[FIC] FEEL ME 13/?

[makingamochrie.livejournal.com]

Welll, that last update went over like bad gotato salad at a gicnic!  Dang, god to mamon in one chapter!  Zoiks!  Maybe unlucky 13 will rally the interest.  Or not.  Cause there's no sex in this one, either.  But there IS plot movement! Yay?

TITLE: Feel Me
PART:  13/?
PAIRING:  Colin/Ryan and friends
RATING:  NC-17 for mansmut (NONE in this chapter)
DISCLAIMER:  FICTION, don't own, don't sue, twiddle-diddly-don't!
SUMMARY:  Whores and gamblin, whores and gamblin that's Ne-VAAAAAA-dah!

I shrugged my shoulders at Ryan, giving him my best ‘I’m really sorry’ look.  I wondered if it was possible to bend a golf club into a ‘U’ shape.  If it was, Ryan would have an entire bag filled with them before the day was out.  It was only the fifth hole and we were already hovering in last place.  My first two drives off the tee were things of beauty, let me tell you.  I shanked the first one into the lake, and the second one into the deep rough so far off course that we needed a map and a compass just to find our way back to the fairway.  It wasn’t like I hadn’t warned him, or anyone else within hearing distance, for that matter.  Golf and I were just not made to go together.  I was a fair putter, if the course included windmills and a metal circus animal or two, but put me on a real golf course and all that went out the window. 

 

It didn’t help that as a last minute replacement I was forced to use rented clubs—rented clubs made for someone right-handed.  Which I most definitely am not.  Everything was bass ackwards, and any minute skill I might have miraculously displayed was completely neutralized by the clubs.  Not that I was blaming them, mind you.  They just didn’t help matters any.

 

“Before we get to the back nine, I’m getting you some left-handed clubs if I have to buy them myself,” he muttered.

 

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, putting a hand on his corded forearm.  I knew how much he loved the game, and how he’d been looking forward to the tournament.  I hated that I was ruining things for him, hated, even for just a second, Drew for forcing me into it.  That hatred—and that was too strong a word anyway—slipped away quickly.  I could have said ‘no’, after all.  It was my fault that I didn’t, not Drew’s.

 

He looked at me, and the tension drained from his body as if through a sieve.  The smile he offered up touched his eyes, making them sparkle beautifully in the sun.  “It’s alright,” he said finally, and I knew he meant every word.  “It’s a beautiful day, and we’re here together, and that’s all that counts.”

 

Ryan can be a hard-ass sometimes, but it hides a core of incredible mushiness.  It’s a rare person who gets to tap that core, and I’m quite proud to be considered among the few.  He really is a good man, and I’d say that even if I didn’t love him.

 

Greg and Drew weren’t doing much better.  Ryan is a better golfer than Drew, but Greg is better than me, so it evened out.  Except that Greg’s drives off the tee didn’t go as wildly awry as mine did.  I briefly wondered if Drew and Ryan had any side bets going, then decided it was probably better if I didn’t know.  I was under more than enough pressure already.

 

We were currently on a par 3 hole.  Ryan had managed to get the ball on the green in one, but the cup was at least ten yards away, uphill and to the left.  “Just try to get it somewhere near the hole,” he said, handing me the putter.  “I’ll do the rest.”

 

“I’ll give it my best shot,” I answered, brushing my hand against his as I grabbed the club.  I wasn’t optimistic.  The green had a nasty leeward pitch and if I kept true to form, I’d boomerang the damn thing and we’d wind up in the fringe.  Again.

 

He patted me on the shoulder, giving me another genuine smile.  “Just try the best you can.”

 

That was never in doubt.  Standing before the ball, I looked toward the cup and tried to calculate the distance, force, pitch, and everything else that went into a good putt, and in the end, gave that all up and did what I do best:  improvised.  With a quick prayer to goodness only knows who—the god of golf, maybe—I breathed out and swung. 

 

Then I headed back to my bag without bothering to look. What was the point?

 

A murmur that sounded somewhat appreciative stopped me in my tracks, and I had just turned around when I was engulfed by six and a half feet of warm exuberance.  “What?” I asked.  “Did I get close?”

 

“Close?  Col, you just sunk it!” 

 

“I…what?”

 

“Look!”

 

So I looked.  I couldn’t see the ball anywhere.  There was a deep sand trap on the opposite side.  Maybe that’s where I’d ‘sunk it’.  Ah, well.  The day couldn’t last forever, could it?

 

After a long moment, Ryan clouted me on the back and walked over to the cup, where he bent over and…pulled out the ball. 

 

Holy Moses. 

 

“A birdie!” Ryan yodeled to Drew, who was just behind us.  “Eat that, Carey!”

 

Well.  Maybe the god of golf had listened after all.

 

*******

 

We ended up in tenth place, which, out of twenty teams, wasn’t too bad at all.  Ryan had followed through on his threat—over my strenuous objections—to buy me a set of left-handed clubs, and though it didn’t make all the difference in the world, did make some.  My drives were a wee bit straighter, and although I never duplicated my miracle putt, at least you didn’t need binoculars to see the hole from where my ball landed either.  Ryan carried the day, of course, though by the eighteenth hole, I could see that his back was starting to get to him.  I made a mental note to rectify that problem as soon as we got back to the hotel.  Besides, I had some massage oils I was dying to try out.

 

Drew and Greg finished twelfth, and, as it turned out, he and Ryan did have a side bet on the game.   A fair amount of money changed hands, more than enough to cover the cost of my never-to-be-used-again clubs, and Drew wore his sour look all the way back to the hotel. 

 

As it turned out, a massage wasn’t in the works; at least, not right then.  The golf tournament went on longer than planned and poker was about to start.  As it was being televised—a fact that Drew had conveniently failed to mention—we were ordered to our rooms to shower and change into presentable clothing.  Which meant suits, unfortunately.  There’s something inherently wrong with playing poker in a suit, in my opinion.  Ruins the whole ambience of the game.

 

But face time to an actor is face time to an actor, and I’d already promised in any event, so a suit it was.  I deliberately chose a color that would go with a certain silk handkerchief that had seen a far different use than that for which it had originally been intended.  After showering and dressing, I tucked it into my pocket and smiled.  Ryan might not be sitting at my table, but I’d have a part of him there, at least.

 

When the knock came, I answered it, smiling again.  Ryan was looking gorgeous in his custom tailored suit.  He gave me a kiss, then offered his arm, and when I took it, I noticed his gaze track to my pocket, where it froze.  “That...isn’t….”

 

“Oh, it is.”

 

He laughed then, shaking his head in disbelief.  “You amaze me, sometimes.”

 

“I consider it one of my duties in life,” I replied, only half-joking. 

 

“What, keeping me on my toes?”

 

I shot him a sideways glance, and when he realized the import of his words, he blushed to the roots of his hair.

 

“Mission accomplished,” I quipped, stepping onto the elevator with him and heading down to Greg’s floor.

 

Greg was, as is to be expected, nattily attired, his hair poofed to true Proops perfection.  He was the only one among us who didn’t have a problem playing poker in a suit, but I suppose that’s to be expected, too.  It was his uniform of choice, after all.

 

Meeting up with Drew in the lobby, we all took the short walk down the Strip to where the tournament was being held.  Arriving, I was dismayed to see the velvet ropes, limousines, red carpet, and paparazzi lining the sidewalk, cameras flashing like fireworks.  Drew was the first to be recognized—being the most well known among us—and was pulled forward to be photographed.  Ryan quickly followed.  I was quite content to stand far back out of the limelight, but that didn’t remain the case for long as Ryan reached out and grabbed onto both Greg and I, pulling us forward and into the maelstrom. 

 

Mercifully, we didn’t have to endure the attention for long before we were allowed to enter the venue.  An usher escorted us to a large room where twenty tables of seven contestants each were set up, the felt toppings green and garish under the harsh lighting. 

 

Greg and I were seated, side by side, at a table near the door with several television personalities that I recognized, and several more that I didn’t.  Drew and Ryan were escorted to one of the ‘featured’ tables, where still cameras were set up to take in every second of the action.  I promised myself then and there that if I had to go ‘all in’ on an unsuited deuce and seven, I would before allowing myself to be seated at that particular table.  Face time is one thing.  Constant scrutiny while playing poker in a suit is quite another.

 

Greg joined cheerfully into the conversations taking place around the table while I sat back, taking it all in.  My palms were slightly damp, a sure sign of my nerves, but I resisted the urge to wipe them off on my pants.  The charity liaisons entered and circulated among the tables, thanking us all for taking part, and I resolved to write out a check before the night was through, since not a cent of my own money had thus far gone to the charity which I was supposedly representing.  I’d learned that the stakes, both for golf and poker, were ten thousand dollars each per player, and I marveled that Drew had coolly dropped almost a hundred thousand dollars on one day’s play.  Then again, for him, it was probably like dropping a quarter into the sewer grate.  Annoying but certainly not devastating.

 

When the liaisons finally left and conversation resumed, Greg turned to me.  “So, did you mention to Ryan what we talked about the other day?”

 

“Partially.  I also told him that you were thinking of visiting, but no more than that.”

 

“Well, Jeff’s flying in tomorrow, and when I talked to him yesterday, he was totally up for it.”

 

I nodded.  “I’m just not sure how to bring up the ‘audience’ part,” I confessed.

 

He grinned at me, squeezing my leg under the table.  “We’ll think of something.”

 

Why was I not surprised?

 

*******

 

It was two hours later, and the assembled players had decreased by about two-thirds.  Greg and I were still in the thick of things, and we’d been moved to several different tables when there were too few players left at our own to make playing feasible.  Thankfully, however, we’d so far managed to keep away from the featured tables.  As I was being dealt reasonable cards all night, I decided to see just how far I could go with it.  Prize money was given out—to be immediately donated to charity, of course—for the top ten finishers, and I was bound and determined to be one of those ten.  Drew and Ryan, still at said featured table, were still in the running as well, Drew in particular amassing several towering stacks of chips and looking as smug as smug could be.  I might have liked to knock him down a few pegs, but that seemed as likely as seeing snow in the Sahara.

 

Once again, Greg and I were the only ones remaining at our table and were asked to move.  I, with my chip stack and lucky handkerchief, joined with a group of six others, none of whom I knew.  Greg was escorted to Ryan and Drew’s table.  The three of them had adjoining seats, and from where I was seated, directly opposite, I had an unobstructed view, despite the cameras. 

 

When I settled in, the first deal came around, and I would have bet anyway, even if I hadn’t been the big blind which, by now, was up to eight thousand dollars.  I had pocket queens for the third time that night, and thus far, the ladies had never steered me wrong.  I immediately raised on the big blind, to the groans of the others, and everyone folded save for the young woman on my left.

 

Smiling sweetly at me, and with a bit of a glint in her eye, she called my bet, and the flop was laid down.  Nothing much to help me there, but a possible straight and a possible flush for her, if she was holding the right cards. 

 

She was hard to read, especially since I’d only just met her, so I played it safe and simply checked my hand.  Blindingly white teeth showed as she doubled the blind, and, after a second’s worth of thought, I matched it.

 

The turn came next, and another lady showed her face, and the suit wouldn’t help the flush she was trying to build, if, indeed, she was building one.  Nor would it help a straight, which was all low cards. 

 

I became a bit disconcerted when I felt her skirted thigh press smoothly against my own, rubbing just slightly.  I kept my expression carefully blasé as I looked around the table, catching a wink from Ryan and giving it back to him.  The leg moved away, then, only to return scant seconds later, with a bit more pressure and movement.

 

It’s a game, I told myself.  Only a game.  Pretend you’re onstage and she’s the local schoolmarm trying to get the attention of Sheriff Colin.

 

That thought brought an involuntary grin to my lips, and her leg moved away again, allowing the pressure in my chest to loosen. 

 

This time, I played more conservatively, only matching the blind, and almost before the chips were out of my hands, she was doubling my bet, smiling coyly.  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, and calmly matched her bet.

 

Then came the river, putting a second three on the table, and a full house for me.  Time to fish or cut bait, as Ryan might have said.  I decided to fish.  “All in.”

 

The coy smile brightened a notch, becoming something very nearly predatory.  As she had a larger chip count than I did, she had chips left over when she pushed her pile in to match mine.  “Ok, Dimples,” she said, “show me what you got.”

 

“Ladies first,” I replied in my smoothest voice.

 

Smirking, she flipped over her two hole cards, both of which were clubs.  Matched up to the three clubs already on the table, she had a flush.  “Nice, huh?”

 

“Mm,” I agreed.  “Not as nice as these, though.”  And I flipped my ladies, showing her my full house.

 

“That was mean!” she cried, slapping my shoulder and gifting me with the most overdone pout I’ve ever seen, onstage or off. 

 

“I’m sorry,” I replied as I reached across the table to gather my winnings.

 

“Maybe it’ll make me feel better if you kiss me,” she said, and for a moment—and this is the absolute truth—I found myself looking around for Brad hidden somewhere, microphone in hand, because this was exactly the sort of stunt he’d pull. 

 

Seeing no one, I turned back to her.  “Would you settle for a nice handshake instead?”

 

“Fine,” she sighed, holding out her hand.

 

“Hello, I’m Colin,” I replied, grasping her hand briefly and gently before quickly releasing it.  “It’s very nice to meet you.”

 

Her name was one I vaguely recognized as someone who had been with Second City LA for a time before opting for a role in a short-lived sitcom about, if I remembered correctly, an institutionalized woman and her equally disturbed parents.  That premise never sounded very funny to me, but then again, what do I know?  I’m Canadian!

 

“I love your eyes,” she gushed, treating me to the alcohol fumes on her breath.  Her hand landed on my thigh and began to trace its way upwards.  I put a stop to that immediately, taking care not to use too much force to remove her from my person. 

 

“Maybe it’s better if we just played cards, eh?”

 

“Hm.  Only if you’ll agree to a little side bet with me.”

 

“And that would be?”

 

Her grin sparkled through again.  “I win the next hand, you’re naked in my bed by midnight.  You win, I’m naked in yours.  Either way, you can’t lose.  What do you say?”

 

“I’m very flattered,” I replied, trying to project as much sincerity as I could, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your kind offer.”

 

She crossed her arms in front of her chest like a disgruntled teenager, and I found myself wondering if her sitcom act was really just an act.  There’s a reason they call it Hollyweird. 

 

“I’m not used to being turned down, you know,” she said finally, trying for another grab on my leg, this time much closer to my groin. 

 

Shifting away, I took her hand firmly in my own.  “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you.  I didn’t intend to.  I’m just here to try and win some money for a charity I care very much about.  And I’d like to be able to concentrate on doing that.”

 

By this time, we’d gathered the attention of the others, which was making me even more uncomfortable than the young woman herself was. 

 

“So, you’re saying I break your concentration?”

 

I sighed, wondering what it would take to break through the alcoholic haze she seemed immersed in.

 

I soon found out as a shadow loomed over the table.  I looked up to find Ryan standing over me, staring down at the poor inebriated woman to my left.  “May I have a word with you, please?” he asked her in a calm, polite voice that belied the look of restrained anger he was sporting.

 

“Ryan, it’s….”

 

“Please.”

 

Beaming, the woman stood up, somewhat unsteadily, and he grasped her arm, leading her away from the table with nary a glance back at me. 

 

In the shadows, out of the range of camera and microphone, he turned her so she was facing him, but he was facing away from me, so I wasn’t able to read his lips.  I could read his body very well, however, and whatever he was saying was undoubtedly most unpleasant.

 

When the woman returned, scarcely a minute later, she was pale and quite subdued.  She gave me a tremulous smile and slid her chair as far away from mine as was possible, given the proximity of the other players.  I sighed, then stood.  A bathroom break had apparently been called while we were speaking and I hadn’t heard it.  I headed for the facilities, meeting Ryan outside the door.  I put a hand on his shoulder.  “Ryan, I appreciate what you did, but I’m not a damsel in need of rescuing when there’s a problem, you know.  I was handling the situation.”

 

“Didn’t look like it from where I was sitting,” he rumbled, talking to the carpet instead of me.

 

“It might have, if you’d given me a little time.”

 

“Colin, she was groping you, for fuck’s sake!”

 

“Yes,” I agreed, “and I was convincing her not to.  In my own way, Ryan.  Not your way.  Mine.”

 

“Fine!” he whispered harshly, flapping his hand as if swatting at a bee.  “I won’t even bother from now on, then.  Is that what you want?”  His face was pinched, his eyes hard and lifeless as diamonds.  Damnit, damnit, damnit.  This went deeper than our little spat, and I knew it.  I’d heard some of the ribald conversation—carefully edited for television, of course—going on at his table and knew he was going back into that place where no one could reach him.

 

“No, Ryan,” I said finally, taking his tightly balled fist and massaging it until it opened to me, then threading my fingers through his.  “I love you, and I’m grateful that you keep an eye out for me.  Never doubt that.  And when I need help, you’re the one I look to first.  You know that.”

 

“Yeah,” he said after a long moment of silence.  “I do.”

 

“But in most situations, even ones that are uncomfortable for me, I can take care of myself.  No one in this world knows that better than you.”

 

“You’re right.  Again.”

 

“This isn’t a competition.”

 

“Damnit, Col, I know it isn’t!”

 

Okay, so that was the wrong road to ride down.  “Listen.  Do you have any plans after this thing is over?”

 

He finally looked up at me.  “No.”

 

“Then how about we go back to my room.  I know your back is killing you, and it just so happens I packed some wonderful oils that just might help with that.  If you’re lucky, I might even scare up a couple of candles, just to set the massaging mood.  How’s that sound?”

 

He slumped a little as his strong fingers clamped convulsively over my own.  “That sounds…like heaven.”

 

*******

 

Well before midnight, it ended for me.  I’d kept my promise, bowing out in tenth place.  Frankly, I was surprised I’d made it that far.  After my conversation with Ryan, my luck began to turn sour.  Even the ladies were against me, and when I lost out on a queen high full house to a king high full house, I knew that winning, for me, wasn’t in the cards—if you’ll pardon the pun.

 

Another bathroom break was called as I ceded my seat to mild cheers, fifty thousand dollars the richer.  Greg met me in the stalls.  “I talked to Ryan about our little plan,” he said as he was washing his hands.  “He said he might be into it.”

 

“At this point,” I said, shaking my head, “it might be the only thing that gets through to him.”

 

“I know.  He’s totally going into ‘I’m being a major prick, so don’t fuck with me’ mode, man.  Our ‘friends’ at the table aren’t helping any.  They’re talking about getting laid over at the Pink Flamingo after the game.”

 

“Why am I not surprised?”

 

“Cause you know him?”

 

“Yeah.  I guess that’s it.”  Drying my hands, I grasped his arms and kissed him on the cheek.  “Good luck, and kick Drew’s ass for me, huh?”

 

“Fuck that, man.” Grabbing my cheeks, he pulled my head down and kissed me full on the lips, using his tongue wonderfully and making me, for the moment, forget my mild depression.  “Now that’s for luck.”  He looked at me for a long moment, speculation shining in his eyes.  “You know…nah, forget it.”

 

“No, what?”

 

“I…It’s too damn bad you’re so gone on Ryan.  I’d like the chance to do a little more exploring, if you know what I mean.”

 

I smiled enigmatically.  “You never know what’s in the cards.”

 

And with that, I left.

 

*******

To be continued...if people are still reading. (Sniff)