who asked for Hugh Jackman/male of my choice, layover
He could see his reflection in the black glass. Ice hit with a constant tap tap tap that drilled right into his brain and his cell rang again. He hit it with his thumb, pulled it up to his ear with a wince.
“You heard.” Hugh held the phone away from his head and his stare melted through his reflection into the dark, frozen night while the voice on the other end screamed endlessly.
When silence suddenly came, Hugh’s eyes focused and as the glass once again became a mirror, he saw the man standing behind him. Leaning on the bar in the VIP lounge, swirling his index finger in an amber-filled tumbler.
“It’ll be hours yet. I’ll call when I have news.” Hugh snapped his phone shut, the pain in his head easing just enough.
Familiar smile. Press of knees through denim. Low laugh like dark chocolate.
Hugh found the alcohol wasn’t whiskey, it was scotch. And he smiled when that long finger slid wet from his lips to his jaw to his neck. Their clothes lay bunched on the hotel room floor. Headache, manager, his delayed flight forgotten as his mouth rediscovered flavors of skin not forgotten.
<3's all 'round