Safe in His Arms (18 page)

anyway? ―Sorry, guys, I don‘t have a fucking dime to my name. It‘s all Daddy‘s fault.‖

Disgust, anger and self pity were clamoring for his attention in equal measure.

Wearily, Hank leaned his back against the door and slid slowly down until he was

sitting on the floor. Reaching for the bag closest to him, he extracted a bottle of vodka.

He thought of getting up to get a glass and some ice but couldn‘t be bothered. Twisting

open the cap, he held the bottle to his lips.

~*~

Hank woke with a start, his mouth hanging open, his neck painfully stiff. For a

minute he didn‘t know where he was, but then recognized his familiar living room in

the fading light. Groaning, he reached for the bottle of vodka, which was on the floor

beside him, the cap still off. Good thing he hadn‘t kicked it over onto the Turkish carpet.

Maybe he could sell the rug. Bound to fetch a decent sum. He would look into that

tomorrow.

A quick shower restored him somewhat. He was dismayed to realize it was only

eight, the whole, long, lonely night stretching before him. Maybe a little rough sex with

a twink would be just the thing to get his mind off the man he really wanted.

He fished his cell phone from his pocket and punched in the speed dial for

Gentleman‘s Elite. ―Hank Seeley here. Account number 10896. Send me a blond,

pronto.‖

There was a pause and then, ―Credit card number?‖

Hank paused, his heart sinking. ―You have it on file,‖ he said.

―Yes, sir, but that card is being declined. We‘ll need a new one.‖

―I‘ll pay cash. When he gets here.‖ Mentally Hank calculated the cash still on hand

from the sale of his cufflinks two days before.

―I‘m sorry, sir. That‘s not our policy. You may tip him with cash, of course, but we

collect up front. No exceptions.‖

Hank started to bluster but knew even before he opened his mouth it was futile.

There was no reasoning with these people. He flipped the phone shut with disgust.

An hour later found Hank at a bar he hadn‘t been to before, in a part of town he

normally avoided. The place had a reputation as a pickup joint where guys went with

pretty much one thing in mind, and that suited him just fine. He scoped out the meat,

settling for a very young looking blond who wore a black leather vest over a red muscle

T-shirt. His hair was longish, curling down the back of his neck and partially obscuring

his face.

Hank slid onto the stool beside him and ordered a drink. It wasn‘t long before the

pheromones were flying and meaningful glances were exchanged. When the guy finally

said, ―Wanna get out of here?‖ Hank nodded.

Hank followed the guy, who drove a crappy old Toyota, to a row of apartments not

far from the bar. They parked on the street and climbed out of their cars.

―I‘m Tony.‖ He held out his hand and Hank shook it. ―Nice car, man,‖ Tony

observed, stepping back to admire the Porsche.

―Thanks,‖ Hank said. ―I‘m Hank.‖ He wasn‘t in the mood for conversation. ―Let‘s

go.‖

Tony offered a leering smile. ―Hot for me, huh?‖ Hank didn‘t reply. The guy was

good enough looking, and probably barely twenty-one, if that. He bet Tony would want

to fuck all night. That suited Hank just fine.

He followed Tony into his apartment, past cheap furniture and a tiny kitchen to the

single bedroom. The room was nearly filled by the bed. Tony began to strip and Hank

followed suit. Tony‘s body was good, hard and lean, and his cock was long, if on the

thin side.

Hank fisted his own cock, surprised to realize he wasn‘t hard. What the fuck? Must

have been all the vodka earlier. He‘d have Tony fix it. ―Get over here and make me

hard,‖ he ordered, falling easily into his old patterns. He pointed to the ground.

―Ooh,‖ Tony breathed. ―I like a man who takes control.‖ He knelt in front of Hank

and took his cock eagerly into his hands.

―Yeah,‖ Hank said, closing his eyes and willing himself to get hard. ―Suck it,‖ he

commanded, and Tony obeyed. After a minute or two, Tony sat back on his haunches,

letting Hank‘s still flaccid cock fall from his lips.

Embarrassed, Hank offered, ―I had too much to drink.‖

―Hey, it happens.‖ Tony shrugged, then grinned. ―Not to me, but…‖

Hank glanced at Tony‘s cock, which was indeed fully erect, angling slightly to the

left above shaven balls. Tony tried a while longer with his mouth and hands, licking

Hank‘s balls and running a finger between his ass cheeks. He stroked Hank‘s sides and

cupped his balls, kissing along Hank‘s stomach before again taking Hank‘s shaft

between his lips.

Hank couldn‘t help the images of Russell, his face so sad the last time they‘d been

together, that scrolled through his mind. He opened his eyes, focusing on the hottie at

his feet, visualizing how good it would feel to fuck him. He would have him on his

knees, and grab his hair like reins to pull his head back while he used him hard.

He pulled Tony up, thinking maybe if they kissed something would ignite in him,

but when Tony thrust his tongue into Hank‘s mouth, he pulled back, aching instead for

Russell‘s kiss. Tony must have sensed his reluctance because he let Hank go and

stepped back, a scowl on his face. ―What the fuck, man? I thought you were into this?

What‘s your problem?‖

―This has never happened before,‖ Hank began, acutely embarrassed.

―Yeah, right,‖ Tony snapped. ―Shit, this is what I get for picking up some old dude.

Jesus, what are you, forty or something?‖

Humiliation segued seamlessly into anger. ―What are you,
twelve
? Maybe if your

technique wasn‘t so lousy—‖

―That‘s it. Get out.‖ Tony put his hands on his hips. His cock, which hadn‘t yet

caught up to his brain, bobbed in front of him. ―When I want to do it with some bitchy

old queen who can‘t get it up, I‘ll give you a call.‖

Furious, Hank pulled on his clothing and stormed out of the apartment, slamming

the flimsy door as hard as he could on the way out.

When he pulled up into his circular drive, he climbed wearily out of the car and

stared up at the dark, empty house where no one was waiting for his return. No one

knew or cared if he lived or died. With Russell, for the first time in his life, he‘d truly

felt as if he belonged to something, to someone. Not like with Reese, where he‘d forced

the relationship and managed to keep it afloat with rigid control, but a relationship

based on mutual respect and…love…

And now it was gone. Because of him.

He stood rooted to the spot, his mind a daze of misery and wild, twisting confusion.

Never in his life had he felt more absolutely alone.

~*~

The phone was ringing. Russell was calling him! He‘d come to his senses. He

missed Hank so bad and was sorry he‘d said all those awful things. Hank reached

blindly for his cell phone, keeping his eyes shut against the glare of the sun streaming

through the window.

―Russ?‖ he said, ―That you?‖ He realized he was slurring his words. His mouth was

coated with a bitter taste and his head felt heavy and full of gauze. He‘d returned home

after the debacle with Tony to comfort himself with the rest of the bottle of vodka, and

the last of his Purple Haze on top of that.

The ringing continued, which confused Hank, until he realized it had not been his

cell phone, but rather the land line that had woken him. Now he heard the answering

machine click on. ―Mr. Seeley. This is Sabrina from Capital One. We need you to call

immediately about a very urgent matter.‖

―Fuck you,‖ Hank swore, dropping the cell phone to the bed. As he reached for the

glass of water he‘d put on the nightstand the night before, he knocked it over, spilling

water over the sheets.

―Fuck,‖ he said again, reaching instead for the bottle of vodka on the floor beside

the bed. He took a long swig, letting it burn down his throat and into his gut. There was

just a mouthful left, so he finished that off and let the bottle fall to the carpet. Rolling

over, he fell back into heavy sleep.

~*~

Hank had lost track of the days, which passed in a blur. He kept himself pleasantly

numb with the constant glass of vodka with ice he kept by his side. It was the nights

that were so hard, when he would awaken, nearly crushed with longing. It was then he

had to swallow the hard, choking grief that all but closed his throat. It was then he

would have given anything to have Russell back.

If only Russell hadn‘t made all those stupid, impossible conditions. Nobody told

Hank Seeley what to do, damn it. He took another swig of vodka and raised his glass in

a silent toast to no one.

One afternoon while he was sitting by the pool, well into his fifth drink of the

afternoon, he heard the doorbell ring. Who the fuck was that? Not Russell. He hadn‘t

heard a word from the bastard since he‘d walked out of the loft. Not that he really

wanted to see Russell right now. Not like this.

Hank hadn‘t left the house since he‘d come home from Tony‘s place. He‘d been

drinking steadily, pretty much nonstop. He knew he should eat something, but found

he had no appetite for anything except booze. He hadn‘t showered or shaved or even

brushed his teeth. He was wearing his comfort clothes—an old faded tie-dye T-shirt

Reese had made for him when they were still teenagers, and a pair of baggy shorts.

The doorbell rang again. Hank hoisted himself up and weaved through the house.

He peered through the peephole and saw a pickup truck with the Rutland Luxury Car

company logo. Fred had returned the Mercedes the day before, leaving it parked in the

driveway, and damn it if there wasn‘t someone sitting in the driver‘s seat! They were

repossessing his fucking car right under his nose!

Well, they wouldn‘t get the Porsche, no sir, they would not. Hank hurried to the

bedroom and pulled on a pair of sandals. Shoving his wallet into his pocket, he raced to

the kitchen and grabbed the set of keys he kept by the garage door. He climbed into the

Porsche and hit the garage door button, impatient as it slid slowly upward.

Turning the key, he eased the car out, gliding past the two men stealing his

Mercedes before they had a chance to respond. He let out a whoop as he passed them,

raising the vodka bottle he clutched in his hand in an ironic salute.

~*~

Hank became conscious of a siren wailing somewhere nearby. Closer to hand a

voice was saying something. Another was responding. He couldn‘t make sense of the

words. It was gibberish. He was lying down on what felt like a board. He moved his

head and was struck with a dull throbbing pain.

The jumble of words around him smoothed. ―I think he‘s awake.‖

Hank felt a hand, the touch light, the fingers cool, move over his forehead. ―Mr.

Seeley. Can you hear me?‖

―Mmm…‖ Hank managed. His eyelids felt like lead weights were holding them

down. Concentrating, he made them open and tried to focus on the face hovering over

him. ―Sappen?‖ he managed.

―You were in a car accident. You‘re gonna be okay.‖

Car accident! The last thing Hank remembered was driving past the men

confiscating his Mercedes. He shook his head, desperately trying to remember.

―We‘re taking you to the ER. From the shape your car is in, it could have been a lot

worse. You are a lucky man.‖

Hank closed his eyes. Yeah, real lucky.

~*~

―We‘re going to admit you for observation. No broken bones, no internal bleeding,

but we‘ll just keep an eye on you overnight.‖

The physician‘s assistant who had examined Hank glanced at the chart she held in

her hand. He‘d been in the emergency room for what seemed like hours, being poked

and prodded, X-rayed, scanned and examined from head to toe. ―When you arrived,

your toxicology report indicated a 1.8 BAC. That‘s blood alcohol content,‖ she added a

frown of disapproval on her face. ―You‘re very lucky, Mr. Seeley,‖ she said, parroting

the paramedic. ―Lucky to be alive.‖

He sure didn‘t feel lucky. His car was totaled, and worse than that, a cop had

shown up and told Hank he was under arrest for driving while under the influence.

Once he was released from the hospital, he would be taken directly by the police either

to his arraignment in front of a judge, or to jail while he waited his turn.

Since losing Russell and his money, it hadn‘t occurred to him he could fall any

lower, yet he here was, in yet another ring of the hell he‘d created for himself.

Another nurse stuck her head inside the curtain. ―Room‘s ready. We‘ll take him

now.‖ He was taken up to his room and settled into the hospital bed, with the IV they‘d

attached him to in the ambulance still in place.

―You‘re still dehydrated,‖ the nurse said, when he asked why they couldn‘t remove

it. He hated needles. ―This drip will fix you right up. That and some solid food, as soon