BY HADLEY MONROE
There’s half a satsuma on the bar next to a too-full ashtray that I plunge yet another butt into. I’ve got a mouthful of vodka and bloodlust, and there he is – watching me, watching him.
He’s chaos ink and electric sex wrapped in flawlessly tight jeans, already better as a memory; but, he’s exactly what I need on a drunk and stormy night.
The hotel bar and its rooms upstairs are a perfect crucible for the depraved hedonism on both our minds, our better sensibilities gone when the sun went down and the winds picked up.
Wild eyes speeding, atomic yearning in every cell, and all I want is to taste the absinthe on his tongue.
What? Shit …
No, no, no…
That’s the wrong bitch, cowboy.