Chapter 1
Smoke. White, thick cloud, smirking at you from above.
Breathe.
Inhale. Exhale.
You little sucker... Suck it harder. Lick it. Lick the tip. Lick the whole wide length. Smell it.
You're awfully pale, you sick? There... I'll fix that. I have magic balls.
Mmm, it burns, I know. But it hurts so good.
One drag after another. Come on. Try it.
Until. Everything. Turns. Black.
You wake up in the morning. Can't really say is that an ass or shaved head, there, between your sheets. God, you must have been royally high last night. Although... Nah. That is one piece of gorgeous, bubble butt. You smirk, glad that despite your wicked ways, at an elderly age of thirty-one, you still managed to maintain an excellent taste.
You smack his buttocks either way and tell the poor guy to get the fuck out. Only that... He doesn't. You growl and push him a little. Holy fuck, is he...? You look at the random mosaic of condoms spread on the floor around your bed. Has he had a heart attack?
Cigarette butts in the ashtray and one joint. Huh. Obviously the night was decent enough since you shared your stash.
Suddenly you're not so glad it's a one big blur.
You sit up and roll the numb stranger on his back. For the first time you look him straight in the eyes. They are closed shut.
At that moment everything just... Stops. You can feel cold, clear stream of consciousness surround you in the most unpleasant way.
Realization. Hits you. Straight in the balls. And then...
He snored.
Son of a bitch!
"Get up!"
He opens one eye. Blue is definitely your color. Hm. Okay. Five more minutes, Sonny Boy. Just you know that - I thought you were dead. You owe me. Asshole.
"When I'm done with my shower I expect you to be gone," you inform him curtly.
You don't like that bright smile.
You don't like it one little bit.
It's dreadfully pretty.
Unspeakably perfect.
"I told you to get out, didn't I?" All you manage was a light snort.
You're getting old.
"I know. I heard you. But I was hungry."
"So you thought you'd rob my fridge before leaving? Charming."
No one should look that good while cooking... Sipping coffee from the only mug present in your loft. With a broken handle, at that.
Wearing only a t-shirt that barely covers his smooth butt.
"That's mine," you growl, eyeing the band logo on the t-shirt.
"Really?"
Oh, he's definitely too smug and you're too sober to tolerate that.
"Trust me. When I was masturbating to the frontman's photos, you were still a sperm."
"Ha. Ha. You're..."
"I know. Now. Get the fuck out. I'm gonna be late for work, you... I don't know. You'll miss your algebra."
"I'm nineteen!"
"That's no excuse to harass me. Dress up. Get out. Close the door. Goodbye, bon voyage, jog on, fuck off."
"I'm not finished yet."
He actually sat on your barstool and got back to the coffee.
Okay. You're definitely done being nice.
You took his clothes and threw them out the door.
Well. Actually...
"Brian, what the fuck?!"
You threw them at Michael.
All right. That... Was just too much.
"My mistake." You smiled the best you could, considering the circumstances. "I'm glad you're here thought. Get rid of that. I'm going to work."
Michael looked at the blond, who waved at him happily, sitting on the stool, his short legs in the air.
"That's why you called me yesterday? Four in the morning?"
Huh.
Curiouser and curiouser...