The room tilted sideways, and he caught the edge of the counter. His breath pushed through his teeth in a wet hiss. He fumbled through the medicine cabinet. Bottles and soaps tumbled out. Where was his snuff box? He removed the toilet lid. Son of a bitch. His vials were gone. Fucking Laz.
He grabbed his toiletry bag and dug out the nasal spray bottle. He shook it to mix the coke with the water and ethanol he’d drizzled in it. A few sprays in each nostril, and ahh….
His body awoke. The tingles lifted him, and the pull of gravity released. He smiled. The world was his happy place.
He buzzed through his shower, rubbing soap over his defined chest, his hard abs, and…Jesus, look at that massive cock. My God, he was a virile man. Women wanted him. Men wanted to be him. He needed to get out there and fuck the world. That was what he’d do. New York City was waking and it wanted to spread its legs for Jay Fucking Mayard.
Showered, shaved, and dressed in his tightest leathers, he strode through the bedroom. His heart pounded to do…something.
He swung open the door and tripped, catching himself on the jamb. A bundle of blankets lay at his feet. Chaotic chunks of gelled hair stuck out of one end. Why the hell was Laz sleeping on the floor?
He looked like a cuddly little kitten curled up in a ball. He kicked it.
“Ow. Fuck.”
“Why are you sleeping outside my door?”
“My bed is occupied.” The bastard pulled the blanket over his head.
He kicked him again.
The blanket went flying in a cartwheel of fists hitting air. “Fuck. Quit fucking kicking me.”
“Tell me you did not let those girls stay in your bed.”
“No.” Laz glared at him. “Piss off. The sun’s barely up, and you’re already fucking high.”
“No you won’t tell me, or no they didn’t stay?” His teeth sawed the inside of his cheek.
“No, they didn’t stay.”
The sawing stopped but only for a heartbeat.
“Someone else stayed.” Laz smiled up at him, and he didn’t like the look of it.
“Who?”
The fucker stretched like a lazy cat, his smile turning more Cheshire by the second. “Guess.”
Okay, he was up for the challenge. His dick twitched. Yeah, he was definitely up. “A woman?”
The grinning cat nodded.
“Is she hot?”
“You’re seriously asking me that after the strays you let in last night?”
Ugh. He didn’t remember what they looked like. All he remembered was tying down their wandering hands.
Screw the Q&A. He moved through the suite, fueled to fuck. He didn’t care if she was a Laz leftover. He vibrated with a sense of health and vitality. It was the blow, he knew, and he was about ten minutes from crashing. Fuck it. In that moment— “Raaargh!” —he felt fucking great.
Edison stood post outside the junior suite wearing his spiffy suit and even spiffier com device sticking in his ear. He had no business standing there. “What are you doing here?”
“Tony’s orders.”
A sudden surge of paranoia rocked him on his heels. No, it was too soon to crash. Just a few more minutes. “You’re relieved of your post. Go away.” He grabbed the door knob and stormed toward the bed.
Red hair filled his horizon. Just like his dream. It flowed in sheets over her back, her petite arms, and curled around her pillow. He crept forward and knelt on the floor beside the bed. His fingers shook as he brushed the soft strands from her face.
His breath caught in his throat. His chest burned. Oh God, the coke must have been cut with something. He was hallucinating.
It was the best trip of his life. He held himself motionless, savoring the fantasy, afraid if he touched her again, his fingers would wisp the phantasm away.
A man-shaped lump moved in the bedding behind her. Then its head popped up and glared at him over her shoulder.
What the fuck? “Who the hell are you?”
“Lower your voice.”
Charlee’s ghost stretched her arms over her head and rolled to her back. Was that his Dead Milkmen t-shirt? Holy hell, the girl was real. His stomach dropped. Did Laz find and fuck a Charlee-look-alike? “I really want to fuck you.”
She opened her eyes. Blinding spheres of blue hit him in the chest just as the man’s fist slammed into his face. His back hit the floor, and he stared at the garish gold scrollwork on the ceiling, smiling. Those eyes couldn’t be cloned. Charlee was alive.
The euphoria evaporated into a murderous cloud. She was in bed with a man and the fucker was standing over him, shooting daggers as if he owned the place and the girl. Fuck that. “Get out.”
The man’s arrogant chin lifted, and he stepped back, eyes on Charlee. “Come on, sweetheart.”
No way in hell. He jumped to his feet and swayed. The sudden loss of his high only added to his irritation. “She’s not going anywhere.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” She sidled between them with her hands on her hips. “I think you both need a timeout. Nathan, why did you hit him? And Jay, you don’t get to decide if I stay.”
Goddamned adorable. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
“Yeah, well, you puked on mine.”