Chapter Nine: I Wanna Get Me a Little Oblivion

chapter contains sexual content

After I checked in on the home front (using the room phone, since my cell had vanished during our spontaneous relocation in Seattle), I trekked into the porcelain decked bathroom to shower. More peculiarity when I finished. Wiping away the steam from the silver-rimmed mirror, I found yet another bruise decorating my body. This one was smaller than the CD-sized monster still angry on my hip, but larger than the first two, now almost faded smears on my arm. It covered my right shoulder, in mutated crescent form.

I threw on some clothing from my designer luggage that Dreamer had graciously left behind. Then I trotted back into the penthouse, where the plasma television projected a news story about more Vivaldi bombings in Sudan. Colin emerged from the kitchen, dressed casually for the first time since we’d met. However, my mind wouldn’t properly formulate adjectives about his appearance. It seemed I could only notice the scrunched up denim on his left pant-leg, or the crease at the bottom of his t-shirt.

“Ready to go?” Colin asked, voice polite and patient. He held the remote, clicking the broadcast off with a distracted beep.

“Yeah. You wanna go down to the lobby or something?”

“You ever been to Vegas?”

My blank face said it all.

“Then let’s go somewhere else.”

Later, across the street, Colin and I had camped out at this overpriced, over decorated ranch-styled steakhouse. The patrons ranged cowboys bursting out of their fringed suede jackets, to businessmen in well-tailored blazers and chinos. Not my typical scene. Though, Vegas as a concept had nothing to do with my “scene”.

Colin watched me flip through the menu. The cheapest sandwich was over thirty dollars.

“I just wanted a burger,” I said, despite the emptiness in my stomach. It hadn’t been full with anything but Doritos and booze for a few hours too many.

“Then order a burger.”

“It’s all premium beef. I’m a broke college student. I can’t afford a meal like this.”

Colin smiled and shrugged, beckoning for the waiter.

“Then, it’s a good thing I’m paying.”

“Colin—”

“Are you gentlemen ready to order?” Our server had slithered over, teeth glinting pearly.

“Yes, I’ve have the grilled swordfish, and he will have,” Colin eyed me with obvious scrutiny, “the Kobe steak burger, with pepper jack cheese, onions and black olives.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Colin kicked my leg under the table. Our server vanished. Defiant, I leant forward across the wooden surface.

“That cost almost sixty dollars!” I hissed.

Colin leaned forward as well. Our foreheads an inch apart.

“It’s what you wanted, right?” he whispered.

“Well…yes.”

“Then, that’s all that matters.”

I gave into the persistent grey eyes. Besides, I was broke until Dreamer paid me. If he even intended to pay me. After this morning, most of my thoughts about him ended up with murder. Murder…I watched the quiet waves of Colin’s irises, remembering the certainty he’d spoken with. But I minded our deal, and tried to avoid the subject. Well, at least until later, because I could be nosy as hell about things that involved the lifespan of myself and those around me. I reclined back into the booth.

“So how can you afford this?” I asked, genuinely curious, “I mean, I know you’re in drugs—”

“Drugs?” Colin furrowed his eyebrows, a little alarmed, “Who said that?”

“Well, no one. It’s just the only people Mitch knows are dealers.”

I tried not to grimace when I said his name. But despite myself, my mind snapped a photo of him and Callie cozy in the backseat of Dreamer’s car. Racing to Denver.

“Well, I don’t know Mitch.”

Colin rested his cheek in his open palm, the tips of his fingers laced under his hair. The pose reminded me of one of those child cherubs in the background of old Italian paintings. Except his eyes absorbed too much shadow, and his smile was too nervous.

“So what do you do?” I asked, “Besides rally with psychopaths?”

He laughed a little, eyes downcast.

“Oh nothing, really. I actually seem to be around ah, psychopaths a lot. They tend to pay well.”

He’d begun tracing designs on the table, with the water that had rolled off his lemonade glass. Little diamond drawings.

“Oh really? So, you just hang around with lunatics all day, and they pay you because…”

I trailed off into a carefree grin, which Colin, jittering, returned, eyes darting between somewhere on my lower face and his table sketching.

“They pay me…” Colin said, clearly putting great effort into forming this sentence, “because I am very helpful. When I want to be.”

“Well, glad you’re not being cryptic. Because, I was beginning to get a shady vibe from you.”

He laughed, but it was so strained and breathy, it sounded like a middle-school girl giggling. That only made my grin cockier. I admit, amid all the confusion I’d been wrapped in recently, Colin’s shy, unsure demeanor was a very attractive, stabilizing presence. I didn’t feel like I was stuck in the center of typhoon with him.

“No, no, no,” Colin was saying, maybe reddening a little, “I just am good at planning and organizing and that sort of thing. It’s really not…ah, much of anything at the moment. What about you though? I mean, you’re studying cooking, but did you have a job before this? Like at a restaurant or something?”

“Oh yeah. All through high school, I worked at this real greasy diner from like 7-2 in the morning. Made people fries and burgers and chicken and more fries. Very interesting crowds you get in the middle of nowhere at one a.m., I will tell you.”

“You didn’t like the country?”

“No, I love the country. I love like hiking and camping and fishing and all that stuff. I used to go up with my Dad to Yukon for a few weeks every summer, or whenever we had time off. I just didn’t like my country, you know? Just the same old people for eighteen years…I needed a change.”

Colin leant back in the plush green of the booth, eyes wide and attentive, posture relaxed and interested. Service was slow at the steakhouse that afternoon; apparently, they were running short-handed, as our server apologized to us later. Truth was, I managed to forget the emptiness of my stomach. Or where we were.

Being in strange Las Vegas didn’t seem to matter much, talking freely to those evaluating grey eyes and firm pink lips, which often parted to smile or chuckle at one of my remarks. Over the couple weeks I’d known Colin, I caught the signal that he rarely opened up to people. Too nervous, too wary of sharing space. But he clearly liked me, and my candid, sincere anecdotes.

I told him about the old diner, Country Haven, and the regular crowds of truckers and farmers that occupied my long, sleepless fry-cook shifts. I told him about growing up with obsessive-meticulous lawyer parents, and how I used to read over their cases before I went to work. I told him about crazy, good-for-nothing Mitch Sanders down the street, in my cul-de-sac neighborhood, and some of the less offense bullshit we pulled on the kids in the Ceramic Club (cause neither of us could stomach the pretentious artsy crowd for more than a nanosecond).

And Colin never said he understood. Never integrated some vaguely similar story about his teenage years, to bring the conversation back to him. Never tried to direct the flow of topics. Instead, he listened. And absorbed. And to a nineteen year-old kid who’d never encountered someone who had this ability to simply listen, I was very flattered, and becoming increasingly intrigued by my new friend with the slightly rosy cheeks.

After our extended lunch, the evening had begun to roll in like a lazy riptide. We hung around at the penthouse for a couple hours, having cocktails and watching crap on television. Around seven, Colin got a call on his cell. He went into the bedroom to answer it, came back a half hour later. Huge, shaky smile on his face.

“Do you want to go out?” He asked, fiddling with his t-shirt.

“Yeah, where to?”

“Do you remember my friend Michael? From last night?”

No. I had completely forgotten about the ridiculously attractive blonde that owned this hotel.

“Yeah,” I said, grinning crooked.

“Well, he has this little club down the block. They’re having an anniversary party or something. He wanted us to come over.”

“That sounds fun.”

I stood up from my sprawl on the rug, and meandered into the burgundy brilliant bedroom, my martini in head. I examined myself in the full mirror by the bay window, and pictured my scruffy golden-haired body grinding through strobe lights in some wild mosh. Something was not working.

“Colin,” I called out, experimentally rotating my reflection. He paced into the door frame.

“I don’t have any good club clothes,” I said, turning around and gesturing to my faded jeans and band shirt.

Colin shrugged, stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“Then, let’s buy something. There are a few stores down in the galleria next door.”

The few stores in the galleria turned out to be the most outlandish raver boutiques you usually avoided, unless high. Colin and I tried on the mega-watt rainbow spectrum articles, with a sort of Halloween indifference. I mean, partying in Vegas had only ever been a vague, unformed dream floating in my subconscious, so what not dress like I was in a fantasy. Or somebody else’s fantasy. Because, being one to always (though sometimes reluctantly) give out credit where credit’s due, I looked pretty phenomenal.

I mean, I was rocking these wicked tight jeans, and a flaming red sleeveless wonder that showed off my tight, toned chest and concealed all my crazy bruises. And, with surprisingly little coaxing, I’d convinced Colin to wear these leather, Matrix-styled pants that looked like they were welded onto his body. He found some glimmering silver top that clung to him in a couple exceptional places. Let the debauchery begin.

Now, my plan had been to rock the clothes for the evening, using Colin’s credit card, and return them as soon as we dragged our worn asses back to the hotel. But Colin decided to be a smartass, and he plucked the tags off my clothing, moving faster than a card trick con-artist on the midway.

“There’s no need,” he said, and bought both of our outfits. We cruised back to the penthouse, changed, did a couple shots of Bailey’s, and about ten, Colin announced our limo was probably here.

“Our limo?” I repeated, as I followed him into the elevator.

“Yeah, Michael said he’d send one over.”

“Why?” I couldn’t help laughing. The evening had taken an outrageous romp quality. Honestly, the last time I had been in a limo was senior prom, with about twenty juvenile delinquents interwoven and smashed inside.

“Well, so we didn’t have to walk. It’s a couple miles down the Strip. Why? You want to walk?”

I shook my head, and followed Colin out into the lobby. At the reception center, Bernard, our clerk from last evening, raised his head as we passed.

“Mr. Saulmon…” he called out, voice strung out and exhausted. Colin pivoted, lightly zigzagging over to the desk. I slide after him, a little concerned about this new image that definitely didn’t exist in my Vegas party fantasy. Despite the pristine starch of Bernard’s linen dress shirt and silk vest, the clerk now sported a huge gash on his left cheek, the skin around his eye a molted purple bruise. Colin didn’t comment on his appearance.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Ah, your car arrived this afternoon, sir.” He handed Colin a single, silver key and valet call slip. The Porsche logo was unmistakable. “I took the liberty of moving it to the hotel garage. The dealership wondered if you’d need a driver?”

“No, this will be fine. Thank you, Bernie. And how’d you manage those Orvilles?”

Not a second glance back. Onto the curb. The muggy Nevada air engulfed us, the slight breeze smelling like split beer, strong tobacco and rotting garbage. As promised, a simple, indiscreet black stretch was parked curbside. I noted small cursive script on the door. House of Yearling. A chauffeur, dressed in traditional garb, let us inside.

We took off, back into my blurred fantasy, Bernard’s damaged face fading from my memory.

“Got a Porsche?” I asked, laughing as we whipped under the neon maze of marquees.

Hazy chuckles.

“In case I needed to drive somewhere.”

“And all the Fords and Saturns and Hondas were already taken, right?”

He bit his ribbon lip, slouching down across from me.

“Quite possibly, Paul. Quite possibly.”

Michael Yearling’s club was called “THE VEGAS ARABIA”. Actually: “MICHAEL YEARLING PRESENTS THE VEGAS ARABIA”. And it was Arabian, with Middle Eastern domes, and exotic paint jobs, and a line of people the size of the Nile, trying flood past the burly bouncer barricade.

Our limo stopped at the delta of the line, and one of the sunglass-wearing, muscles popping, Brook Brothers-donned guards opened the car door and let us out. Having the eyes of a couple hundred envious kids was a little disarming, but we were quickly ushered into the mayhem. And it was mayhem.

Strobe lights moaned over all over the packed dance floor. The DJ was up on a platform, winding out records of heavy “thumpa, thumpa”. A drizzle of shots were being poured on the long, lime lit bar. Girls in leather thongs and boys in leather briefs, danced like mayhem in barbarians in cages. Insanity. Plus, the dance floor was flooded with red balloons with “Happy 10th” painted on in fluorescent lettering.
Briefly, I realized Mitch would kill to see this. Then I remembered how angry I was with him, and I banished him from my evening’s thoughts, lest it spoil the fantasy. Because, it was all just a fantasy.

Sheer veils of iridescent pinks and reds rippled on the ceilings. The walls gleamed with tile mosaics of desertscapes and romantic oases. The floor was creamy tile that sparkled under the bodies pulsing with the techno.

And where the hell was Colin weaving off to? Without a word. I surged forward to follow, certain I’d lose myself in this web of gyrations. So I locked sight on the shimmering silver top, and serpentined around the edge of the stadium sized dance floor. In alcoves along the perimeter, mesh curtains had been hung, easily revealing the harem-styled sequined pillows lining the semi-private places, and the enrapt couples or groups occupying them. Very vibrant raver types. A bit more high-scale than my typical Seattle haunts, but nothing unbelievable, except perhaps the setting they were placed.

I was positive, in daylight, this “club” would have resembled the interior of an Middle Eastern oil tycoon’s palace.

Near the back of the club, adjacent to the raised metal platform where the DJ whirled, a slick platinum staircase swirled up to an overlooking loft, the metal banister yards above the dancing throng’s flailing arms. Not one, but three bodybuilders hung around the base, earpieces glimmering against their black, fitted attire. A few loafers hung back here with the guards, though none tried to creep upwards to the shadowed balconies, infinitely more concerned with the lips and hips of each other.

Colin didn’t even pause for the barricade. As he approached, the men stepped off the narrow staircase, allowing both of us to pass. Not even a nod exchanged. Or a word. I couldn’t help but glance back down, to watch the bouncers assume their previous positions. Where the fuck were we going?

I tried to ask Colin, but he scurried up the slick silver steps without a look backwards, seemingly consumed with the destination. The staircase was a lot longer than it had appeared, and it took a couple minutes climb to reach the balcony.

The scene we entered almost pushed me off into the crazed mosh below. For none of the familiar youthful nonsense of the ground level jived up here.

The people.

The people.

My mind hazed. Details overwhelmed and smeared together. This portrait was impressionism.

Around thirty of them, strewn over pillows stitched with a thousand more gems than those downstairs. Beautiful. No awkward, sloppy angles. All the satin-textured limbs, crossed over each other with unmarred comfort and ease. Some sat, nimble fingers curling the hair of loungers in their laps. Lips all parted in moist invitation. The hair coiled effortlessly against bare shoulders, bare backs, bare chests. Very little clothing. Mostly scrunched up dresses and unzipped pants for easy flesh access.

But the inexplicable intrigue, the awe, the horror…it was all from their eyes and conversation. Somehow their pupils seemed to darken or lighten with their words. Words so fast and overlapping, it sounded like a pocket of change emptied onto a table. And the darting glances, rapid and overpowering and cruel but exceptionally…

And during the five seconds I gaped by the banister, at this gorgeous crowd, I knew every member of the debauched party had laser-blasted examined me at less twice. But none of their attention ever froze on me, it always jolted, to the person they were kissing, petting, holding and then around the crowd again.

So much stinging energy. That was the difference from below. Or part of it.

I wondered how they existed, so unaffected from the stumbling foolishness downstairs. And they could watch it at their pleasure. The balcony floor was made of glass, revealing the whole club for their roaming eyes.

But they did rest their all-evaluating stares on Colin. I watched their reactions, as he (and then I quickly following) passed. Curiosity. Intense curiosity.

For Colin’s motion had never paused, despite the new setting. He weaved around various pillow mounds with the indifference of a backpacker in meadow, heading for a mountain summit. Tripping after him, led me straight back into the shadows of the club, where I was…well, slightly nervous… to find another shorter staircase, glinting like diamond jewelry.

Again, it was guarded. But instead of muscle-bound goons, two sultry youths in identical torn jeans had looped themselves around the stairway railing. Again, they parted for us, smooth hands cupping our arms and backs as we climbed up. The boy with glazed, cloudy irises winked at me.

Now, way above the dance floor mob, and the sharp orgy on the balcony, we entered a much smaller platform, circular, and consumed almost fully by a plump, round burgundy mattress. Sleek metal rails encased this ring of lust.

Because that’s all I could think to call it, since Michael Yearling looked worthy of an orgasm right there. Clad in only the lowest slung white jeans, I had ever seen on human, he was playing with two insanely attractive women, both of whom were devouring his neck. I couldn’t move my eyes from his perfect, fair chest or flushed, flawless cheeks, or his apricot lips slit slightly for some heavy breathing. His matted hair fell beyond seductively around his eyes. The grating techno was almost inaudible up here.

A moment passed, and Michael realized our presence. Or Colin’s anyway. He glided off the cushion, with finesse no one should possess, and literally twisted himself around him. His lips went immediately to his, and I was surprised how agilely Colin met him. The kiss lasted only a few seconds. Michael pulled, his hands rubbing Colin’s sides very affectionately.

“I’m so glad you came,” Michael said, a breathy, thrilled whisper.

“Yes, I guess so,” Colin arched back, pointed at me, “Michael, I want you to meet Paul Mason. Paul, this is Michael Yearling.”

The blonde incubus grinned, stepping away from Colin.

“Aren’t you a darling,” he said, holding out his hand, “Pleasure to meet you, Paul.”

My face flamed, but I somehow managed to keep myself together and ignore my growing arousal. I shook his hand, enjoying the warm enveloping grip.

“Thanks. I love your club.”

Michael seemed thrilled by the sincerity.

“Well, thank you so much. I love it too. Now, let’s have a drink, alright?”

With a distracted wave of his hand, two women slunk off the makeshift bed and recoiled down the stairs. We settled onto the sumptuous burgundy sheets, Michael pouring shots from a tray on the ledge. My heart raced so fast, I almost wanted to check around for a defibrillator. There was something about the beauty of this man. It made me forget all my Vegas fantasies of the club mosh and strange connection to the crew below. He was so infectious, his laughter melting and bathing me, as we all clinked our miniature glasses together.

The clear liquid was extremely sweet, like strawberries except tangier. Not alcohol. Very familiar. But…a lot stronger…than I remembered.

Already, my vision began warping.

I think I laid down on the sheets.

I think I watched Colin straddle Michael, their bodies far away, conversation farther.

I think I saw them making out, tongues meshed together.

I think…

The next coherent thought I had. No more techno. No more mammoth club. No more dancing crowd. No more strange, attentive eyes. No more Colin.

Just me. Some alien room with lush red walls, and a bed sunken under a blizzard of white, down comforter.

I wobbled around and found two curious and amused green eyes assessing me. Like I was on the catwalk or something. A posh, distant critique.

But Michael’s stance sent me into ten thousand shades of red. He still only worn those low, white frayed jeans, and way he perched in the open doorway, reflected nearly every unfilled fantasy I’d had: some mysterious and sultry lover, about to take me in a strange but comfortable setting. I didn’t even bother to look past the door frame to see where I might have been beamed. Too surreal. Too exciting.

Then Michael began moving closer, edging towards me with a languid prowl. I was aware every time he traced me with his eyes, eyes that held one too many misty emotions. But, despite everything that had thus transpired, I really didn’t give a fuck about his motives at that point. Because any man who could make me this hard, from only looking at me, always deserved the benefit of the doubt.

He finally was upon me. And his hands went to my face.

The first caress was all I needed. That touch. Every touch. Curved and precise, like a surgeon’s skill with a scalpel, or a painter’s with a brush. Michael Yearling knew exactly what he was doing, and before two nanoseconds passed, I was aroused to delirium. Fuck whatever I’d drunk at the club…this…Michael…shut down every logical, rational synapse in my brain. From there on, all my thoughts revolved around fucking this gorgeous person.

He kissed me, lips not lips, but some unknown body part, completely devoted to pleasure. My vision crystallized into a kaleidoscope, and I could have been anywhere.

His hands rolled down my neck, down my chest, cupping my ass in brilliant, experienced strokes. I rubbed against him shamelessly, loving the friction, loving his body. One of Michael’s instrumental hands wedged between us, fondling my arousal with insane intimacy. I started to twist my arms around his electric torso, amazed by the sensation of his skin, when Michael suddenly grabbed my roaming hands, in two, unyielding grips.

He pinned my arms behind me, tongue moving to probe my neck in dizzying pecks. I’m usually pretty vocal during sex, and the freedom of my mouth only came with an array of moans. Michael seemed satisfied with the response. I found myself crashing back onto the bed, sinking into the white comforter.

He climbed on top of me, mouth smiling, eyes sparkling. Like a child at a circus.

“Now,” he said, nuzzling into my chest, “Let’s see what we have here.”

Such a low voice, a purr really, vibrating my bones. He ripped off my shirt, actually tearing the red fabric into shreds. His fingers immediately invaded my skin, dexterously rendering me into total submission. I groaned as he settled between my thighs, plucking at my nipples. Of course, the hands found my recent bruises, circling and agitating them. The dose of pain had me reeling, and I barely saw Michael’s intrigued expression through my slit eyes. This felt far too good, and it took every ounce of self-control I owned not to come.

But to no avail. Michael began creeping lower. He threw off my worn sneakers and socks, hands playing with my feet, tickling my soles. I was giggling stupidly, trying to wrap my legs him. But he was faster. Got hold of my knees and held me down.

Now, with unbelievable precision, he unzipped my jeans. And, after padding off the bed, he peeled the tight denim off in one, crisp tug. The feel of the fabric pulled so well against me, it had me besieged. I couldn’t remember any other lovers stripping me like that. And when he pulled off my simple black boxers, I knew I couldn’t wait much longer.

But Michael only stood at the foot of the bed, hand on his hip, head cocked. Deep in thought. I barely saw him, the built-up pleasure coursing through my body, sending me into all sorts of strange contortions.

“Michael…” I managed to pant, wanting nothing but him back.

He didn’t respond. But in my blurry gaze, I saw him beginning to crawl back. Then I felt his hands, merciless on my bare skin. Every molecule in my body felt ablaze. His lips found mine again, his hand found my cock. I came in a few seconds, the waves of pleasure leaving me a panting mess on the comforter.

I was quite embarrassed, not used to being so inferior in bed. I never came so quickly. So I tried to cover it up, moving to deepen my kiss with Michael. But he blocked my tongue, biting it hard.

Instead, he pulled back, bringing his hand to his lips, sampling the white on his fingers. I watched, fascinated that this incubus was actually tasting me. And I wanted more, growing aroused again. When Michael traced the still soiled fingers around my lips, I sucked greedily. I hoped, to everything holy, those fingers would be going where I wanted them. But after they were clean, Michael slipped his hand from my mouth.

Then he did something…quite unexpected. Despite, my legs wrapped around him, pressing his own arousal deep against me, Michael grabbed me by the arms, and pulled me up against the overstuff pillows, almost into a sitting position. He was crouched down between my legs, my hands still bound in his fierce grips.

He slowly began licking my palms, forcing them to unfurl. The experience overwhelmed, Michael’s tongue beyond talented. I felt the pads of my hands buzz, too much sensation for the appendages. He nipped at the skin, gently, perfectly, never hard enough to leave a mark, swirling his lips in ways I didn’t know mouths could move.

Soon my entire hands, from wrist to fingernails, were covered in a thin, glistening sheen, the skin red and taut from Michael’s horribly erotic administrations. I thought my heart would stop beating, wondering wildly what Michael was up to.

But he simply stared at my palms, with the scrutiny of a scientist, eyebrows bent in interest. A few moments passed. And, from under my heavy eyelids, I watched an insanely playful grin blossom on his face. He then released my wrists, now shackled with ripe, red marks.

His hand went to my hair, pushing my sweat-matted bangs from my eyes.

“Oh, you’re really young, aren’t you?” Michael said, voice warm and cooing, face imprinted with a sympathetic wonder. I just stared, panting, too enthralled to understand. I moved for his jean zipper, only wanting him inside me. This amused Michael to no end, and he actually started laughing, slapping my fingers away.

He grabbed my wrists again, painfully, pinning my arms above me in a harsh, awkward angle. He rested his weight on me, pressing me into back into the pillows, his hard jeans grinding into my groin. I started moaning out his name, worn down by the teasing. But Michael kept laughing. He rubbed his nose against mine, and chastely kissed my lips, the touch perfect and refined and too well-practiced for a mere mortal.

“I think you really could be a darling,” Michael said, happily, patronizingly, “You’re extremely responsive for someone so…inexperienced.”

“Please, Michael, please…” I whispered, trying to thrust up into him. This made him laugh more, a beautiful, flighty sound. Like windchimes.

“No, darling. I don’t practice formally, but you still have to pay, for anything more than I feel like giving.”

The words hurt. He didn’t want me? But the friction between us was building, Michael controlling the rubbing caresses. I turned wild, desperate.

“I’ll…I’ll pay,” I said, the only thing not warped in vision being his face. If possible, Michael’s taunting smile deepened.

“You can’t afford me.”

“No. I’m getting a 100 grand—”

The laughter stopped me. Michael moved back, covering his mouth, falling into hysterics.

“Mist, mist, no. Oh…wow. You’re absolutely adorable.”

He managed to contain himself. Then, he clutched my chin in one hand, petting my cheeks.

“Absolutely adorable,” he repeated, “So…maybe later, my maybe darling.”

A quick, burning kiss.

And he was off the bed, flouncing out of the room. The lights clicked off, the doors shut.

I was alone, in the dark, too weak with desire to roll over. Michael’s enflaming touch lingered all over my body, slowly driving me towards insanity. Without any other prospects, I let my own hand travel down my stomach.

Tormenting dreams in the desert that night.

For once, the landscape lay in a dark, star-studded state.

In the distance, on nearby dunes, I could see the glowing shadows of campfires.

Rampant music fluttered in the wind.

Screams too.

I couldn’t tell if they were from pain or ecstasy.

The voices overhead laughed.

Author’s Note: So, what do we got here. Another long, windy, insane chapter.

Got some more brusies, more Colin-stuff,a beat-up clerk (oh yeah, that’s relevant),
a very strange, multi-level club that looks a Middle Eastern palace (hmm),
and a crazy whore named Michael Yearling who appears to have a hand fetish.

Thanks to everyone who read/reviewed. I had sort of abandoned this site, wasn't sure if I should
post this next bit, thought it was getting a little too yadayadayada. But I figured, what the hell,
someone added me to this "C2" "yaoi" (isn't that anime?) thing, so why not post some more.
So thank you to whoever did that. I'm not really sure what it is, but I apperciate the sentiment.

Next chapter- more Vegas insanity, more Michael nonsense, a little check-in with my favorite drug addict Mitch Sanders, and we should be good.

Thanks again to whoever read this, grammatical errors and omitted words and all. I didn’t go to elementary school. I can’t proofread.