozen texts, escalating from concerned to angry. That was when he’d bought the beer. Because what was better than drowning your liver in alcohol when everything seemed to be so fucked up?
Ansel scoffed. When he’d been on the streets and the only way to stay warm had been to layer old newspaper under his clothes, a little whiskey had been comforting, if not completely helpful. He and Ray had sipped a single bottle for weeks before needing to pander for change to buy another. But back then, the only problems he’d faced were the ones necessary for survival. Somehow they weren’t as troubling as having to fight the dark, tumultuous emotions and pain in his past.