Page 4 of Constantly Cotton

Laundry Day

COTTON ROLLEDover and shoved his head under the pillow, hoping for the banging on the door to go away.

The best thing about self-imposed celibacy was he actually knew he was waking up in his own bed. The worst thing was he’d been used to getting fucked to sleep, and now he had to lie awake in his own bed, reflecting on his life choices and his uncertain future, and he didn’t close his eyes until the wee hours of the morning. And now somebody was banging on the door to the flophouseinthe wee hours of the morning, and it appeared he was the only one awake enough to hear.

“Go away!” he mumbled, stuffing the pillow over his head. Then he heard Henry’s voice through the door.

“Please, guys! I can’t get my keys. Someone out here needs your help!”

Cotton looked around and tried to take stock. He and Billy were in this room now. Vinnie, the new guy, was on the couch, and Randy and Curtis were next door. Randy got the big bed—not because he paid for it, like they were supposed to, but because the kid had a seven-foot wingspan and size fifteen feet. At one point, Henry had just ordered, “Give him the big bed! Zep and Fisher moved out. It’s his. ’Nuff said.”

Henry was sort of commanding that way. People listened to what he said.

Which was why Cotton didn’t understand why he was the only one stumbling toward the door.

He opened it anyway, not caring that he was wearing a pair of assless briefs. It was late August for God’s sake. He might be celibate, but it wasn’t like he was going to accidentally roll over onto someone’s dick!

“Henry?” he muttered, still blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Is that guy bleeding?”

“Cotton, is your bedding clean?” Henry asked, busting through the door. His doctor boyfriend, Lance, came with him, as well as a guy they were hoisting between them, using their arms as a sling.

“Did laundry yesterday,” Cotton said blankly. “No, seriously, is he bleeding?”

“Yes, Cotton,” Henry muttered. “Yes, he is. Now move so he doesn’t bleed on the carpet.”

And with that, Lance and Henry hauled the stranger into the second bedroom of the small apartment and apparently dumped him on Cotton’s bed.

After Cotton shut the open front door, which led to the stairwell, and followed them, he heard Billy—who hated mornings, particularly after he’d had a hard workout day at the gym—growling, “Hey, is that guy bleeding?”

“Yes!” Henry barked, and Cotton seriously had no idea what to do next.

Henry may have been ex-military, a blond, blue-eyed, square-jawed wet dream of a soldier, in Cotton’s opinion, but ever since he’d shown up at the flophouse back in March, he’d worked hard to be gentle with all of the guys there. Henry had never worked in porn, but he’d never disrespected the people who did.

“Whoa,” Billy said, and Cotton heard Henry’s deep breath even as he entered the room.

“Sorry, man,” he apologized. Sincerely, it sounded like. “It’s been something of a morning.”

“Who is this guy?” Cotton asked, looking over at the bed. Lance, who had only worked porn to get through med school, really, and to help his sister through law school, had also brought his black bag with him. As Cotton watched, Lance, one of the most beautiful men he’d ever seen in porn or out of it, with coal black hair, delicately gold-toned features, and almond-shaped brown eyes, sliced through the stranger’s black T-shirt and heavy-duty uniform cargo pants with a handy little cutter that looked like it was made for the job. The man’s clothes screamed military, and the man himself had a body fit from hard use, much like Henry’s. Yeah, sure, this guy had hit the weight machines, but that was probably so he was ready for whatever his job held in store.

He had a square jaw—go figure—and a somewhat narrow, appealing face. If Cotton had to guess, he’d say the man’s eyes were brown, to match the hair that had grown just long enough to curl across his brow.

Someone was too busy for his weekly military cut. Interesting.

But the man’s eyes were closed, and his jaw was clenched in pain, and the body that was revealed as Lance threw what was left of his clothes toward the foot of the bed had been damaged in more than one place.

“Goddammit!” Lance swore.

“What?” Henry asked. “Cotton, could you go get—”

“On it,” Cotton said, running toward the kitchen for trash bags and the kitchen towels he’d laundered the day before. He kept his ears peeled, though, because he wanted to hear what Lance was saying about the mysterious stranger currently on his bed.

“It’s more than his arm,” Lance snarled. “Here, help me turn him—fuck!”

Cotton rushed back to see that Lance had half rolled their mystery military man and was lifting the remnants of his T-shirt off of what looked like a lot of crusted blood on his side.

“Did it hit anything vital?” Henry asked, concerned.

“I don’t know.Cotton!” Lance’s voice rang sharply. “Here, grab some gloves from my bag before you throw that away.” He flexed his hands, and Cotton could see the sterile poly gloves that Lance used automatically when he was helping to doctor their small hurts.