Being upright was a significant challenge. The dark didn’t help. Rafe couldn’t tell which way was up or even how large the room was. As odd as his blackened prison was, his body seemed to be in a very familiar state.
He ached from sex, and a sour rankness poured off his body, a combination of drugs, vomit, and come filming over swathes of his skin. Rafe wasn’t exactly sure if he was on the upswing of drunk and stoned or coming down. It was too soon to tell. He’d have to give it a few minutes to see if he got happier or sadder with healthy doses of belligerence and anger if whatever he took hit those spots in his brain. Thinking hurt. His skull felt boiled solid by his muddled thoughts, and as he stumbled forward, looking for a wall or a doorknob, Rafe heard his subconscious whisper for him to crawl back into the tub and wait for death to take him.
It would be easier than actually killing himself. And sure as hell less painful than how he’d been at it before.
“Fuck the pity party, Andrade,” he grumbled aloud. “Just find the fucking door.”
The knob seemed to appear beneath his grasping fingers, and he lunged for it, using one hand to slap at the wall nearby. Feeling up around the frame, Rafe found a switch, then flicked it up, hoping to finally see what he was doing.
A simple click, and suddenly he was blinded by floodlights bouncing off of white marble. A turn of the knob, and he was free, blindly stumbling into a bedroom he didn’t remember but knew its stench. It was intimate and cloying, just like the odor bleeding out of his pores. There was a pounding coming from somewhere, but Rafe couldn’t figure out if it was his head or the anxious tap of his heart in his chest.
“Hotel.” He carefully looked around. Double doors, one hanging off its hinges, led to a living room off of the bedroom. “And I’ve trashed it. That’s par for the course. But where the fuck is the hotel?”
The king-size bed was a mess, and something’d leaked on the floor near an overturned nightstand. It was standard high-star hotel fare, slithery duvet crumpled up and probably full of dried come. Somehow either he or someone else got all of the artwork off the walls and thrown into a pile of torn canvas and frames in a corner of the room. Burn marks on the wood pieces were a hint at an attempted bonfire. The water-soaked carpet and an empty ice bucket set on top of the pile spoke of at least a panicked success.
Oddly enough, the bedroom was empty. Rafe’s bedroom was never empty. Hell, even if he had to sneak a piece of ass around Jack once in a while, his bed was always filled.
“Okay, so somewhere, I probably lost a boy.” He rubbed at his face, shivering in the air-conditioned room. “God, I could use a good fuck. Better than coffee.”
His balls were still AWOL, and his dick was limp between his legs. He was thinking about sex, and nothing. Not even a stirring want churning up in his belly. Common enough. The drugs were taking their toll, and for the umpteenth time in his life, Rafe promised himself he’d cut back. A few little blue pills took care of any nonsense his body decided to toss back at him, but au natural was definitely a better way to go. Looking down at his cock, Rafe suddenly realized the chafing on his skin had less to do with fucking himself senseless and more about the condom rolled down his shaft.
“Jesus Christ.” The sheath was hard to get off, and he tugged at it, snapping it clean off, then tossing it into the failed bonfire. Rubbing at his temple, the pounding continued, a muted thump-thump echoing across his skull. “Okay, forget the guy. Where the fuck am I? I don’t even know what city I’m in.”
Panic was starting to set in. He felt like he’d missed something—a birthday or even maybe a show. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d slept through a gig, but Jack’d been harsh on his ass the last time he skipped out. The band wasn’t going to take much more of his shit, but for the life of him, Rafe couldn’t recall if they were on tour or if he’d just gone someplace all by himself and got stinkingass wasted.
“No, not on tour. Come on, where’s your stuff, Andrade? There’d be a bass in here if—”
He found the guy he’d been looking for in the living room.
Unfortunately for both of them, he was as cold and lifeless as Rafe’s cock. A pretty blond, barely old enough to know better than to let a rock star lure him up to a hotel room, or maybe he hadn’t cared. Either way, it was a decision he’d never live to regret. His lifeless brown eyes stared up accusingly at Rafe, a froth of vomit speckled with something black drying over his parted lips and long throat. Sprawled out naked on the floor, his fingers were covered in dried blood, the carpet near his thighs streaked a dark brown where he’d clawed at the pile. Shock closed Rafe’s throat, and suddenly the pounding grew louder, shattering the silence.
Then the door flew open, and Rafe’s world broke apart.