Chapter Text
LUTHORCORP CEO ACCUSED OF MURDER
By Perry White
LuthorCorp CEO Alexander “Lex” Luthor (26) has been arrested on suspicion of murder.
The victim, Metropolis opera singer Marcello Anderesano (24) was found in Luthor’s private suite at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, Metropolis, on Tuesday morning at 9.17am. Anderesano, who had sustained multiple stab wounds, was pronounced dead at the scene.
The death occurred just hours after the singer’s debut performance in La Traviata at the Metropolis Opera House, which Luthor attended as a sponsor.
Lex is not the first member of the Luthor family to be accused of murder. His father, LuthorCorp founder and former CEO, Lionel Luthor, was sentenced to life imprisonment for killing his parents, Lachlan (57) and Eliza Luthor (52), earlier this year.
The arrest is one of many other public controversies that surround the Luthor family, including Lex's two short-lived marriages to high school teacher Desiree Atkins (28) and physician Dr. Helen Bryce (32); the former was annulled after just three days.
A source close to the Luthors has also revealed that Lex underwent controversial experimental electroshock therapy during an involuntary inpatient stay at Belle Reve Sanitarium, Smallville, in 2003.
“Lex has a long history of psychiatric problems,” said our source, who asked not to be named. “It was only a matter of time before he snapped.”
Luthor’s representatives were not available for comment.
Lex had never really cared for the opera.
His disdain for it began in childhood, sitting ramrod straight at his father’s side in the Luthor family’s private box night after night, enduring one soaring aria after the next. He didn’t dare slouch or, God forbid, fidget; to do so would earn him a cold glare and an icy lecture about the history of opera on the way home.
His father called it art. Lex had called it torture (though not when Lionel was in earshot). As far as an eight-year-old Lex was concerned, it was just a lot of impenetrable wailing, one performance largely indistinguishable from another. Still, he’d learned to make a passable show of paying attention and, on the rare occasions his father asked him his opinion on the performance, to come up with some off-the-cuff comment on the themes or the quality of the performance. If he did a convincing enough job of it, he might be rewarded with a razor-thin smile of approval or, in rare cases, a squeeze of his bony shoulder.
In the years since, Lex’s tastes had matured, and he’d gained a little more appreciation for the opera, but he still found himself circling back to boredom more often than not. The show he’d just sat through, La Traviata, was overplayed. Lex had seen it four times before, and thought it had been done far better on previous occasions. The soprano struggled—she had a clear, beautiful tone, but had difficulty making herself heard over the music. The tenor playing Alberto was better, Lex thought, as he smiled blandly at some shareholder from a rival company and took a sip from his champagne flute. He had projected beautifully, every rich vowel and consonant sliding over Lex’s skin like a violin bow, sinking into his bones. Lex suppressed a shiver at the thought.
He wasn’t bad on the eyes, either, Lex thought, his mind wandering back to the velvet darkness of the stage. Dark-haired and pretty, a startling, classical beauty that perfectly complimented his voice. He’d been the only part of the performance worth watching, and still not enough to save the evening. Four hours of precious time had slid through Lex’s fingers, each one a long, lingering note drawn out longer than necessary, leaving him with nothing to show for it.
He'd hoped to forge some alliances tonight. In the corporate world, networking was a necessary evil, and Lex was still playing catch-up. While he’d been holed up in his mansion in Smallville with his shirtsleeves rolled up, banging furiously away at his laptop in his efforts to establish LexCorp as something more than a spoiled trust fund baby’s vanity project, his father had been at luncheons and gentlemen’s clubs, whispering in important people’s ears.
Lex hadn’t realized his misstep until it was too late, and it had left him at a considerable disadvantage. Many of the businessmen and women who’d previously had strong relationships with LuthorCorp were being considerably less cooperative now Lex was at the helm. His father had had their friendship, their respect, or their fear; Lex had none of those things, and now he kept having doors closed in his face—some considerably harder than others.
He’d been working to earn their respect ever since he’d taken over LuthorCorp, carefully cultivating a new, more polished reputation, but Lex was coming to realize that it was going to take more than attending a few ballets and operas to convince Metropolis’s elite to see him as something other than the playboy who’d slept with their daughters.
Lex downed his champagne in a single grim swallow. It did nothing to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. He set the empty flute down on a nearby table.
He was weighing up whether it was worth attempting to insert himself into a conversation between two of his business rivals on the other side of the room—if only for the pleasure of ruffling a few feathers—when he felt a prickle on the back of his neck. Lex turned. There was a dark-haired man on the upstairs floor, leaning against the balustrade, watching him.
Lex’s heart did a little skip when he took in the familiar features: tousled dark hair and a full, exquisite mouth. Moments later, he realized his mistake when the stranger’s eyes met his—they were dark, almost black. Not his preferred colouring, but striking nevertheless.
His moment of recognition hadn’t been entirely misplaced, he realized. He’d seen the man before less than an hour prior, taking his bows on stage. In a strange reversal of their roles, Lex now found himself the one being watched.
Lex was used to being stared at. For the first few months after the meteor strike, his father had kept him hidden away in the mansion whilst the doctors and trichologists tried and failed to make Lex’s hair grow back, but once he’d finally accepted that it was a lost cause, Lionel changed tack and started parading Lex in front of the masses instead.
He’d never shown much interest in showing Lex off before, but suddenly there had been an endless number of galas, charity auctions, and film premieres for Lionel to drag him to, holding Lex by the shoulders in an iron grip in front of a wall of cameras until the flashes all but blinded him. The next day, his face would be all over the tabloids, red-eyed and cringing, the camera glare gleaming off his bald head. Lex hated every second of it. Hundreds of strangers staring at him, some fascinated, others pitying, their eyes burning his skin like hot wax, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.
He’d begged to be allowed to retreat back to the relative privacy of the mansion with his Warrior Angel comics, but his father refused.
“They’ll get used to you,” Lionel told him as they drove through town one afternoon. He had had the tinted glass windows of the limousine replaced with clear ones, eliminating any hopes Lex might have had of a brief reprieve from the stares that followed him everywhere he went. “If you hide yourself away, you only make yourself an object of intrigue. Hold your head high and let them look. They’ll soon lose interest.”
“I hate them,” Lex said. “I hate the way they look at me.”
“They’re going to look at you regardless,” Lionel said. “You’re a Luthor.”
“I’m a freak,” Lex spat.
“You’re right,” said Lionel. “Use it.” He clapped Lex on the shoulder, almost kindly. “You’ll come to understand,” he said, “that there is immense power in being noticed.”
In some ways, Lionel had been right. These days, Lex’s baldness barely warranted a mention in the media, except in catty tabloid headlines. The public was far more interested in his turbulent love life; his rocky relationship with his father; his successes and failures at LuthorCorp. Still, the stares had never really stopped. He would always be a freak, and there would always be people buying tickets to the show.
Lex had become far more adept at dealing with the unwanted attention over the years. He’d learned to perfectly imitate the cool, contemptuous look his father had so often levied at him from the far end of the dinner table and often utilized it to great effect. Usually, people turned away immediately, embarrassed to have been caught, but the stranger returned Lex’s sharp look with brazen, obvious interest. His lips curved into a small smirk.
Lex raised his eyebrows, interest piqued.
A waiter brushed by Lex, distracting him for a split second. When he looked back, the stranger had vanished into the crowd.
Lex followed. He paused at the top of the stairs and quickly spotted the tenor again, standing almost a full head above the rest of the crowd, but by the time Lex had manoeuvred his way through the knot of people milling idly around like a flock of birds, once again, the man had slipped away.
The thrill is in the chase, Lex thought, and pursued.
He finally caught up to the stranger at the bar, slouched on a stool and nursing a drink, his side profile as perfect as a carved statue. He still wore his tuxedo from the performance, but he’d abandoned his bowtie and rolled his sleeves up to reveal muscular forearms. A loose curl fell over his forehead. He didn’t look up when Lex slid onto the barstool beside him, but the little smirk was back.
“That was quite the performance.”
The man’s body angled slightly towards him. “You are too kind, Mr. Luthor.” He had a slight, lilting accent, and it lent his speech the same musical quality as his singing. Italian, Lex noted.
“You know who I am.” Lex wasn’t exactly surprised. Most people knew him by name, if not by sight.
“Of course. Your face is in the programme.”
He’d forgotten. LuthorCorp had recently made an extremely generous donation to the Metropolis Opera House in exchange for retaining the use of the private box his father had once frequented and a lion’s share of advertising space in the programme. It was one of the many philanthropic gestures Lex had made of late, none of which seemed to have drummed up the kind of goodwill he’d been hoping for. Still, Lex thought, as his eyes raked appreciatively up and down the other man’s body, perhaps the money hadn’t gone entirely to waste.
“It appears we have that in common,” he said.
“Amongst other things,” the stranger agreed. There was a wicked little gleam in his eye as he tossed back the rest of his drink. Lex’s attention lingered on his lips where they kissed the edge of the glass, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, and felt the first whisper of heat down his spine.
He raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”
The stranger shrugged artlessly. “Something tells me you and I share similar tastes. But perhaps I’m wrong.” He caught the bartender’s eye and raised his empty tumbler. “Another scotch, if you’d be so kind.”
“Make that two,” Lex said. “Put it on my tab.”
“That’s very generous.”
Lex shrugged it off. Ice clattered into two empty glasses, and the bartender splashed out a healthy measure into each one. The singer’s fingers brushed Lex’s slightly as he handed the glass to him. “Cheers,” he murmured.
Lex clinked his glass against the singer’s, never breaking eye contact. The singer took a sip. He closed his eyes and made a low, appreciative sound in the back of his throat. Lex felt the resonance of that powerful voice like a physical touch, the way the music used to feel at Club Zero, so loud it drowned everything else out, the heavy bass reverberating through his bones.
“Good?” Lex asked.
“Very.”
Lex brought the glass discreetly to his nose to inhale. The results were less than promising. His suspicions were confirmed when he tasted it: it was a good scotch, but not a great one. It lacked subtlety, the burn when he swallowed overpowering the flavours that came before.
His disapproval did not go unnoticed. “You disagree?” the singer asked.
“I’ve had better.”
“It’s three hundred dollars a bottle.”
Lex raised his eyebrows, as if to say, “So?”
The singer shook his head. “You’re a difficult man to please, Mr. Luthor.”
“It’s been said,” Lex agreed. “But I like to think I’m worth the effort.”
The singer looked amused. “Yes, I’m sure you do.” He raised his glass to wet his lips again. They glistened in the muted light from the chandeliers overhead. “Tell me, then. What does it take to satisfy a Luthor?”
Lex took another sip whilst he considered his answer. He eyed the other man speculatively as he did, taking him in: all lithe, lazy grace, toying idly with his tumbler as he waited for Lex’s response, index finger tracing unconsciously back and forth around the curve of the rim. His smile grew sultry, teeth sinking into his plush lower lip. He looked at Lex with the same hungry appreciation he’d shown for the scotch, like he was thinking of swallowing him whole.
Mind made up, Lex took one of his business cards and a pen out of the inside pocket of his tux and wrote down his hotel room number on the back. He blew gently on it to dry the ink and watched the stranger’s eyes darken in response.
Lex offered it to him, held elegantly between two fingers, like a lit cigarette.
“I’m staying at the Ritz-Carlton on Boulevard Drive,” he said. “Room 317. Come see me and find out.”
In the beat of silence that followed, Lex’s heart beat a little faster, his senses sharp and alive with the thrill of adrenaline as he waited to see whether his gamble would pay off.
The singer took the card, trailing his fingers deliberately over Lex’s knuckles in a slow, sensual touch that sent Lex’s nerve endings alight, a subtle tingle of anticipation. An answer in itself.
In an eyeblink, Lex’s card had vanished into the singer’s pocket. “I might just do that.” He finished his drink and got to his feet. “Goodnight, Mr. Luthor.”
Lex raised his own glass in acknowledgement. His eyes lingered appreciatively on the stranger’s ass in those tight black dress pants as he vanished into the sea of tuxedos and sequined dresses.
Lex drained the rest of his scotch and signalled to the bartender to fetch him another. A satisfied little smirk twisted his lips.
*
Back in his hotel room, Lex felt considerably less smug. He’d spent the past two hours alone with his laptop, making calls to pass the time as he nursed a cut crystal tumbler of the most obscenely expensive scotch the Ritz-Carlton had to offer—a decadent vintage older than his father. Cracking the seal had felt equal parts scandalous and satisfying, like clicking off the safety on a gun.
It hadn’t taken Lex long to start regretting his impulsivity. Then again, it rarely did.
He bit the inside of his cheek, struggling to keep his temper in check as the head of his research team blathered away on the other end of the phone, attempting to justify some delay with LuthorCorp’s most recent project. Lex had better things to do on a daily basis than show up at his facilities and breathe down his employees’ necks, yet it seemed like the only way anything would ever get done to his satisfaction.
“I’m not interested in excuses,” Lex snapped, cutting off the man’s rambling. “Just get it done.”
He snapped the phone shut, harder than he meant to, and exhaled sharply through his nose before taking another swallow. The flavour was sharp against his tongue—strong, but not overpowering, with a smoky finish. Perfection. Yet it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Rejection was an occupational hazard of casual sex, especially with men. It was hardly the first time a potential lover of Lex’s had got cold feet. Harmless flirting under the cover of plausible deniability was one thing, but consummating the attraction was another entirely; less than a year ago, in the state of Kansas, it would have been enough to get them arrested. To Lex, the risk was part of the appeal, a turn-on of its own, but he could understand why a stranger might feel differently. It would only take one well-placed reporter or paparazzo with a long-lens camera in hand for their indiscretions to end up on the front page of the Inquisitor.
It didn’t make the situation any less frustrating, especially when Lex still felt the ghost of the electricity between them when he closed his eyes, a promise unfulfilled. The familiar ache of desire without a conduit.
It was a disappointment, but life was full of those. Lex rose from his desk and wandered across to the glass wall of his hotel room to look out across the city. It was a stunning view. Metropolis was beautiful in the dark, in a distant, untouchable way, all glittering lights and gleaming skyscrapers.
He missed it when he was in Smallville. He’d learned to love the small town, especially in the summer months when the verges overflowed with wildflowers and the sunlight settled on everything as far as the eye could see, but he’d never got used to the loneliness of it, especially when darkness fell. He found the stillness unnerving; all those empty, rustling cornfields whispering in the dark, stretching out for miles.
Lex took another drink. He’d barely wet his lips when there was a knock on the door.
He went and put an eye to the peephole, half expecting to see room service with fresh towels. His stomach lurched pleasantly when he saw who was waiting out in the corridor. Lex allowed himself a quick, secret smile, which he quickly plastered over with a more neutral expression before he opened the door.
The singer leaned against the doorframe. His white dress shirt had come untucked from his pants, and his hair, which had been mostly well-tamed when they met at the bar, was distinctly mussed, like he’d been running his fingers through it. He had an almost sleepy air about him, like he’d just tumbled out of bed—but his dark, clever eyes told a different story, burning into Lex’s with captivating intensity.
“So,” he said. “About that drink.”
Lex stepped back from the door.
The stranger wasted no time investigating his surroundings, curious as a cat. Lex, who had returned to his desk to retrieve the scotch, watched out of the corner of his eye as the man examined the tasteful dark wood furnishings and the warm light spilling from the sconces on the panelled walls, a far cry from the usual sterility of hotel décor.
Soon, he too was drawn to the view outside the glass wall, letting out a low whistle as he looked out onto the city below. His reflection was translucent against the blackness.
“Nice place,” he commented.
Lex glanced up from where he’d been decanting the scotch into a second glass. He hadn’t noticed. He had several such rooms on permanent retainer in five-star hotels across the city, places he could entertain guests he didn’t want to take back to the penthouse. This one was much like the others.
“If you like that sort of thing,” he said neutrally.
“Who doesn’t?”
The singer came to join Lex at the dry bar. He was so close that Lex could feel the warmth of his body, the same electricity from the bar crackling between them, tension thick enough to cut.
“Speaking of…” he said. “What are we drinking?”
Lex held the crystal glass up to the light. The liquid had a faint, rich glow, like sunlight through amber, rich autumnal colours shifting in its depths.
“The Macallan, 1939. Bottled at a distillery founded by Alexander Reid in Craigellachie in the north-east of Scotland in 1824. It’s a single malt, sherry matured.” When the singer raised his eyebrows questioningly, Lex explained, “They leave it to rest for forty years in an oak cask, so it absorbs all the residual flavours from the sherry that’s soaked into the wood.”
It was a year with endless amounts of culture packed into it: the premiere of Gone With the Wind; the grand opening of the World Fair in New York; Sinatra’s recording debut. Lex liked to imagine the liquid resting in the dark, soaking up magic—history in a bottle.
“It sounds delicious,” the singer said.
Lex brought the glass to his nose, enjoying the scent: the notes of ginger and spice, with an unexpected sweetness. He took a sip, relishing the woodsy, citrus flavour that dissolved like smoke on his tongue, thumbed away the wetness from his lower lip.
The singer watched him, lips slightly parted. Lex felt the weight of his attention like a physical touch.
“Want a taste?” he offered.
“I’d love one.”
The singer took the glass from him, but didn’t drink. He set it down on the bar with a gentle clink before sliding his hand up Lex’s flank, thumb stroking idly over his ribs. His gaze was heavy on Lex’s wet mouth. He leaned in, closing the distance between them.
The first kiss was careful, gentle as breath, lasting mere moments before the singer pulled back to judge Lex’s reaction. Lex’s hand came to cradle his face, then his fingers slid back into dark curls and pulled him close for a deeper, more sensual kiss.
The singer broke away first, turning his attention to Lex’s throat, and Lex shivered and tilted his head to grant him easier access. Lips skimmed the sensitive hollow beneath his ear, then quick, achingly hot kisses raced down Lex’s neck, making his eyelids flutter and his breath quicken, until the singer’s progress was thwarted by the stiff collar of Lex’s white shirt.
“Take this off,” he murmured.
Lex’s fingers rushed down the buttons. As he undressed, the singer turned away to swipe the abandoned bottle from the bar. The white shirt hit the floor and the singer turned, taking in Lex’s body, and his smile grew wicked. He took a generous swig from the bottle, a little messy with it, a trickle running down his chin. Lex moved in to kiss it away, tracing the trickle back to the source with his tongue and turning it into another kiss, both of them laughing into each other’s mouths before the singer shoved Lex playfully back onto the bed and then crawled on top of him.
He immediately captured Lex’s mouth again, one hand braced by the side of Lex’s head, the other still gripping the bottle. He rolled his hips and Lex immediately arched into it, rutting against him, chasing the friction, rough and dirty and everything he’d been craving all night sat in that stuffy opera house box in his tuxedo, and in the hours after, flashing banal smiles at people he despised.
For a minute or so, they continued like that, bedsprings creaking, both of them panting, but neither of them were in the mood to draw things out. The singer broke first. He pulled away breathlessly and raised the bottle, holding it above Lex’s bare chest—slightly tilted, but not enough to spill.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The decanter tipped. Liquid splashed onto his skin, and Lex hissed at the cold, sharp shock of it, then again when he felt the other man’s mouth on him, tongue running up his ribcage to chase after the rivulets that ran down Lex’s skin; a sharp, sweet heat like a spark eating its way up a lit fuse—then his teeth scraped Lex’s skin: instant fireworks.
He responded by yanking on the singer’s hair, a little too rough, but the man didn’t seem to mind. Lex felt the singer’s sharp little grin against his skin, the ghost of a laugh; another quick kiss before he spilled more scotch onto Lex’s stomach. It pooled in his navel and trickled down his ribs, soaking into the sheets, as the man dived in again, losing his grip on the bottle. It rolled off the bed and shattered, but neither of them reacted, too caught up in the moment. The air was thick with the smell of citrus and sex, rich and heady, as the man sucked and licked him clean, working his way up Lex’s chest to return to his throat, where he latched onto Lex’s pulse point and sucked until Lex was panting.
His body said yes, more—but thoughts of less pleasant consequences popped into his head: long-lens paparazzi shots of his bruised throat; perceptive green eyes lingering on him, concerned at first, then disapproving; accusatory. Too many questions he didn’t want to answer.
Lex’s fist, which had been balled so tightly in the front of the stranger’s dress shirt that it threatened to tear, now flattened against his chest and pushed him firmly away. There was a wet pop as his mouth came away from Lex’s throat, followed by a dull, throbbing ache as blood rushed to the abused skin. Lex craved more, but he maintained control over himself with considerable effort.
“No marks,” he said breathlessly.
The singer accepted this without complaint, brushing his lips apologetically over the reddened flesh before he continued downwards, more carefully now, trailing lazy, open-mouthed kisses all the way down Lex’s stomach. He nuzzled at the tent where Lex’s cock strained obscenely against his tailored trousers. The heat of him mouthing wetly at Lex’s cock, even through several layers of material, made Lex shudder.
“Do you have a condom?” the singer murmured between kisses, his low, resonant voice sliding over Lex’s skin like music.
“Top drawer.”
While the singer slid gracefully off the bed to retrieve the condom, Lex stripped, quick and efficient. He was naked and ready by the time the man turned back around, sprawled out on the rumpled sheets, hand wrapped loosely around his cock, stroking himself lazily.
The singer joined him on the bed, mattress dipping under his weight. Lex released his grip on himself, allowing the other man to take over. He rolled the condom down Lex’s length in a smooth, practiced glide, and immediately followed after it with his mouth.
Lex cursed. He reached out to touch the singer's face, thumb petting over the hollow of his cheek, staring into lust-darkened eyes that had turned the impenetrable black of a Smallville night. That intense stare went heavy-lidded as the stranger moaned around Lex’s cock.
Lex closed his eyes, surrendering to it, his breath quickening when the singer’s attention shifted to his balls instead, sucking and teasing at sensitive skin; a pleased little hum when Lex fucked his fist, hips shifting unconsciously, chasing after his pleasure, heat tightening in his lower belly. His tongue pressed up against a spot that made Lex shake, made his whole body go taut, so close, so fucking close—and then the singer’s thumb teased at Lex’s frenulum and he came in hot, messy pulses, cock jerking hard in the stranger’s hand as he worked Lex through it in firm strokes, no escape from it or the relentless heat of his mouth.
Lex had to push him away when it got to be too much, and the singer seemed less than keen to go. He thumbed saliva away from the corner of his mouth with a sly little smile, and it sent another rush of desire through Lex, something dark and primal. He grabbed the front of the man’s crumpled shirt and pulled him close again, claiming his mouth in another rough kiss, licking the taste of scotch and his own skin out of the singer’s mouth. Beneath it, he tasted faintly synthetic, too, from the condom; it was cloying, almost medical. Lex didn’t care. He kissed and sucked and bit, wanting to ruin that mouth; his own lips tingled, numbed by the alcohol.
By the time they separated, they were both breathing hard again. The singer raised his eyebrows, triumphant at the reaction he’d wrought.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
“Not even close,” Lex told him, and he pushed the singer down onto the mattress and rolled on top of him.
*
Sleep had never come easily to Lex.
He was, as his father loved to remind him in a sorrowful tone, a difficult child. As a baby, so Lionel had always told it, Lex refused to settle, screaming relentlessly as his mother and the nanny passed him exhaustedly back and forth. He’d finally succumb to sleep after hours of rocking and soothing, only to wake up again as soon as they laid him down in his crib, blue eyes snapping open like one of those creepy blinking baby dolls.
He wasn’t much better as a toddler. He had hazy memories of groping his way down the hallway to his parents’ room and trying to climb into their bed, followed by his mother patiently leading him back to his bedroom and tucking him into the bed, turning on the nightlight that filled his room with stars. Lex also remembered, more distinctly, his father’s sharp tones summoning his mother back to the marital bed, irritated by the coddling.
Now, in adulthood, sleep continued to elude him, as he lay awake night after night obsessing over his father’s schemes, the ongoing developments at LuthorCorp… Clark, and his secrets, though lately he’d been trying his hardest not to think about the latter.
Fortunately, his body seemed to have acclimated to the lack of sleep over the years. Whether it was another aftereffect of the meteor shower or simply the product of his own iron will, he couldn’t be sure, but these days Lex functioned as well on four hours of sleep as most people did on eight. It was a gift, in a way. He did some of his best work in the loneliest hours of the night, with no company but the sickly glow of his laptop screen.
His insomniac tendencies usually made for an easy, painless exit the morning after, allowing him to slide out from between the sweaty sheets and steal out with the dawn, while last night’s lover was still asleep. But for some reason, that morning, the sun was high in the sky by the time Lex finally stirred.
He was lying facedown with the sheets rucked up around his waist, sunlight streaming in through the glass wall and soaking into his bare skin, almost uncomfortably hot against his naked back. Lex tried to lift his head, but it felt impossibly heavy and thick, like his skull was stuffed full of cotton.
He felt a vague sense of concern at this, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. His thoughts scattered when he reached for them, each one dissolving confusingly into the next. Lex tried to fight the exhaustion, but it felt like Atlas struggling to hold up the entire world. Meanwhile, the weight of sleep felt like a familiar hand on his back, rubbing comfortingly between his shoulder-blades. It was almost a relief to surrender to it and sink back into the mattress.
He slipped in and out of consciousness for what could have been hours or minutes, but after a while, he started to become aware of other, less pleasant sensations. His skin was tacky from the scotch, the sheets sticking unpleasantly to him, and the dried come splattered on his stomach and chest was starting to itch. Lex burrowed deeper into the pillow with a grumble. It wasn’t like him to fall asleep without washing away the evidence, and he didn’t like how it made him feel. He needed to shower. Maybe he’d even break the habit of a lifetime and see if the singer wanted to join him for round two…
He was still lost in such pleasant, half-awake thoughts when someone knocked on the hotel room door. Lex barely registered the gentle tap, but the electronic whir of the keycard and the clunk of the lock cut through his haze of sleep. He stirred, lifting his muzzy head halfway off the pillow as he squinted into the searing morning light—and immediately locked eyes with a dead man.
Lex swore and scrambled backwards, his heart hammering. The singer lay beside him in a pool of blood, the morgue-white bedsheets blotted with dark stains the colour of dried-up rose-petals. He stared emptily at the ceiling, mouth agape, eyes flat and dead as tarnished pennies, chest savagely torn open in half a dozen places.
There was a little whimper from the doorway. Lex turned sharply toward the maid who stood on the threshold, knuckles white on the handle of her cleaning cart. Her eyes were wide with horror.
Lex’s heart sank. He fumbled for an explanation, a bribe, something, anything—but it was too late. Before he had a chance to open his mouth, the woman started screaming, a harrowing sound that echoed off the blood-splattered hotel room walls like a cadenza.