This story is about Chris and Justin, roommates in their sophomore year at college. From their first day together, Justin asserted his Alpha Male dominance, and essentially turned Chris into his live-in submissive - a situation that, while occasionally violent, ultimately pleased them both. During one of Justin's violent episodes, Chris found solace in the arms of Mark, a Dom in his late 20s who proved patient and mature. Chris let Mark take his anal virginity, but subsequently lost touch with the older man. In the roommates' second semester together, Chris was invited to rush their RA's fraternity - which also happened to be Justin's fraternity. Chris managed to conceal his homosexuality through the pledge period, and arrived at Hell Week having endured more hazing than any of the other pledges. In the last chapter, Justin pulled Chris out of the fraternity house on the first night of Hell Week, telling him that he was about to be cut from the pledge class despite his best efforts. Justin sent Chris to a hotel to wait for him. Chris, confused and upset, found himself pursued by the fraternity's officers, who wanted him to return to the house to continue Hell Week.
All characters in the story are over the age of 18.
*****
Chris' Jeep sputtered to life. Thank you, Jesus.
He pulled out of the parking spot, and drove as fast as he dared to the lot exit that was farthest from his dorm. Left onto Cedar Avenue. He checked behind him quickly. He didn't see or hear any rich-boy cars peeling out of the lot with squealing tires. Had he made it?
It wasn't until twenty blocks and six interminable lights later that he started to relax. At first he had taken a number of turns in order to throw off any potential pursuit, and then thought, it's almost 1 a.m., this is dumb, just get the fuck downtown.
It was another fifteen minutes to the hotel. He drove his dirty Jeep into the entrance horseshoe, gave the keys and one of Justin's twenty dollar bills to the surprised valet, and hightailed it to the elevator. Reception, fifth floor.
He walked as confidently as he could to the counter, and smiled, he hoped casually, at the clerk, aware that his blue eyes were drooping, that his dark-blond hair was mussed, and that his clothing was disheveled over his worked-out but slim body.
"Checking in?"
"Yes, please."
"Name?"
"Donaldson."
"One moment. Chris?"
"Yes Sir." The clerk smiled. He was about 30, very tan, very handsome, and very gay.
"I just need an ID and credit card for incidentals."
Chris surrendered his own ID and his own credit card. He had calmed down sufficiently to recover his middle class pride; he knew he couldn't afford the room, and Justin could, but he was not going to let Justin pay for the minibar he planned to raid as soon as he got up there.
"Two keys or one?"
"Two, please." Justin was supposed to join him later.
The reception clerk smiled knowingly.
"There you go. Room 2116. 21st floor. The wireless password is on the keycard envelope. Elevators are over there. It's right below the penthouse. The fitness center is on 6. Sauna and spa are on 15. They're both open 24 hours." The man gave him a friendly smile, as if sure he'd be seeing Chris in the sauna before long.
"Thanks very much."
"Can our bellman help you with your luggage?"
Chris blushed. "No thanks, I've got it."
The clerk, seeing it was just the backpack, raised his eyebrows.
"Enjoy your stay, Sir."
Chris beat a hasty retreat to the elevator bank, and waited impatiently for one of them to open. Once inside, he hit 21 and breathed a sigh of relief as the doors closed. Almost there. He walked down the hall to his room and sucked in his breath as he opened the door. Even from here, the view of the night skyline was amazing. He walked closer to the window. Wow. This was incredible. He looked around the room. Everything was so . . . white. Well, white and cream, actually, he noticed as he got closer. But where was the bed? Then it dawned on him.
This wasn't a room, it was a suite. He passed through the door to the bedroom. Holy shit. A king-sized bed. And the bathroom! There was a shower AND an enormous tub with a Jacuzzi.
Chris started to get suspicious again. Was this some elaborate plot of Justin's to plan the perfect romantic getaway and get into his pants for his birthday?
Then he remembered the fraternity brothers outside his room and Mason unlocking the door with his master key. And Justin's face. No, this might be an awesome suite, but the story Justin had told him . . . it must be real. He put his bag down, took off his shoes, and sat on the bed.
Well, now what? he thought.
Before anything else, the minibar. He found it back in the living room, and pulled out a bourbon - it was Bulleit, it was good, and it was gone before Chris realized this all might be more pleasant (and last longer) with ice. He dialed for a bucket, and it came within minutes.
Having taken the worst of the edge off this incredibly bad evening, he poured a second Bulleit over some ice cubes and took off all his clothes, putting on the luxurious bathrobe provided by the hotel. He went out onto the balcony. The April night was cold, but the bourbon warmed him enough to stay out a few minutes.
Chris put up his feet, and raised his glass to himself for his 20th birthday, now just an hour old. He drank deep. Finally, he had the courage to check his phone.
Wow. About 20 texts and four voicemails. He read them over. The first batch were all from Justin trying to find him earlier. Then a couple from Tag around midnight, wondering where he was. Then a series from the fraternity officers, which looked like they had come about once a minute, starting when they were headed to the dorm, and finishing after they'd gone back to the house to get on with hell week. These were terse; the first ones were simple inquiries from Chas and Mason, and then they got nastier, informing him that he was going to lose his place in the pledge class if he didn't return to the house; then one last salvo from Mason a few minutes ago: "What a waste of time you were. You'll get your de-pledge notification by US Mail."
Happy Birthday to me, thought Chris.
The first voicemail was from Justin at around 5:30, wondering where he was; the next two were hangups from blocked numbers at around 12:30. The last one was from Chas at 12:45. "Hey, I'm sorry, Donaldson, but . . ." There was a noise afterward; it sounded like someone had grabbed the phone.
Chris sipped his bourbon. It was all starting to hit him now - both the alcohol and the fact that he had just walked away from his only chance at . . . well, anything good. Making close friends; opening career doors for later; the prestige on campus that would have accompanied his acceptance as an active SAE; and most of all, the chance to get closer to Justin, close enough that Justin would never abandon him.
One hour passed. Two. Should he try and communicate with Justin? No. That was the hardest part - keeping Justin out of it. There was no telling what was going on at the house, and what his roommate was doing, but every time he nearly broke down and thought of texting, just to try and get some word, some sign, from the person he cared about most in the world, he stopped himself. He typed, and then deleted. Again and again.
There were only two bottles of bourbon in the minibar, and rather than call down for more, and perhaps be questioned about which birthday this in fact was, he started in on the scotch. Macallan 12. Was that a good one? Sure seemed like it. Ice might be appropriate with this one, too.
Chris tried to distract himself by heading down to the spa at 2:30, but he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to take his phone into the sauna or the whirlpool, and he was glued to it, so he went back upstairs. Eight weeks as a fraternity pledge had increased his tolerance; he started on his second small bottle of scotch.
