Mile High Society: CH. 4

CHAPTER FOUR: THE LEGEND OF CHUCK

I wake up to the sound of knocking at the door, heavy and insistent. My first thought, still foggy with sleep: if it's Mitch, I'm gonna vomit. The thought of facing him after last night makes my stomach turn in ways that have nothing to do with the alcohol. I roll out of bed, naked, still half asleep, my head pounding from whatever top-shelf poison we were drinking. The sheets are tangled around my ankles, and I kick them off as I stumble toward the door.

I think about grabbing a robe from the chair where I tossed it yesterday, but then I think why bother. It's not like modesty has ever been my strong suit, and whoever's knocking this aggressively has probably seen worse. Besides, the effort of bending down to pick it up feels monumental right now.

When I open the door, squinting against the harsh hallway light that feels like it's drilling directly into my skull, it's the last person I expected—Daddy.

"Daddy?" I say, my voice thick with sleep and confusion. "What time is it?"

"Neil, it's almost noon," he says flatly, his expression unreadable as he takes in my disheveled state. His eyes sweep over me—the bedhead, the naked body, the general disaster of my appearance—without judgment, just observation. Like he's cataloging the damage.

"It is?" I ask, genuinely shocked. I glance back at the room, trying to piece together how I lost track of an entire morning. The curtains are drawn tight, making it impossible to tell what time of day it is. For all I knew, it could've been three in the morning or three in the afternoon.

"You gonna let me in?"

"Oh, right, sure, come in," I say, stepping to the side and holding the door open wider. I'm suddenly aware of how exposed I am, but it's too late to do anything about it now. The cool air from the hallway hits my skin, raising goosebumps.

He walks in with that confident stride of his, the one that says he owns every room he enters, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. His eyes scan the wreckage of my room—clothes everywhere, empty bottles on the nightstand, the sheets twisted into a knot that looks like evidence of either a great night or a terrible one. I can't quite remember which.

"So you had a lot of fun last night?" he says more than asks, his eyebrow raised just slightly in that way that suggests he already knows the answer.

"Yeah, it was okay, I guess," I say, trying to sound casual, like my heart isn't racing and my mind isn't scrambling to remember exactly what happened after Mitch and I left the casino. The details are fuzzy, blurred at the edges like a photograph left out in the rain.

He looks at me with that penetrating stare of his, the one that makes me feel like he can see right through me, past all the bullshit and bravado, straight to whatever truth I'm trying to hide. It's unnerving, the way he does that. Like he's got X-ray vision for emotional baggage.

"I didn't see the whole Mitch thing happening," he says, leaning back slightly, getting comfortable like he's settling in for a conversation I'm not sure I want to have.

"Who are you, Cleo?" I shoot back, deflecting.

"I'm not a psychic," he says with a slight smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Yeah, well, neither was she," I say, crossing my arms defensively, then immediately feeling stupid because I'm still naked and the gesture probably looks ridiculous. Like I'm trying to protect myself with my own limbs.

"I just mean, I brought you along to have a good time, to enjoy yourself, not to get caught up in drama." His voice is gentle but firm, like he's trying to protect me from something. From myself, probably.

"And I am," I say, maybe a little too quickly, too defensively. The words come out sharper than I intended.

"And yet," he says, letting the words hang in the air between us, weighted with meaning I'm not quite ready to unpack.

There's a pause. I can feel him waiting for me to say something, to explain, to justify. The silence stretches out, uncomfortable and expectant.

"So you know about last night?" I finally ask, unable to hide the nervous edge in my voice. My throat feels tight.

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't, but that doesn't matter," he says, his tone shifting to something more protective, almost paternal in a way that makes my chest tighten. It's the kind of tone that makes me want to both lean into it and run away from it at the same time.

His tone suggests I don't need to explain what happened after Mitch and I went off on our own last night, disappearing from the group and ending up god knows where doing god knows what. And honestly, I don't really want to explain. Some things are better left unsaid, better left in the hazy space between memory and forgetting. Some things lose their magic when you try to put them into words.

"So what does matter?" I ask, genuinely curious now, my defensiveness starting to crack. I move to sit on the arm of the chair, suddenly feeling too exposed standing there.

"Neil, I like you," he says, his voice softening in a way I'm not used to hearing from him. "And if that means you and I take off and leave these guys to their own devices, the jet is fueled up and ready to go. We could be in Paris by dinner, or anywhere else you want."

The offer catches me off guard. It's generous in a way that feels almost too generous, like there's something underneath it I'm not seeing. Like there's a catch I haven't spotted yet.

"You'd do that for me?" I ask, touched by the offer in a way I didn't expect, feeling something warm and unfamiliar bloom in my chest. It's not a feeling I'm comfortable with, this gratitude mixed with something else I can't quite name.

"In a heartbeat," he says without hesitation, and I believe him. There's no performance in his voice, no calculation. Just sincerity.

"No, no," I say, shaking my head, "I really like the guys. I don't want to bail on them just because I made things weird with Mitch." Even as I say it, I'm not entirely sure it's true, but it feels like the right thing to say. The responsible thing, whatever that means in this context.

He smiles in that way that says he has you all figured out, like he knew exactly what I'd say before I said it, like this whole conversation was a test I just passed without realizing I was taking it. It should annoy me, being that predictable, but somehow it doesn't.

"Why don't you grab a towel, come down to the sauna with me?" he suggests, standing up slowly, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

"You gonna do dirty things to me?" I ask with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood, to shift us back to familiar territory where I know the rules.

"If you want," he says, his voice dropping lower, taking on that edge that makes my skin prickle with anticipation. There it is—the shift from paternal to something else entirely.

He stands up and walks to the bathroom, stripping his clothes off as he goes, letting each piece fall carelessly to the floor—first his shirt, then his pants, his boxer briefs. I watch him, transfixed, and then realize I don't think I've ever seen him naked before.

But Daddy's got a nice ass, surprisingly toned for someone who spends most of his time in boardrooms and private jets. His body is lean and defined in a way that speaks to discipline, to someone who takes care of himself even when no one's watching. There's a confidence in the way he moves, completely unselfconscious, like being naked is just another state of being.

"Just remember one thing, Neil—no one, and I mean no one, gets to make you feel smaller than you are—and in my book, you've got a bigger personality than anyone I know."

And with that he walks into the bathroom and I just sit there wondering if there was some kind of hidden message inside, and to some degree, I know there is and at the same time, there isn't.

When Daddy and I get to the sauna, it's just the six guys. They're sitting on the risers, each with a towel loosely draped around their waist, the fabric clinging to damp skin. The heat hits us immediately as we step inside, that familiar wall of warmth that makes your skin prickle and your lungs work a little harder with each breath.

Mitch is at the top close to the right wall, his usual spot where he can survey everyone below like some kind of sweat-drenched king holding court. The space is roughly 8x15, intimate enough that every word carries, and the steam is already curling up from the heated rocks in thick, lazy ribbons that blur the edges of everything.

Based on the amount of sweat happening—droplets running down torsos in steady streams, faces flushed and glistening like they've just finished a workout—I'd say the guys have been in here for a while. At least twenty minutes, maybe more. Long enough that the conversation has gotten comfortable, guards lowered by the heat and the privacy.

There are two spots in the front center, and Daddy and I claim them, the cedar wood warm beneath us even through our towels. I can feel the heat radiating up through the bench, seeping into my muscles.

"How's it going, fellas?" Daddy asks, his voice echoing slightly off the cedar walls.

"Hey Daddy," says Trace, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving his hair plastered to his skull. "Mitch was just telling us about some guy he met in Prague after he closed the China deal."

"It's nothing," says Mitch, not looking up long enough to make eye contact. He's studying his hands like they're the most fascinating things in the world, picking at a cuticle with sudden intense focus.

"He's just being coy," Trace says, laughing, his whole body shaking with it. "He fucked the guy on the overnight train, then found out he was from Belarus and tried to sneak him through Poland and across the border."

I turn to look over my shoulder at Mitch, grinning. "Ah, a billionaire with a hero complex. Go figure."

Mitch looks at me for a moment, a glint of something in his eyes—amusement? Annoyance? It's hard to tell in the dim light, with the steam making everything hazy and indistinct. I turn back to face forward, feeling the heat settle deeper into my muscles, loosening knots I didn't know I had.

"Well, Sully has a story," Jim chides, leaning forward with interest, his elbows on his knees. "Something about a guy named Chuck?"

"You guys don't wanna hear about that," Sully says, smiling, but there's a playfulness to his tone that suggests otherwise. He's practically vibrating with the desire to tell it.

"Oh, come on, I wanna hear the Chuck story," says Evan, adjusting his towel where it's slipping down his hips.

"Yeah, spill it, Sully," Trace adds, settling back against the wall like he's getting ready for a show.

"Okay, okay, okay," Sully says, clearly wanting to tell the story all along, probably had been waiting for someone to ask. He shifts on the bench, getting comfortable, preparing for what I can already tell is going to be a good one. The energy in the room shifts, everyone's attention focusing on him.

"So," Sully starts, wiping sweat from his forehead, "this was maybe six months ago. I'm in London for a week—business shit, boring meetings—and I'm on this app. You know the one. The one where everyone's torso is better than yours and half the profiles are fake."

"Grindr," Bobby says flatly.

"Grindr," Sully confirms. "And I'm scrolling through, right? Just killing time in my hotel room. And I see this profile—no face pic, just this shot of a guy's chest and arms. But fuck, what a chest. And the bio just says 'Visiting. Hosting. Now.'"

"Classy," Jim says, grinning.

"Right? So, I'm thinking, okay, this is either gonna be amazing or I'm gonna get murdered. But I message him anyway. And within like two minutes, he sends me his address—some flat in Shoreditch—and says 'Door's unlocked. Come up.'"

"Jesus," Evan mutters.

"I know. Red flags everywhere. But I'm horny and jet lagged and I figure, fuck it, I'm in London, when am I gonna do this again?" Sully leans back, the steam curling around him. "So, I shower, throw on jeans and a t-shirt, and I head over there. It's like a twenty-minute walk. And the whole time I'm thinking, this is stupid, this is how people end up on Dateline."

I can't help but smile. The heat in the sauna is making me drowsy, but Sully's energy is infectious.

"So, I get to this building," he continues, "and it's nice. Like, really nice. One of those converted warehouse lofts with the exposed brick and the industrial windows. I go up to the third floor, and sure enough, the door's cracked open. I push it, and I walk in, and—"

He pauses for effect.

"And?" Trace prompts.

"And there's this guy standing in the middle of the room. Completely naked. Just—standing there. Waiting."

"Fuck," Bobby says appreciatively.

"Yeah. And he's—" Sully shakes his head like he still can't believe it. "He's fucking perfect. Six-three, maybe six-four. Built like a goddamn Greek statue. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, thick thighs. Dark hair, blue eyes, this jawline that could cut glass. And his cock—" He holds his hands apart to demonstrate. "—is just hanging there, half-hard, and it's already bigger than most guys I've been with."

The sauna is silent except for the hiss of steam. Everyone's listening.

"So, I'm standing there in the doorway," Sully says, "and he doesn't say anything. He just looks at me. And then he walks over—doesn't rush, just walks—and he closes the door behind me. Locks it. And then he says, in this deep British accent, 'You're Sully.'"

"Not a question," Jim observes.

"Not a question," Sully confirms. "Just a statement. And I'm like, 'Yeah.' And he says, 'I'm Chuck. Take your clothes off.'"

"Direct," I say.

"Very." Sully grins. "So, I do. I strip right there in his entryway. And the whole time, he's just watching me. Not touching himself, not saying anything. Just watching. And when I'm naked, he walks around me. Like he's inspecting me. And then he says, 'Good. You'll do.'"

"You'll do?" Evan repeats, laughing.

"I know, right? Like I'm a piece of furniture he's considering buying. But fuck if it wasn't hot." Sully wipes more sweat from his face. The heat is getting intense, but nobody's moving. "So, then he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. And this bedroom—it's got this massive bed, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and there's lube and condoms already laid out on the nightstand. Like he planned this."

"He definitely planned it," Bobby says.

"Oh, he absolutely planned it. So, he pushes me onto the bed—not rough, but firm, you know? And he climbs on top of me and just—" Sully makes a gesture. "—starts kissing me. And this guy can fucking kiss. Like, I've kissed a lot of people, but this was different. He's got one hand in my hair, the other hand on my jaw, and he's kissing me like he's trying to consume me. Deep, intense, no hesitation."

I shift on the bench, suddenly very aware of the heat. Mitch is still at the top, silent, but I can feel him listening.

"And then," Sully continues, "he works his way down. Kisses my neck, my chest, my stomach. Takes his time. And when he gets to my cock, he doesn't just suck it—he worships it. I'm talking twenty minutes of the best head I've ever had in my life. He's using his tongue, his hands, his throat. He's making these sounds like he's enjoying it more than I am. And I'm trying not to come because I know if I come now, this is over, and I don't want it to be over."

"How'd you hold out?" Trace asks.

"Barely. I had to think about spreadsheets. Quarterly reports. Anything to keep from blowing my load in the first five minutes." Sully laughs. "But eventually he pulls off, and he flips me over. Just manhandles me onto my stomach. And then I feel his hands on my ass—spreading me open—and his tongue."

"Fuck," Jim says quietly.

"Yeah. This man ate my ass like it was his job. Like he was getting paid for it. I'm talking thirty minutes of just—relentless attention. And I'm face-down in his pillows, trying not to scream, because his neighbors are definitely gonna hear me if I do."

The sauna is thick with steam now. I can barely see Sully through the haze, but his voice is clear.

"So, after he's done with that," Sully says, he reaches for the condom. Rolls it on. Lubes up. And then he lines himself up and—" He pauses. "—he pushes in. Slow. So fucking slow. And he's big, right? So, it takes a minute. But he's patient. He's talking to me the whole time—'You're doing so good, you feel amazing, just breathe'—and eventually he's all the way in."

"And?" Bobby prompts.

"And then he fucks me." Sully's grin is wicked. "Not rough. Not gentle. Just—perfect. This steady, deep rhythm that hits every spot. And he's got one hand on my hip, the other hand in my hair, and he's pulling my head back so I'm arched, and he's whispering in my ear—'You take cock so well, you're so fucking tight, I could do this all night.'"

I realize I'm holding my breath, my chest tight with tension. I force myself to exhale slowly, trying to appear calm and collected despite the unexpected turn this evening has taken. The steam swirls around us, thick and disorienting, making everything feel dreamlike and unreal.

I look around the sauna, taking in the scene with a mixture of disbelief and awkward fascination. With the exception of Mitch and myself, the other guys have all lost their towels—whether intentionally or through some unspoken agreement, I can't quite tell. They're stroking themselves without a hint of self-consciousness. Just right out in the open, as casual as if they were checking their phones or adjusting their watches.

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