Hunter smiled as the car slowed, eventually stopping on fifty. He lugged the cart out and pushed it from the service lobby into the hall. A minute or so later, he found himself standing in front of 50-113. He adjusted his black uniform jacket and knocked.
Footsteps approached from inside the room. The door cracked open. A sideways head and two eyes appeared.
“Mr. Westbrooke?”
“Yes.”
“I have your luggage, sir. Where would you like it?”
“Oh, very good. Please, bring it in and put it in the closet.” He opened the door and waved him in. “That was fast. I wasn’t expecting you for another half-hour,” Mr. Westbrooke said.
“I have lots of luggage to deliver, sir. It’s best not to dawdle.”
“Ah, an industrious boy, much like myself when I was your age,” he said.
Hunter turned just in time to see his smile. It was the most amazing, perfect smile. He shook it off, grabbed the luggage and moved it to the closet. He turned to tell Mr. Westbrooke he was all set, but he was gone. I have to be losing my mind.
“Mr. Westbrooke?” Hunter said.
He stepped out of the bathroom wearing a T-shirt and wrapped in a towel.
“Sir, your luggage is put away. Have a great day.” He grabbed the cart and pushed it toward the door.
Mr. Westbrooke cut him off, “Grab my wallet and take three hundred out. You were very fast and I appreciate that.”
“Oh, sir, I don’t feel comfortable—”
“Just do it. It’s not like you are going to steal from me. The wallet is on the dresser. Show yourself out when you are done. Thanks again!” he hollered.
He heard the glass shower door close, presumably after Westbrooke stepped in. Did he really just leave him, a stranger, alone with his wallet in his room and tell him to take three hundred-dollars? Hunter went toward the wallet but thought better of it. Sure, he wanted the money, but he wanted to keep his job too.
For some reason, he thought of that smile and grinned as he walked out of the suite. What was that?
Arthur Westbrooke
Fantastic shower. It was almost eight-thirty when Arthur finished. Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped himself with the plush, white, cotton towel. The room had a welcoming feel to him. More than most other hotels he had stayed in.
Arthur pulled his luggage to the dresser and opened the drawer. Sliding the clothes in the drawer, he noticed his wallet looked untouched. Did he even take a tip? Pausing from putting his clothes away, Arthur inventoried the wallet. Nothing is missing. He didn’t take a dime. Interesting…
Smiling, he retrieved the phone and began dialing.
“Good evening, Mr. Westbrooke. How may I help you today?” a voice spoke.
“I have a bit of an odd request. There was a bellman that brought up my luggage. I forgot to give him a tip. Could you send him back up? I also need a bottle of Maker’s Mark; would you send that up with him also?”
“Absolutely sir. Is there anything else that I may assist you with?”
“No, ma’am. I believe that will be all. Thank you.”
“You are very welcome, sir. I will get the items right up to you. Thank you for choosing the Excelsior.”
The line cleared with a quiet click and he returned the phone to the cradle. I admire the honesty. It is such a rare trait these days.
Westbrooke filled the ice bucket from the machine down the hallway. He laid out two rocks glasses and retired to the couch, clicking on the television as he sat. He selected a jazz classics station and let his mind drift.
Hunter Grady
Traffic in the front drive whizzed by Hunter. He happily pulled a new arrival’s luggage across the lanes. Why am I so happy? He had practically been whistling Dixie since he left Mr. Westbrooke’s suite.
Sure, the guy was cute, but he was way older than Hunter. And sure, he offered him a three-hundred-dollar tip but, he didn’t even take it. Seriously, there wasn’t really anything to be that happy about?
Hunter had just turned nineteen and had only been working as a bellboy for six months or so. It was the first job he had that paid him above the table. The first job he had that didn’t run the risk of a criminal conviction.
It’s not that he was a criminal by nature. But there comes a point in life where you would do one of two things: fight to live or lay down and die. Hunter was strong and would do anything for his family so, obviously, he fought.
His dad had passed away when he was just five and his mom… His poor mom had been left to care for him and his younger brother, Rory, who was just an infant when his father passed. They had been on and off food stamps and housing assistance almost as long as he could remember.
It wasn’t until his mom had a stroke on Hunter’s sixteenth birthday and she lost the ability to walk and talk that things really fell apart. Luckily, she regained the ability to talk but, sadly, that was it. He loved his mother, so he had vowed to do whatever needed to be done.
At first, he tried to get odd jobs around the neighborhood, delivering groceries and running errands. But a sixteen-year-old can only find so much to do in Las Vegas, and really, how much money could he make? Certainly not enough to be the sole income for a family of three.
It didn’t take long until he found himself being pulled into a bad crowd. One evening, while walking home from an evening of deliveries, he cut through an alley just off Twain Avenue. It was dark out already and the narrow alley made things even darker. Usually it wasn’t a big deal and he was able to swiftly pass through. That night was different.
Hunter found himself surrounded by a group of muscle-bound black men. They began badgering him, at first asking simple questions like why he was out late all alone. That soon progressed to more leading questions about being gay and blowing dudes.
The men drug Hunter behind an enclosed dumpster and had their way with him. From that night on, for a little over a year, Hunter was forced into male-male prostitution. He reported nightly to his pimp Ty-Ty and was given a burner cell that Ty-Ty would call him on when he had a trick.
It was fucking awful… Sort of. Yeah, it sucked dick that he had to suck dick. But he did get to suck dick. Sometimes the trick was a well-off middle-aged married guy with kids and a family. He preferred them. They were usually nice. Sometimes it was a bunch of strung out druggies looking for an ass to run a train on. Those nights were the worst.
It wasn’t all bad though. Ty-Ty paid him enough to take care of his mom and little brother. It was nowhere near what the tricks were paying, but at least he could provide for his family. Until Ty-Ty went to jail anyway. That gave him the out he needed. The damage to his self-esteem was already done, though. He was depressed and now jobless.
Immediately, he started looking for work and was lucky enough to charm his way into the Excelsior. Life was better, but inside, he was still a wreck. But anyways…
Hunter’s radio chirped, “Hunter, Suite 50-113 needs a bottle of Maker’s. I know you are not supposed to, but he requested you deliver it,” the dispatcher said.
“Copy that,” he replied. Hunter grabbed the bottle and hopped into the staged elevator. Why does he want me? I didn’t take any money. What could he want?
Arthur Westbrooke
Arthur sipped his drink. The cool liquid went down with a bite as he gazed out the window and watched the glowing neon lights of Las Vegas. Crowds of ant-like people marched up and down both sides of the Strip. Arthur was glad he was up here and they way down there, although a part of him longed for a human connection.
His crowd gazing was interrupted by a knock at the door. A muffled voice pierced the door.
“Guest Services,” the voice said.
Arthur recognized the voice immediately. Hunter. Arthur’s palms instantaneously drenched with nervous sweat. Jesus, pull yourself together, man. It’s just a boy. Albeit, a rather cute boy, but come on…
Arthur wiped his hands dry on his khakis as he walked to the door. He grabbed the door handle
. It was shockingly cool to the touch. He paused before opening the one barrier that separated him from Hunter. Here we go. The door opened with a slight creak.
Oh my God… His breath left his body as Hunter appeared. Hunter’s face lit up with his perfect, cute little smile. It was mesmerizing, and Arthur had to try his hardest not to stare creepily at him. Although he wasn’t sure just how successful he was with that, as Hunter had to speak first.
“Good Evening, Mr. Westbrooke. Here is the Maker’s Mark you requested.”
“Oh, right. Thank you,” Arthur replied. “Please come in. Let me get you a drink. Can you stay for a drink?”
“Oh, um… Sure. I just got off work now. This was my last delivery.”
“Wonderful, please then, come in. What is your drink of choice?”
“I’ll have… whatever you are having.”
Arthur took note of the young man’s nervousness but was not sure what caused it. He was just as bad at reading social situations as he was at being in them. Oh well. Hunter was here now and he had to try his hardest to make the most of just being in his company.
“Please, sit.” Arthur gestured to the seating area near the window.
Hunter selected the leather armchair that sat directly across from the sofa and sunk into it, obviously startled.
Arthur snickered. “Yeah. Don’t feel bad. I did the same damn thing. The chair almost swallowed me. I’d offer the couch to you, but it will probably take you twenty minutes to escape the chair.”
Hunter smiled again, causing Arthur to feel tingly inside. Almost like a nervous child. The feeling started in his belly and spread out as far as his fingertips. He felt himself blush. He quickly turned away and poured Hunter a glass of Maker’s and topped off his own as well.
“So, how was work?” Arthur awkwardly inquired.
“Oh, it was good. I met a lot of new people today and rode the elevator like a hundred times!” Hunter blurted out.
“You like riding the elevators?”
“Oh yeah, it is the best part of my job. I mean, I love meeting the people, but people… Well, people are really awful sometimes and they really let ya down. An elevator though… Well let’s just say, I haven’t ever been let down by an elevator, unless I asked it to.”
The simple realness of Hunter shocked Arthur. I could never have imagined a young man with the sweetness that he has. He joined Hunter in the sitting area and passed him the drink before he sat on the sofa.
“Thanks,” Hunter said.
“You are very welcome. So, do you know why I asked you to come tonight?”
“Well, I assumed it is because you needed some Maker’s Mark. Is that right?”
“Incidentally, yes, I suppose there is that, but I also wanted to inquire as to why you didn’t take any money from my wallet when I offered you a tip. Surely your wages cannot be so great as to pass on the opportunity to make a few-hundred-dollar tip.”
Hunter’s face flushed, “No, sir. That isn’t the case at all. You see, I could use the money but, well… “ Hunter paused and turned even more red.
“What is it? Are you ok?”
Hunter Grady
Hunter raised his hand to his partially cover his face. “No. I mean, yes, I’m fine.”
Hunter had a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. He felt an attraction to this man, felt safe conversing with him. He even felt like he could tell him anything but, why?
Rather than divulging any information to Arthur, Hunter changed the subject. “So, do you visit Vegas often?”
“Oh… Yes. Yes I do. I am here several times a year. But I am not always as lucky as I was today,” Arthur replied.
“Lucky? Lucky how?”
“I have never had the pleasure of meeting such a beautiful young man like yourself.”
Hunter felt his face heat to the temperature of the sun. He imagined that he must look like a very embarrassed tomato.
“I, uh. Well, wow. Thank you,” Hunter stuttered. “I thought you were very handsome when I came in as well.” Hunter smiled uncontrollably.
“And that, that smile right there, is why I had to see you again. I saw that very same grin as I tightened the towel around my waist earlier. I was hoping that meant you were like me.” Arthur leaned in for a quick kiss.
Hunter pushed away, tears filling his eyes.” I’m very sorry, sir, I’m not like you. I have to go.”
Hunter stood and took one last look at Arthur. He, of course was a little like him. He was gay, and he was attracted to Arthur. But that was where the similarities stopped. Arthur was rich, successful, and good looking. All he was, was a broken, poor boy, with baggage. Lots of baggage.
Hunter set the glass on the table. It was so quiet in the room that the click of the glass on the table sounded like a plane crash. Tears flowed freely down Hunter’s cheeks as he ran out the door.
Arthur Westbrooke
“Wait! Don’t go!” he yelled. But it was already too late. The door slammed closed behind Hunter.
FUCK! Son of a bitch! Arthur ran to the door and jerked it open, but it was already too late. Hunter’s footsteps slapped across the marble floor near the elevators already. This is why I don’t try to meet people. I always screw things up.
Arthur flipped off the lights and returned to the couch. Drink in hand and soft jazz still playing, he began to quietly weep.
*
Morning came with a headache, a broken drinking glass, and a stiff neck. Arthur awoke on the couch. The same place he had sat last night. Shit. Hunter. It took Arthur a while to clear the fog of last night’s drinking. The shower helped though. Sort of.
All it did was remind him of Hunter. Everything in his suite reminded him of Hunter. I have to get out of this room. I have to clear my head. With that, he dressed and readied himself for the day. He didn’t have any plans so he headed to the elevators.
A short ride later Arthur found himself standing on the Excelsior’s polished marble floors. Slot machines honked and rang, and people filled them with their hard-earned money. I’ll try the concierge. Maybe they will have an idea to take my mind off him.
Several minutes later, he arrived at the concierge desk. “Ah, good afternoon, sir,” a gentleman in a black wool suit said from behind the desk. “How may I assist you?”
“Are there any shows going on tonight? I have to get out for a bit,” Arthur inquired.
“Yes, of course, sir. Is there anything in particular you would like to see?”
“No. I was hoping you could give me some suggestions.”
“Absolutely. You are in luck actually. The famous journalist Hunter S. Thompson is having a show here tonight. I have a flyer.”
The man reached in the desk, retrieved it, and passed it across the desk. Fear and Loathing in America: The Journals of Hunter S. Thompson.
Arthur could feel his eyes dilate as his brain began to whir. Hunter. Damn. It was obvious that something was drawing him to this young man. It felt as if his mind could only process one thing. I have an idea.
Hunter Grady
Hunter arrived at work earlier than usual. Saturday was usually a busy day. Even though his shift didn’t start until ten a.m., he was there at nine a.m., hoping to pick up a little extra cash. He had just finished retying his loose shoe when his boss walked in.
“Good morning, sir,” Hunter said.
“Hey, Hunter. You sure are early. You want to make some extra cash for tonight?”
“Extra cash? Absolutely. But what was that about tonight?”
“Oh. No one told you yet? You must have impressed someone. They left an invitation for you for dinner at Wagyu Steakhouse tonight. Nice work, dude!”
“Who is it from? I can’t afford that. Jesus. It’s like five hundred dollars a plate,” Hunter said.
“I don’t know what to tell you, man. Here is the invite.” He handed Hunter the invitation.
Hunter eagerly flipped open the unsealed envelope. “You guys suck by the way. You read my mail… Assh
oles.”
They chuckled.
Hunter,
Life is not about money. Life is about experiences. Please join me for dinner at Waygu tonight at 7:00 p.m. You are more like me than you know.
Sincerely,
Arthur
“Holy shit.”
*
The day dragged on and on while Hunter’s mind raced. Why me? Why does he like ME? This was of course impossible for Hunter to answer, but it didn’t stop him from trying. All he could come up with was total shit, though. I’m just a poor kid, and I can barely care for Mom and Rory. This is crazy. I don’t even think I should go. What would I wear? Oh God.
The clock ticked by as expected, however. And soon enough, it was six p.m. Now what? He had the jeans and T-shirt he had worn to work, but that wasn’t really appropriate for such a high-end restaurant. Well, I just hope I don’t get laughed at.
With that, Hunter rushed to the locker room. He slid off his work uniform and stood in front of the full-length mirror clad only in a tight jockstrap and black ankle socks. He gave his body a once-over, trying to see what anyone would want in someone like him.
His chest was firm, but thin. His arms and legs were skinny, but toned. Hunter did like his legs a little. They had seen a huge growth spurt since he got this job. Running all over this huge resort had really developed them. Maybe it was his abs. Nope. Just a flat belly, no abs. That left his ass and cock.
His ass was a voracious little pair of bubbles that even he was proud of. Hence the jock strap. And his cock was a solid seven inches hard, and thick too. He gave it a squeeze, causing it to thicken in the tight jock. But his cock didn’t really matter. He was a bottom at heart, and his ass was where it was really at!
Romantic Times Page 11