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was going a bit crazy.  Twenty-four hours later and I hadn’t seen or heard from Abram.  I told myself that I was losing it because he had my keys and his guys claimed not to know where they were.  I couldn’t go home if I tried.  Not that I was really interested in trying.  I felt better than I had yesterday but stairs were still hard for me.  The skin on me knees was eager to heal but it broke every time I bent my legs.  My fourth-story walk-up seemed even less appealing than it was on any other day.
    So I stayed where I was.  By afternoon, I finally mustered up the courage to ask one of the guys what I was supposed to be doing.  “He said you would be resting today,” was the simple explanation.
    Right.  That rest thing .  It was what the nurse had also recommended but I was having trouble.  All day, my mind raced, giving me no break from the memories of my shower with Abram last night.  Looking back, I had no idea how it happened.  I could hardly believe that it did, hoping that as the day dragged on, I’d forget all the explicit details.  But they were emblazoned in my mind.  I could still hear his every last murmur, breath and groan.  I couldn’t run my fingers through my hair without craving Abram’s touch.  I spent hours reliving one moment.
    By evening, realizing I’d never done it, I grabbed my phone and Googled him.  Keywords: Abram Monarch Chelsea New York.   Every last thing I found, from big to small, lit my eyes with pure fascination.
    His full name was Abram Lenox.  He was the twenty-nine-year-old majority owner of the Monarch Hotel and a nightlife staple that the Post dubbed “King of Flings,” among other playboy nicknames.  The paparazzi desperately wanted him but could never seem to catch him.  Some women’s magazine echoed that sentiment. “Lick-able from head to toe, Abram Lenox can melt your panties with a single look.  But don’t count on that ever happening – this mysterious hardbody is as elusive as he is tall, dark and painfully sexy!”
    So he wasn’t quite a secret.  There were articles about everything from Abram Lenox’s model conquests to his cryptic history with the Air Force.  And I ate it all up.  I couldn’t stop.  I read about him for hours, searching everything from his pictures to the names of girls he’d allegedly been seen in public with.  I could’ve gone on forever but thankfully, exhaustion hit my body out of nowhere, knocking me out before midnight.
    But I awoke several hours later, to the sound of high-pitched giggling downstairs.  Two sets of voices.  Definitely female.
    Tip-toeing fast to the door, I cracked it open, peering down over the railing to see into the kitchen.  My heart skipped a beat at what I saw.  Leaning against the kitchen counter was Abram, muttering on the phone as two willowy girls pouted and appealed for his attention.  They had all the assets of swimsuit cover girls and judging from the way they moved, they were drunk.  Hammered.  Thanks to the articles, I guessed they’d all been at the club downstairs before coming up.  “ Perhaps Lenox owns the Monarch for easy access to a room – he does always need one after a night of watching models twerk for him in XIII’s VIP section .”
    This must’ve been one of those nights.
    Abram leaned against the kitchen counter and I felt my cheeks burn as one of the girls stripped her dress off for him, placing his hands on her body, wrapping his fingers around her breasts and making him squeeze.  She moaned when he pushed her to the kitchen counter, laying her back flat on its surface so he could better stare while fondling her, all the while snarling into the phone.
    “Sober up and go the fuck home, Nate.  I don’t need your bullshit tonight.”
    I should’ve guessed it was that stupid Nate on the phone.  Abram argued with him as the second girl stroked his cock over his pants.  But just as she started to unbutton them, he hung up with a frustrated