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I wake from my groggy state to the sound of a ringing phone.
It’s not beside my ear; it’s on the other side of the bed. The next thing I register is the blend of vanilla, tobacco, and curls under my nose.
There is only one person it could be.
Charlie Spring.
The lithe body beside me stirs, picks up his phone from the bedside table, rolls his eyes, and, to my surprise, answers the call. He doesn’t usually do this when we hook up.
A one-sided exchange occurs of grunts and “mmmms”, punctuated by a “sorry”.
I almost put one finger to those lips, but stop myself at the last second.
Finally, the call ends with a “I’ll be down in five”. He presses the red ‘end call’ button with probably more force than necessary.
"It's Tao.” I give him a confused look. "My manager, you’ve met him before. Short, dark hair, a permanent scowl, and he thinks he’s my protector as well. Ring any bells? Because you never can seem to remember his name.”
“Ah, that Tao. I think I do now that you remind me.” Ah yes, the one who gives me the evils every time his gaze settles on me, and in return, I ‘forget’ his name each time we meet.
"Apparently, the hotel has been on his case with ‘reports of complaints about the activities in room 214’, so he’s now on my case.” He giggles, scrunching that adorable nose of his, and another eye roll slips out. “You would think that for what they charge, they would have better soundproofing in this place.”
I poke him in the arm. “You know, we, and by which I mean you, have nothing to apologise for. What do they expect people to do in these rooms? Sit and pray like monks?” For a moment, our eyes meet, time stops, and I lose my train of thought.
The room, however, is admittedly a mess. Pillows are everywhere; one has exploded, its feathers leaving a trail over the floor. A couple of empty champagne bottles are scattered around (my head and stomach should be in a worse state than they are now; the partying gods must have been smiling down on me last night, as well as the sex god I had in my bed). There’s half-eaten room service we ordered at 3:30am after the first round, while we waited for our bodies to recover for a second. A dessert bowl was repurposed into a makeshift ashtray with several rollie stubs now poking out (that was all Charlie’s doing).
I now curse the fact that what happens when we run into each other has happened again, because I told myself after last time that my heart I wasn’t built for this.
Last night it was some sort of magazine awards event. I was accepting a sportsman trophy, and Charlie was there with his bandmates, seemingly just for the ride and the exposure. Not sure why Queer Intentions, one of the most famous bands in Western music, needs more exposure, more gossip column inches, and more paparazzi photos plastered all over the internet. I’m sure Charlie will be greeted by a legion of fans when his car leaves the hotel, with TikTok videos being taken as it passes by, tinted windows up.
Not that I have ever searched for him on there.
Okay, maybe once or twice.
I blame the free-flowing alcohol and the scrubbing up that our stylists organise for us. I’ve never liked shaving, and left to my own devices, this beard would become a creature of its own.
I notice he’s started pulling on that white shirt he was wearing while we circled the room, each of us trying desperately to ignore the other, yet feeling drawn together, magnetised as we are, at the same time. “When will I hear from you again?"
“I dunno.” He doesn’t meet my eyes now as he pulls on those skin-tight leather trousers of his, the trademark look he’s known for, and glances down at his phone again, tapping at what I assume must be his keyboard.
“Are you working on a new album?” I blurt out. I’m always terrible at the morning-after small talk. There’s something about him that makes me want to keep him here, make him my (willing, consensual) prisoner, and it’s not just down to the alcohol we consume when we’re together. I want him to get to know me, and what’s more, I want to get to know him.
"I'm always working on material, Nick, and you just so happen to be an excellent muse. The perfect one, in fact.”
I find myself blushing. That's probably the kindest thing he's ever said to me.
Now dressed, he returns to the bed. He’s still avoiding my gaze as he takes my hand in his. Apparently, he is only capable of so much intimacy at any one time, only in serial with his tokens of affection, never in parallel. Whether that's down to the cool-guy persona he so carefully cultivates for those around him, or if it's due to something darker, more deep-rooted, I'm not sure. I'd be fooling myself to think he's going to let me in any time soon.
If he chooses to share, I'll just have to find out like the rest of the world at the next midnight album release for Queer Intentions. I've developed my little ritual for them now. Picnic blanket out in the garden, light a candle and have a glass of something red, or maybe brown if I'm feeling particularly maudlin, and while I sip, play the album through my good headphones while lying back, looking at the stars, and think about all those memories we made together written between those lines of my borrowed-lover's prose.
We’re now rudely interrupted by my phone making “ding” sounds. It's probably Otis and Christian ribbing me about the photos from last night that are already out.
Charlie still kisses my knuckles nonetheless. This is new. Now, could it be described as one action or two at a time? Are we making progress here? I can feel myself blush, and somehow I don’t care that my face is flushed and my heart is racing like I’ve run the full length of the pitch. Not with him, at least.
He pauses and drops my hand, almost looking embarrassed. “You’ll probably want to get a move on yourself; you don’t want to be running into housekeeping.”
“I’ll make sure to leave an extra generous tip.” That’s the least I can do. I inwardly cringe at the state we have left this place in.
Just for a moment, he meets what I know he has described in lyrics written in liner notes on record sleeves as "those honey-brown eyes" again. God, I could swim for days in those blue waters.
It’s Charlie’s turn to blush, and he clears his throat. “You’re a doll, you know that. Until next time?” He looks down again, fiddling with the cuff of his jacket this time.
"Yeah, next time," I say, a lump forming in my dry throat as Charlie turns and walks out the door, letting it slam, and for the time being at least, my life.