I sigh, waiting for a couple of police cars with their alarmsblaring to whiz past me on the busy street outside the Bellwood.
“Julian and I got in a fight. He saw that photo of us online and noticed all of the alcohol on the bar.”
“Shit. I didn’t even think about that. I saw the picture, but I was only looking at you.”
Fuck you, Logan Stone, fuck you for saying the most perfect things when you’re not even here to let me hug you.
“Thank you, Logan,” I tell him. “I just need to finish the edits. I promise I’ll be good while I’m in your suite, okay?”
“You can be a little bit bad.”
My mouth breaks into a smile, and I’m surprised I’m even capable of that right now. “Always. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Um, Chase? Could you do me a favor before we hang up?”
“Yes.”
“Call me that thing you said last night?”
I draw a blank. “Hmm… did I say you were my beautiful cock-hungry slut or something in the heat of the moment?”
An old woman walking down the street glances up as I say that phrase and she cackles, giving me a thumbs-up before walking away.
“No, but I’d have liked that too. The other thing.”
“Oh.” It dawns on me, and suddenly my blood is calming even more. “Thank you for letting me use your suite, baby.”
I hear him hum. “That’s it. That’s the one.”
“God, I cannot fucking wait to see you again.”
I stay in his suite all week. I don’t read through Julian’s messages, but I do at least message to let him know I’m safe and sound, sobriety included.
I’m pretty sure he knows where I am.
Luckily, he lets me exist on my own for a while.
Logan’s suite mostly becomes a makeshift photo editing den, because it turns out I’m a total perfectionist when it comes to getting Logan’s pictures just right, and I keep staying up too late after my shifts at the restaurant, making little fixes and changing tiny tones of color in the background.
But I also sleep in his bed.
Because I don’t care if it means I’m obsessed.
I bury my head against his pillow and get the faint scent of him, and I take showers in his body wash and make myself come, wishing it was his hand on me instead of my own.
The place gets messier than it would if Logan were around, but I at least keep it clean, other than pillows and blankets being draped around every soft surface in the place and a few coffee cups and cans left out on the balcony table.
It’s a couple of days before I know that the photos are probably ready.
But then it takes another two days before I’m ready to send them. I keep going back to them, over and over again, gazing at Logan and the way I captured him.
The photos are shockingly tasteful.
Him, on the ground in my studio, lying back in front of my painting of a tumultuous ocean scape, the waves tinged with accents of neon, of course.
Or others of him standing up, in shots where he tried on my glasses thinking it would look funny, when in reality it just made him look even more handsome, like Clark Kent.
There are ones where he’s leaning on the windowsills, and his cock isn’t even visible in the pictures. His ass sticks out in the back, though, and it’s enough to make me covet him every time I see it.
