Author's Note: Hey, y'all. Normally, I'm a diehard Julie/Adam shipper, but I've been having this idea for an adult Julie/Portman fic that's just been gnawing away at me. So, if for no other reason than to get it out of my system, here it is! Enjoy, and please let me know what you think :)
-Matt
Disclaimer: I do not own the Mighty Ducks movie franchise or The Mirage in Las Vegas, and stand to make no profit from this story. But how awesome would any, or all of those things be?
1
Dean Portman awoke with a jolt.
Goddamn, it feels like the plane is humping the Rockies right now.
"Uh…ladies and gentlemen…this is uhhhh…your captain speaking. We're…uh….experiencing a bit of turbulence right now."
Well there goes my mountain-humping theory.
"Nothing to worry about," the pilot continued over the PA. "But…uhhhhh…please fasten your seatbelts."
This was a reminder that Portman needed to heed not only on airplanes, but in cars as well.
But it hasn't killed me yet.
Deciding that if he was about to die, he would prefer to die comfortably, Portman ignored the captain's warning and reclined in his leather business class seat, seatbelt unfastened.
"Excuse me, sir?"
"Yeah, doll?"
Portman felt a wave of crimson embarrassment wash over his stubbly face as he opened his eyes to discover that the 'stewardess' he had been expecting was in fact a male flight attendant afflicted with a reedy voice.
"Er, sorry about that, buddy. What can I do for you?"
"We're experiencing a little turbulence, and the captain wants you to fasten your seatbelt."
"Right, sorry."
Portman strapped the belt across his waist with his bright, professional smile that appeared genuine. He had lost count of how many people he had disarmed over the years with that smile.
"Not a problem, sir," the flight attendant returned the grin before moving on.
With the flight attendant gone, Portman released the buckle on his seatbelt, and nestled the side of his face into his chair.
Shoulda asked for a pillow while I had the guy. Ah well.
But he was used to sleeping in less-than-ideal conditions. Having grown up on Chicago's gritty South Side, Dean Portman had regularly gone to sleep against the sounds of trains, cars, loud voices, and even gunfire. He had come a long way in the years since, his education at Eden Hall Academy having provided him with the opportunity to live a better life.
And he took full advantage.
After redshirting his freshman year, he played defenseman at the University of Michigan, where he helped the Wolverines get to three consecutive Frozen Fours. His five years in Ann Arbor had been productive from an academic standpoint as well, graduating cum laude with a bachelor's in finance and an MBA.
Then came his ten – and counting – years at the Pyramid Consulting Firm.
Terrible, terrible name. We might as well call ourselves 'Ponzi and Associates.'
He had voiced his disapproval of the company name to his superiors on several occasions, and each time, they simply smiled and nodded. Consultants were too used to giving advice to ever take any themselves.
But even if Portman's bosses could not be bothered to take his naming advice, they respected his talent enough to pay him handsomely – handsomely enough to afford a Fifth Avenue apartment overlooking Central Park, a condo in Miami Beach, and a beautiful colonial for his mother in safe, middle class Glen Ellyn.
When word reached Portman's old South Side neighborhood that he had made it big, long-forgotten friends, vague acquaintances, and strangers claiming childhood friendship all came to him with outstretched palms. But with a businessman's ruthless efficiency, he managed to weed out the frauds and the opportunists from his legitimate friends before opening his wallet.
He only heard from these 'legitimate friends' on occasion, and always to ask for a loan that he knew would never be repaid.
Dean Portman had worked like a beaver to get out of that Chicago slum, and when he made it to the top, he learned firsthand just how lonely it was up there.
The plane rumbled ominously, but Portman fell sound asleep.
Ah, the Mirage.
Portman grinned softly as Steve Wynn's iconic Vegas hotel came into view. With its giant palm trees, crystal pools, and erupting volcano, the grounds of the luxury hotel looked like Maui planted in the desert. And Portman knew from experience that the interior was equally impressive.
But more than the furnishings, the décor, and the building materials, Dean Portman appreciated the buxom, leggy talent that colonized the hotel's well-stocked bar.
After parking his rental car and checking in at the front desk, a pair of bellhops came and took Portman's luggage up to his room ahead of him, while the high-priced consultant leisurely strolled the hallway that connected to the lobby before making his way to the elevator, where a young, uniformed Hispanic man greeted him with a polite tip of the cap.
"Good evening, sir. What floor?"
"The eighth."
"Very good."
The attendant closed the black grate, and pushed the button for the eighth floor. Despite the old-world appearance of the elevator, the bearings were obviously new. Portman didn't even feel that he had been moving when he heard a gentle ping and saw the attendant open the grate.
"Have a good night, sir."
"Oh, I'll be back – don't you worry," Portman grinned.
"I'm looking forward to it," the attendant grinned back.
Ah, faux affability. Much more reliable than the 'real' stuff.
Stepping off the elevator, Portman felt his feet sink into the plush, burgundy carpet of the hallway. Though he was still fit, he doubted that he was strong enough to push a full meal cart through that thick carpeting.
Maybe if I was still a Bash Brother though…
He smiled at the thought. Even at the age of thirty-three, Dean Portman's mythic strength as one of the Mighty Ducks' fearsome Bash Brothers continued to live on in his imagination. To the thirty-three year old, there were few feats of strength that were too much for his seventeen year old self.
I was a fuckin' beast back then. I never towed a yacht with only my breaststroke…but I could have.
Sometimes he wondered about his old Bash Brother, Fulton Reed. Over the years, Portman had made a few half-hearted efforts to look him up, but never tried too hard.
Probably just another 'friend' looking for a handout now, anyway.
After sliding his keycard, Portman entered his hotel room. He felt like he had entered the Palace of Versailles, with its ivory-colored upholstery, gold-plated furniture legs, and stunning oil paintings. The pair of bellhops that had greeted him in the lobby were now standing by the luggage that they had just brought up, professional grins firmly in place. It came as no surprise to Portman that they were speedy enough to bring the luggage up ahead of him, but not speedy enough to leave the room before they could get a tip.
"Thank you, gentlemen," he offered, handing a crisp 20-dollar bill to each of them.
The bellhops gave their thanks, then vanished like ghosts.
Portman slid out of his navy sport coat before tossing it lazily over the back of the settee.
Time to freshen up.
Although he was about to seek the company of working girls, he held firm to the belief that if women were expected to be beautiful, then men owed it to them to look their best in return.
He got out of his white dress shirt and tossed it to the floor before grabbing his shaving kit, then made his way to the bathroom in his slate-gray Dockers and brown loafers. In his spacious bathroom, he didn't even have to wait a full three seconds before the water in his sink turned hot.
He let the basin fill with hot water as he allowed his silvertip badger hair brush to soak.
Looking up at his reflection in the mirror, Portman grimaced slightly.
Skinny little puke.
His hair was still thick and uniformly brown, but he had always hated his curls – hiding them beneath bandanas during his Bash Brother days and keeping his hair short enough as an adult to prevent them from becoming too noticeable. Gray was beginning to appear in his dark stubble like grains of formica.
Or asbestos, he thought grimly.
He fished his brush out of the basin and gave it a good squeeze, followed by a few flicks to get most of the water out. Then, he put a dollop of sandalwood shaving cream onto his bristly cheek and got to work building a lather on his face. When he was done with that, he grabbed his double-edged safety razor and began to unmask himself – banishing the stubble and reclaiming his face for smooth skin.
His grooming conquest complete, Portman drained the basin and took a few seconds to appreciate the thick, mostly black stubble left behind as the soapy water disappeared down the plughole. Then, even the vanquished stubble had to go. Running the cold tap, he whipped the water around and cleared the basin, then splashed some of the cold water onto his face.
After putting on a fresh white dress shirt, he slid into his navy sport coat and made the walk back to the elevator.
Portman was greeted by the gentle melodies of Schubert as he sauntered into the hotel bar. In the far corner, a tuxedo-clad pianist had the baby grand purring like a kitten.
The room was quiet, but Portman was able to spot at least three women who looked like they were open for business.
Blonde, brunette, auburn. One of each flavor.
The Brunette One looked especially tempting. Smooth, olive skin; cascading chestnut hair; long, luscious legs; and a positively delectable pair of chest hams – all wrapped in a tight, black cocktail dress.
But looking over the Brunette One's blonde and auburn-haired competition, Portman figured he would readily agree to be the slave of any one of them for the night.
He took a seat at the bar.
"Glenfiddich, neat," he requested.
"Yes, sir."
With no one seated next to him, Portman decided to check baseball scores on his phone as he waited for his scotch. His Chicago White Sox had gotten destroyed by the Detroit Tigers earlier that day, and their hated North Side rivals were looking poised to finally break the old Billy Goat Curse.
Ah well. Only two months til hockey season, anyway.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" Asked an alluring feminine voice.
"Not at all. May I buy you a drink?"
Portman caught a breath in his throat as he turned to face his visitor. It was the Blonde One. Now standing directly over him, he recognized her. Or at least he thought he did.
"Julie?"
She flashed a perfect set of pearly whites as she nodded.
"Julie Gaffney?"
"Actually, it's Julie Mitchell."
"Oh, so you're married."
"Was married," she corrected him. "Just too lazy to change my name back. Also, 'Mitchell' is kinda my professional name now, so it would be difficult for me to go back to 'Gaffney'."
"Right," Portman nodded.
Her professional name. When did working girls start giving out their last names?
Reading Portman's thoughts, Julie glared at him.
"You think I'm a working girl, don't you?"
Portman snorted, his scotch rising painfully up his mouth and down his nose.
"No," he coughed. "Not at all. I kinda figured you were too old for that."
She clapped his arm with her handbag.
"Ass."
"Sorry."
"I forgot, Dean Portman: as smooth as 20-grit sandpaper."
He was about to reply "And just as readily available," but checked himself in the nick of time.
"Please, sit down," he said instead. "And let me buy you a drink to make up for my crassness."
"I didn't know that they served drinks by the barrel here."
Portman chuckled. Fifteen years removed from Eden Hall and Julie Gaffney…rather…Julie Mitchell was still the consummate ball-buster. It was just one of the many things that he had found so difficult to resist about her.
Looking over his companion as she took her seat next to him, Portman realized that the years had been awfully good to her. Julie's long hair was a lighter shade of blonde than it had been in high school, and her bright green eyes were a sexy contrast to her summer tan. The bronze glow of her skin was made all the richer by the little white dress that Portman knew would simultaneously torture and delight him.
"So what can I get you?" He asked.
"A Manhattan."
"A Manhattan for the lady, please," Portman called to the barman.
The barman nodded and got to work mixing the cocktail.
"So, Dean Richard Portman…"
"Please don't say my middle name."
"…what brings you to Sin City?"
"The annual PCF convention," he answered. "I'm actually delivering the keynote."
Julie nodded at that.
"You always could put on a good show."
"Thank you."
"Doesn't mean that you always did, but you always had the ability."
"Heh, thanks."
As Julie's Manhattan arrived, Portman raised his scotch.
"To your health."
"Cheers."
The pair of Eden Hall alumni each took a drink before setting their glasses down.
"PCF – what is that, anyway?"
"The Pyramid Consulting Firm."
"Terrible name," Julie winced. "It reeks of fraudulence."
"Heh, yeah," Portman agreed. "That's why I like to call it 'PCF' instead. So what about you, what are you doing in Vegas?"
"Talking to you."
"That you are," he nodded. "And my balls are still firmly in your vise."
At that, Dean Portman had earned his first 'Julie giggle' in fifteen years.
"Well at least they know their place."
"Are you staying at the Mirage?" He asked.
"Mmm-hmm," she replied, stroking the stem of her glass with her forefinger and thumb.
The suggestive gesture was impossible for him to miss. If he played his cards right, he could have her that very night.
"I guess I won't have to go far for entertainment, then."
"You're never far from entertainment in this town," she replied. "It all depends on what you're looking for."
"Then what are you looking for?"
She gave him a sly grin.
"You really wanna know?"
"I really wanna know."
As Julie leaned in closer to him, Portman could smell the mixture of rye whiskey and sweet vermouth on her breath.
Elegant and dangerous. Just like her.
It took every ounce of his self-control for Portman not to jump off the barstool as Julie's thick lips brushed the outer ridge of his ear before briefly locking onto and nibbling his earlobe.
He felt himself getting hard.
"I wanna see a dwarf get shot out of a cannon at a freak show," she told him at full volume, causing him to recoil.
So much for the sexy whisper.
Julie laughed out loud at his reaction. Dean Portman had always been like a ball of yarn in the Cat's paws. She took another sip of her Manhattan in triumph.
He downed the rest of his scotch in consolation.
"Well, enjoy the freaks then," he said to her before signaling to the barman. "I'm going to bed."
"Aww, Dean."
Don't look at her. Don't look at her. Don't look at her.
He turned to see an angelic, pleading face.
Son-of-a-bitch!
"The night's still young," she protested. "Why go to sleep now?"
And with that, the tables turned in an instant.
Bad move, Cat. I've got you now.
"Who said anything about 'sleep'?" He asked. "I said bed."
At once, the pleading angel disappeared.
"I see."
As Portman settled his bar tab, he tried to work out what he needed to say in order to close the tantalizing deal that was just within his grasp. But Julie pre-empted him.
"A strange city is no place to go to bed alone."
"No, it isn't."
Rising to his feet, Portman extended a hand toward Julie, and guided her off the barstool. Interlocking his long fingers with her silky digits, he then led her out the bar and toward the elevators.
