Page 13 of Just Like You
I got myself dressed. Name badge back on. ID around my neck. Hair neatly scrunched into perfect curls. Contacts in, glasses safely tucked away in my topper bag.
Good. I looked…good. My bag got put back together, haphazardly throwing stuff in and trying to get the last few minutes of juice into my phone. Luckily, I’d charged the company iPad, but yes. This had been a stupid thing to do. Again. Wouldn’t be the first time and definitely wouldn’t be the last.
I didn’t do boyfriends, and I definitely didn’t do any sort of relationship. I’d made mistakes in the past in that department, and those were not ones I ever wanted to relive again. I owned my house and lived in a perfectly pretty small village, with a rust bucket of acar that took me from A to B without me having to worry about it ever getting stolen.
Not that kind of car.
I was happy, okay? And when I needed sex? The world was my smorgasbord of choice, offering up willing dicks of every nationality for my no-strings-attached pleasure. Smile, fuck and move on. Get on that flight home. Forget this ever happened.
“Dude,” I said, poking Mr Andrieu’s impressive biceps.
Nothing.
“Kieron.” Harder.
Stab stab stab. The man was firm. Muscle. Nice.
Also a dick. Didn’t care.
“Hey,” came out of his mouth. “Morning.”
“I gotta go, and you need to get your arse back across the hallway to your own room before housekeeping barges in and finds you in my bed. Not a good look. Get up.”
I wasn’t kind, but then this wasn’t a social encounter. There would be no breakfast in bed, not when I hadn’t even had time to make myself a cup of tea. I rolled my eyes. Well, I had no milk anyway. His fault. I gave him a look to that effect as he awkwardly sat himself up.
Okay. I’d given him a massive hickey on his shoulder. Go me. I cocked my head again, gesturing for him to get a move on.
He finally did, standing there at the side of the bed, scratching his head and looking all tousled and confused. Bed-warm and, honestly? Delicious. That hairy chest and firm stomach and…the cock of him poking out of the side of those slick boxers was in a way swoon worthy. But I didn’t have the time. Neither did I do repeat performances, so this had been a one-time indiscretion. A moment of pure carnal delight, but nothing more. I’d never see him again, and that was the only thing that was keeping me from screaming in his face. Move, goddamnit!
There, he started gathering up his clothes off the floor, small huffs coming out of his mouth. Like he was trying to start some kind of conversation.
One we wouldn’t have. I had fifteen minutes, and I needed to get out of here. And rule one? Don’t leave your hook-up in your company-provided hotel room. Don’t leave a mess. Tidy up. Trust no one, and get the fuck out. Mostly, don’t give the hotel any reason to report you because that would not be worth it. The company did not take these kinds of things lightly, so Mr Andrieu was fucking right back to his own room, this minute, thank you very much.
I was irritable, and this was awkward. I didn’t think either of us wanted to prolong this, so I put my jacket on and did a last tour of the bathroom. Towels on the floor, nothing left behind.
Then I opened the door out into the corridor and stood there as he stepped into his trousers. I didn’t care. His shirt bunched in one hand. Jacket flung over that bag of his.
“You got everything?” I asked. Polite. No regrets.
“Yup,” he said quietly.
He seemed to understand, walking past me, digging for his key in his jacket pocket. A half-naked man in a hotel corridor. The lift dinging somewhere in the background as he unlocked his own door. Mine fell shut.
“See ya,” I said, hoping he’d just disappear. But he stood there, just staring at me. Quiet. Broody.
I liked his hair like that, all messy. Unshaven face. Lips that were… Oh God. Shut the hell up, brain!
I walked off, not looking back, and it wasn’t until I stepped into the lift that, at hearing his door close, my body allowed itself to finally breathe out.
It was days later when I finally emptied out my bag. I’d got my laundry out, obviously, but I tended to do a full repack before every trip, tidying up and refilling my little bottles of toiletries. A top-up of my emergency stash of teabags and snacks. My neat little pillbox held my vitamins, my PreP and yes. Essentials. Lube sachets and condoms, as well as every gay boy’s best friend, the travel douching kit.
My days off had finally enabled me to sleep this horrible haze off, and I felt both refreshed and slightly enthusiastic, folding my clothes into neat piles and loading everything into my nifty packing cubes. Which was when something caught my eye at the bottom of the bag. A flicker of silver that I hadn’t noticed before.
A watch. Oh for fuck’s sake. Bloody hell.
I sat on the floor, completely gobsmacked. In my hand was a platinum Rolex watch. A men’s one. And I knew exactly who it belonged to, because I had seen it. Of course I had. I had a thing for nice watches, and the one I carried on my wrist? A fake copy from an East Asian market, but one that almost looked like the real thing. The one in my hand? One hundred per cent real, and I was half rolling my eyes, half feeling my chest fill with guilt, because this was Kieron Andrieu’s watch and I knew full well how much it was worth.
I’d drafted a report on him, a scathing one that might get passed on to his employer. Might. Never usually happened, but in certain cases and after enough of them? These kinds of things could get people in trouble. A threat to behave when travelling at your company’s expense. In return? I could possibly have a police report around my neck for unassumingly stealing a watch.
