Chapter 13: Whiskey and Regret
The terminal bar was a sarcophagus of noise. Jon slid onto a stool, the faux leather cold and sticky under his thighs. He could still feel it, a phantom ache deep inside, a wetness that had dried to a stiff, uncomfortable reminder on his skin. Martin’s final words echoed in the hollow places the whiskey was meant to fill. It’s over.
“Whiskey,” Jon said to the bored-looking bartender. “Neat. Whatever’s cheap.”
The first glass arrived, amber and sharp. He threw it back. The burn was a clean, straight line down his throat, a fire to cauterize the mess in his chest. It didn’t work. He gestured for another.
Around him, the world buzzed. A baseball game flickered on a muted screen. A couple argued softly over connecting flights. A baby cried. He was a ghost among them, a still point of ruin. His phone lay on the bar next to his glass, a black mirror. He stared at his own blurred reflection in it—pale, dark circles under eyes that looked too young and too old all at once.
His thumb unlocked the screen. His messages app opened. Martin’s contact, still saved under Professor Abernathy, stared back. The last message was from a week ago, a logistical text about car service. Jon’s fingers hovered. What could he possibly type? Why? Pathetic. Come back? Desperate. I can still feel you inside me? Revolting.
He ordered a third whiskey. The warmth was spreading now, a fuzzy numbness at the edges of his vision. The sharp, specific pain was blurring into a general, heavy throbbing. He picked up the phone again. His thumb moved, clumsy and bold with drink.
You can’t just say that and leave, he typed. He deleted it.
What the fuck was any of it for? Delete.
I hate you. Delete.
He settled on nothing. Just his trembling thumb over the call button. He imagined the phone ringing, somewhere over the Atlantic. Martin’s calm, cultured voice. You have reached— He slammed the phone face down on the bar.
The fourth whiskey arrived. This one he sipped, the taste now familiar, almost friendly. The rain started outside, sheeting down the panoramic windows, turning the tarmac and the gray afternoon into a smeared watercolor. Each droplet was a trail, a path leading nowhere.
“Rough day?”
The voice came from his left. Jon turned, his movements slow and fluid with the alcohol. A man, maybe late thirties, sat two stools over. He had a pilot’s crisp shirt, epaulets on the shoulders, a duffel at his feet. Handsome in a generic, well-kept way. Short sandy hair, a watch that probably cost more than Jon’s tuition.
“Something like that,” Jon mumbled, turning back to his drink.
“Let me guess,” the pilot said, swiveling to face him. “Missed connection?”
Jon barked a laugh, short and bitter. “You could say that.”
“Well,” the man said, signaling the bartender. “Let me buy the next one. Misery loves company, and my layover’s eight fucking hours.” He extended a hand. “Liam.”
Jon stared at the hand. It looked capable, clean. He thought of Martin’s hands, the way they held a pen, a glass, his hips. He shook it. “Jon.”
“So, Jon,” Liam said, his drink arriving—something clear with lime. “Business or pleasure?”
Another laugh, this one lodged in Jon’s throat. He took a large gulp. “Pleasure. Turns out it was fucking business.”
Liam’s eyes, a cool blue, tracked over Jon’s face, down his slumped posture in his cheap sweater and jeans. “You look like you could use a distraction.”
The words hung in the air between them, oily and obvious. Jon felt the whiskey churn in his stomach. He felt the soreness between his legs. He felt the ghost of Martin’s lips on his ear, his voice: This tight, perfect hole. Made for my cock.
“Distraction,” Jon repeated, the word thick on his tongue.
“I’ve got a room,” Liam said, his voice dropping, a confidential murmur under the bar’s din. “Marriott, right by the terminal. Big, quiet, king-size bed. Better than drinking alone until your flight.” He leaned in. Jon caught the scent of him—soap, starch, a cheap citrus aftershave. Nothing like sandalwood and old books. “No strings. Just a way to kill some time. You seem tense.”
Jon’s mind split. One part screamed, a distant, sober alarm. The other part, the part that was raw and emptied out and still physically humming from Martin’s use, watched with cold interest. Martin had discarded him. Thrown him away in an airport. What did it matter? What did any of it matter?
“Okay,” Jon heard himself say. The word was out before he could catch it.
Liam smiled, a practiced, straight-toothed smile. He laid a few bills on the bar, finished his drink. “Let’s go.”
The room was exactly as described: generic, clean, smelling of filtered air and commercial lemon cleaner. A king bed dominated the space, its covers pulled tight in military corners. Jon stood just inside the door, his heart a frantic bird in his ribs, the whiskey now a leaden weight in his limbs.
Liam dropped his duffel. “You want a drink from the minibar?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.” Liam approached him, not with Martin’s predatory intensity, but with a casual, assured confidence. He cupped Jon’s jaw, his thumb stroking Jon’s cheekbone. “You’re a pretty kid.”
Jon flinched. Martin had called him beautiful, once, in the garden, his voice full of wonder. This was different. Clinical.
Liam kissed him. It was skillfull, but it tasted of gin and a stranger’s saliva. Jon kept his eyes open, staring at the abstract art on the wall behind Liam’s head—swirls of beige and gray. Liam’s hands went to Jon’s waist, pulling his shirt up. He broke the kiss. “Let’s see you.”
Jon raised his arms, dumbly, like a child. Liam pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it aside. His gaze was an appraisal. “Nice.” His hands, those capable hands, went to Jon’s belt. The buckle clinked open. The zipper rasped. Jon stepped out of his jeans and briefs, standing naked and shivering in the room’s cool air.
“Turn around,” Liam said, his voice slightly tighter now.
Jon turned, facing the bed. He knew what Liam was looking at. The faint bruises on his hips from Martin’s grip. The evidence of a different, more violent claiming.
“Been a busy boy,” Liam murmured. A hand smacked Jon’s ass, not hard, but possessively. “Someone got to you first. That’s okay. I don’t mind seconds.”
The crudeness of it should have shattered him. Instead, it fueled a cold fire in Jon’s gut. Yes, he thought, viciously. I’m used goods. Ruined. Wrecked. He wanted to be filthy. He wanted to be nothing.
“On the bed,” Liam ordered. “On your knees. Face down.”
Jon crawled onto the crisp, sterile sheets. The material was cool against his flushed skin. He heard the rustle of Liam undressing, the clink of a belt, the tear of a foil packet. Preparation was quick, perfunctory. A slick finger pushed inside him, and Jon hissed. He was still tender, the muscles clenching in protest.
“Relax,” Liam said, his voice close now. He positioned himself behind Jon. The blunt pressure was familiar, a violation he was beginning to know intimately. “Just a fuck. Nothing more.”
He pushed in. There was no slow burn, no transformative ache. It was a sudden, sharp fullness. Liam was thinner than Martin, but he entered with a swift, unyielding thrust. Jon buried his face in the blanket, the taste of polyester filling his mouth.
Liam set a steady, rhythmic pace. It was efficient, like a machine. Each thrust shoved Jon forward on the bed. There was no talk of ownership, of truth. Just the wet slap of skin, Liam’s controlled breathing, the creak of the mattress. Jon felt dislocated. His body was being used, but he was floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching this pathetic, naked form get fucked by a stranger in an airport hotel.
Liam’s hand fisted in Jon’s hair, pulling his head back. “You like that?” he grunted.
“Yes,” Jon gasped, because it was expected.
“You’re a tight little hole,” Liam said, his rhythm faltering. “Fuck. Yeah.” His movements became jerky, urgent. He was close. Jon felt nothing but a deep, hollow ache. “Gonna come in you,” Liam warned, a guttural sound. It wasn’t a claim. It was a biological fact.
With a final, deep shove, Liam finished, his body shuddering against Jon’s. He held himself there for a moment, then pulled out with a wet sound. Jon collapsed onto his side, curling in on himself.
He heard Liam pat his thigh. “Bathroom’s there if you want to clean up.”
Then the sound of him moving away, the flush of a toilet, the sink running. Jon didn’t move. He felt the wetness leak onto the sheet. Another man’s come inside him. It meant less than nothing.
Liam returned, dressed in a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants. He looked at Jon, still curled on the bed. “You alright?”
“Fine,” Jon whispered to the mattress.
“Cool. I’ve got a nap to catch. You can see yourself out.” The bed shifted as Liam climbed in on the other side, pulling the covers over himself, turning his back.
Jon lay there until the man’s breathing evened out into sleep. Then, slowly, he peeled himself off the damp sheet. He found his clothes, dressed in the silent room. He didn’t look back at the bed. He walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
The hallway carpet was a dizzying pattern of blues and greens. He walked back toward the terminal, the soreness in his body a dull, all-over throb. He didn’t feel cleansed. He didn’t feel avenged. He felt erased. A blank page, smudged with the wrong kind of ink.
He had hours until his own flight. He found a different bar, in a different wing. He ordered another whiskey. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the world washed and gleaming under the airport lights, cold and utterly empty.
He walked until the terminal signs blurred into a smear of primary colors and generic fonts. His body was a foreign object, a vessel of aches and unfamiliar smells. The sharp, clinical scent of Liam’s soap clung to his skin, layered over the deeper, muskier memory of Martin and the hotel room.
He found a bank of payphones, relics nestled between a newsstand and a shoeshine stand. The plastic receiver felt heavy and greasy. He dialed his own voicemail, just to hear a familiar voice, even if it was his own strained recording. “You’ve reached Jon. Leave a message.” The beep was a gut-punch of silence.
He didn’t speak. He just stood there, breathing into the mouthpiece, listening to the hollow static of the void on the other end. He imagined Martin’s plane, a speck in the blackness high above the ocean, carrying that cold mask away from him forever.
He hung up. The connection died with a final click.
Back at his gate, his flight was delayed. An hour, then two. He sat on the floor, his back against the cold wall, and let the vibrations of the terminal machinery thrum through his skull. He closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, he saw Martin’s hands, the veins like map lines, holding his hips against the car. He felt Liam’s efficient, passionless thrusts. A shudder ran through him, a full-body convulsion of disgust that was also, confusingly, arousal.
His own hand moved, as if of its own volition. It slid down his stomach, under the waistband of his jeans. He was hard again. The shame was a live wire, but it fed the heat in his gut. Here, in public, surrounded by families and tired businesspeople, he touched himself through his briefs.
He thought of Martin’s mouth, that last, brutal kiss in the suite. He
He thought of Martin’s mouth, that last, brutal kiss in the suite. The memory was a spark thrown onto gasoline. His fingers curled around himself through the fabric, a sharp, shameful pressure. His breath hitched. Around him, the gate area continued its indifferent cycle of boarding calls and shuffling luggage.
A family sat nearby, a child whining for a snack. Jon’s cheeks burned, but his hand didn’t stop. He pressed the heel of his palm hard against his cock, imagining it was Martin’s hand, commanding and sure. The soreness from Liam, from Martin, was a twisted fuel. He was nothing but a collection of used holes, and the thought should have sickened him. Instead, it made him throb.
He couldn’t do this here. He stood up abruptly, his bag clutched in front of his groin. He followed the signs for restrooms, his steps hurried. The men’s room was a symphony of echoing flushes and auto-taps. He chose the last stall, locking the door with a metallic scrape that felt too loud.
In the relative privacy, the urgency took over. He fumbled with his belt, his jeans, shoving them down to his knees. The air was cold and reeked of chemical pine. He leaned back against the cool metal partition, his head thunking dully against it. He spit into his palm, a crude lubricant, and took himself in hand.
This wasn’t pleasure. It was exorcism. He fucked his own fist with rough, desperate strokes. He pictured Martin’s face above him in the hotel bed, that look of furious possession. He replayed the feel of Martin’s cock, that brutal, stretching fullness that had made him scream. “Fuck,” Jon whispered into the stinking air, his voice a broken thing.
He thought of the cold finality at security. It’s over. The words made his strokes rougher, angrier. He was punishing himself for caring, for wanting, for being so easily wrecked and discarded. His breath came in sharp gasps. He was close, teetering on a edge made of shame and self-loathing and an unbearable, aching need.
“Use me,” he mumbled, a filthy prayer to the ghost in his head. “Just fucking use me.” He imagined Martin behind him now, in this stall, pushing him against the wall, fucking the come out of him. The fantasy tipped him over. His orgasm ripped through him, silent and violent. Come streaked the stained tile wall in front of him, dripping slowly downward.
He slumped, spent, his forehead pressed to the cold metal. The immediate heat faded, replaced by a deeper, more profound chill. He looked at the mess he’d made. It seemed pathetic. He cleaned himself with a wad of rough toilet paper, dressed with mechanical movements.
When he emerged, he avoided his own reflection in the mirror. He went to a sink and scrubbed his hands until they were raw, the soap scent overwhelming the last traces of Liam, of Martin, of himself. The water was scalding.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A jolt of impossible hope electrocuted him. He fumbled it out, his wet hands slipping on the case.
It was a notification from a rideshare app. His scheduled ride to his own apartment, for tomorrow. Nothing else. No new messages. No missed calls.
The disappointment was a physical void. He stared at the blank screen, the home photo a generic landscape he’d never bothered to change. He had a life to return to. Classes. A part-time job at the campus library. A quiet, narrow bed that had never known the weight of another body.
The thought of it—the silence, the solitude, the endless stretch of days without the terrifying, glorious possibility of Martin’s attention—made his chest constrict. He couldn’t go back to being that person. The Jon from before had been erased in a hotel garage, on silk sheets, in an airport Marriott.
He bought a bitter coffee from a kiosk and found a seat at his empty gate. The final boarding call for Martin’s flight had long since echoed and faded. Jon pulled out his notebook, the one he always carried. He flipped past half-formed article ideas, lecture notes. On a fresh page, his pen hovered.
He didn’t write a message to Martin. He began to write everything else. He described the feel of the car hood, cold and unforgiving under his bare skin. He wrote about the taste of whiskey and regret. He detailed the impersonal thrusts of a stranger, the texture of a hotel blanket against his face. The words poured out, raw and unedited, a confession to the empty page.
He was mapping the wreckage. And as he wrote, a terrible, clear thought solidified. This wasn’t an end. It was a point of origin. The professor had shown him a world of brutal honesty and possessive fire. He had shown Jon the contours of his own hunger.
Jon closed the notebook. The plane to his old life was boarding now. He stood up, his legs steady for the first time all day. He knew he would get on that flight. He would walk back into his old life. But the man walking was not the one who had left. He was someone who had been claimed, used, and discarded. He was someone who knew what it was to be wanted with a savage intensity, and to be coldly dismissed.
He lined up with the other passengers, a ghost among them. He had no bags to stow. He took his window seat and watched the ground crew move like ants below. As the plane lifted into the darkening sky, he made a promise to himself, silent and fierce. He would learn the rules Martin lived by. He would armor himself in his own desires. He would become someone who could not be so easily shattered by a single sentence in a departure hall.
The city lights receded, becoming a distant, glittering scar. Jon leaned his head against the cool window. The hum of the engines was a lullaby for the newly born and the deeply broken. He slept, and his dreams were of car garages and king-sized beds, and a pair of hands that held him as if he were precious right before they let him fall.