There are advantages to living in a hotel.
I thread a needle with the thinnest nylon thread I can find, pull on the plastic gloves, and start to close up his arm while he stoically hisses and grinds his teeth and drinks the rest of the minibar supplies.
I have to pause after I finally get the needle through his skin, because another wave of nausea comes over me. This is definitely not like sewing on a button.
“So, what’s your name?” I ask conversationally, to take his mind off it all.
He doesn’t answer.
“I’m Finch,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Lucifer.”
He jerks at that. Or maybe it was just the needle going back into his flesh. I gotta say, guy is taking it like a world-class stoic.
“You can call me Lucifer if you like,” he says, after a pause. His gaze flickers over to me, and I feel my nipples tighten up like those eyes are ice running over my body. “So, what’s your story, baby bird? You live here, in a hotel?”
“I do.”
“Who does that?”
“Me, I guess. And rock stars.”
“Your daddy paying for this room?”
“Yup. My actual father, not my Daddy.” Lucifer meant it as an insult, but why should I be offended? I can’t help having a rich dad. Besides, Pops is just keeping me out of his hair here in New York so he doesn’t have to look at me. Ever since Mom died, he’s despised me. But I can go him one better: I don’t feel anything towards him at all.
“How ’bout you?” I ask. “Where do you lay your head?”
He grimaces in pain as my needle starts pulling through the thread. “Not so nice a place as this, that’s for sure.
The bathroom is filling with the stink of alcohol and blood. Still, it is a nice bathroom, all art deco, black wood and white marble.
“You’re sure the hotel staff won’t call the pigs?” he asks suddenly.
“Hell, no,” I snort. “Half the time they’re the ones hooking me up with shit. Nope, they know to keep their mouths shut. They don’t want trouble any more than we do. So tell me, Lucifer, why were those bad guys chasing your tail? Were they Angels of the Lord sent to do away with you?”
I catch his eyes in the mirror, but this time I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
“They were from the Clemenza family.”
“Oh. Are they, like, a gang?”
His eyebrows go up. “The Clemenzas,” he repeats. “One of the Five Families of New York?”
I think it over. “Oh, the crime families?” I say at last, a vague memory swimming up to mind. “Yeah, I don’t really follow that kinda thing. I thought the Mob got topped and tailed a while back—not so powerful anymore?”
He gives me an incredulous look in the mirror. “You’re trying to tell me you don’t know about the crime syndicates in New York? I don’t believe that. No one in this city as rich as you doesn’t have connections.”
I laugh at that. “Well, that’s where your logic falters, buddy. My fam ain’t from New York. We’re Boston-based, except for me. Black sheep.”
“Pink sheep,” he corrects me with a ghost of a smile, looking at my hair. I grin back at him. “What’s your natural color?”
“Pretty dark. Most of my family are redheads, except for me. So I figured why not dye it to fit in? Strangely enough, my Pops wasn’t that keen on it when he saw it. Okay,” I say, snipping off the thread. “Good as new.”
“I look like Frankenstein,” he mutters.
“You look like Frankenstein’s monster,” I correct him cheerfully. It doesn’t go down well. The eyes bore into mine. “Still hot, though,” I add quickly.
His eyes drop to my waistband. He’s still sitting on the side of the tub, and he pulls me in between his spread thighs, running a hand over my abs. “These pants are ridiculous,” he says, pulling at my silver waistband.
“These pants are Marc Jacobs.”
“Take them off.”
He pushes back on my hips and gives me an expectant look, like he’s used to guys stripping off for him on command. There’s a bruise starting to come up on his cheekbone, his arm is all puffy and red where I sewed it up, and I’ve never seen anyone look sexier than he does right now.
I take off my pants obediently. His eyebrows give the merest twitch when he sees I have no underwear on. “I need to bandage up your arm,” I point out.
“With what?” He can’t take his eyes off my dick, which is already getting interested.
In response, I grab the clean hand towel and the tiny pair of sewing scissors, and snip and rip it into shreds. By the time I get him bandaged up, towel shreds over Band-Aids, he’s got his hands all over my junk, pulling me into hardness while he pets my balls.
“I mean, that cut’s probably gonna get infected,” I say, my voice hitching as he rubs a thumb over my slit. “But, uh, yeah. I think I did a pretty good job for someone with no actual medical training. Dude, was that the first guy you’ve ever killed? ’Cause you seem super chill about it.”
My adrenaline is finally wearing off along with the drug high, and a spike of caution has surged up in me. I took a killer back to my hotel room. I mean, sure, maybe I wanna die, but not by the hand of some serial killer who might do weird shit to my body afterwards. That’s not cool.
Lucifer looks up at me, like he’s annoyed I’m taking his attention away from my cock, and shrugs. “It was self-defense, baby bird. But if you’re freaking out, I can give you something else to think about.”
Chapter Four
LUCA
Growing up gay in a tough neighborhood with the inability to pretend to be something you’re not means you get used to pain, fast.
But I haven’t felt pain like this in a while.
I
