Whiskey
Yes, this is my final story for 2013. In true fashion, it is a one-shot, and it's a little sad, but I wanted to cap off all my pending ones that were dusting up in my finished folder. Hope you guys like it! Spread the word, cuz this section doesn't get enough viewers!
Lyrics are italics
Disclaimer: I don't CSI: Las Vegas. I don't own the song, Whiskey by Jana Kramer.
Everybody down in Houston calls him "Texas".
Everybody way up North calls him "Cornbread".
After thirty-six hours of trying to find a killer, and finding him just in time to be attacked by the pyscho's partner, he figured he deserved to hit up a club or two. None of his usual haunts were any fun without his friends, so he hit up the one with the bouncer that had a crush on him. Might as well use it to his advantage if the guy wasn't going to let up anyway.
Dressed up in dark skinny jeans that hugged his lean legs and showed off his ass, he put on a thin white v-neck to match. Grabbing some gel to muss up his hair, looked in the mirror to take a quick peek and snatched his wallet and keys. He was going to have fun.
You shoulda heard the way that his momma called him "baby",
Daddy called him "boy", his friends call him "crazy".
That case had been crazy, and awful on so many levels. Now that the team was off rotation for two days, he was going to enjoy it. He was tired and annoyed, but sleep just wasn't beckoning him like it usually did. Putting on stone washed jeans over his boxers, he grabbed a random shirt from the laundry pile and headed out the door.
He needed someone tonight. It didn't matter who, just a warm female to keep the nightmares at bay. A momentary thought flitted through his head of who wouldn't mind to keep him company. Maybe with one stone, he could kill two birds.
He couldn't have him, not in this lifetime, so maybe he could appease himself with a clubber.
Shoulda just called it like I saw it.
Shoulda just called for help and ran like hell that day.
He could feel all the bodies pressed up against him, a hip here, and hand moving down there. It didn't matter to him. He just wanted to wash away a killer's touch. He wasn't going to go all the way tonight, but he needed something to get his mind off of all of it. The killer, the case, the job, the heartbreaking crush he hadn't wanted.
He hit a solid wall. He turned quickly when the wall rippled under his palms, meeting blue eyes. The owner smiled at him, "My name's Neal. You are?"
"Yours." His voice turned sultry and low. Without another hesitation, he moved forward as he tried to make the world disappear.
The burn and the sting, and the high, and the heat,
and the "left-me-wanting-more" feeling when he kissed me.
I shoulda just called him "Whiskey".
He walked into the club, trying to look comfortable in the throng of people. His friend, hopefully, wouldn't steer him wrong. He was always saying how this place was fantastic when a case had gotten him down.
The beat pounding in his head, he made his way to the bar. The music suited his mood. Unmerciful, deep, but completely unforgiving. He gestured at the bartender, trying to get his attention. After a couple moments, the man came over to him, and over the noise, "First time?"
"…How can you tell?"
The bartender looked him over, "I know the people that come here. I can't remember names worth shit, but I never forget a face. What can I get you?"
He was dumbfounded. He had no idea what he wanted. He was a beer kind of guy, but tonight just wasn't a beer kind of night. It was a forget all, fall in and out of love kind of night.
"I gotcha, buddy. Don't worry, I know what'll work."
Warm my body to the core just like a blanket.
His face was so sweet then he took my breath away.
Three guys later, and millions of pick-up lines after, his white shirt was thoroughly stained with invisible hands caressing him. Jerry, the bartender, spotted him and waved him over. Setting down a cup of cold golden-brown liquid, he only laughed when he knocked the glass back, letting it burn on the way done, "You never forget, do you?"
"Not a chance."
"Hit me again."
"One of those nights?"
"You have no idea."
Jerry pushed him a new glass, followed by another. He had always been a lightweight, but tonight, it was about letting go. Trying to get over something when the dam broke. This case had taken them farther apart from each other than they had ever been.
They could have been something. But, his stupid desire to be the hero got him yelled at, and they were in a fight, and all too soon, they weren't going to the bar together for a short night on the town trying to pick up chicks, even though it wasn't what he wanted, but just to spend time around him.
He left the glasses there, and moved back onto the dance floor, letting the music take him.
Hit me so hard like a rock through a window.
I knew I was in trouble from the moment I met you, boy.
The alcohol buzz started to kick in. He was tipsy, not drunk, but the inhibitions holding him back were slowly leaking away. Looking for any companionship, he moved in for the kill. A busty brunette danced alongside him, letting the beats drive both of them.
A brunette, a redhead, a blonde; tall, short; slender, full figure; it didn't matter. As long as they got his mind as far away from his desires as possible. Looking up over his newest partner-one who he was seriously debating whether or not to make a one-nighter out of-he spotted his coworker, moving fluidly to the song. He was accompanied by a taller, heavier set model type, and they were dancing together, lost in each other.
Shoulda just called it like I saw it.
Shoulda just called for help and ran like hell that day.
He felt a new body step up against him. Warm, tan, and tall. Ruggedly handsome. His vision flickered, blurring around the edges. He had short, brown hair and scorching eyes that bore into his own, making him want to break contact, but completely unable to.
He let the stranger drop his hands onto his hips and pull him in slowly. The liquid courage pushed through his veins, making his body feel like it was on fire, a pleasant slow burn that kept his body moving.
His white v-neck clung to his skin as he danced, the stranger moving in time with him, as if watching him, waiting to make the perfect move. It was two songs later, and he still hadn't switched partners.
The man swooped in.
The burn and the sting, and the high, and the heat,
and the "left-me-wanting-more" feeling when he kissed me.
I shoulda just called him "Whiskey"
He couldn't tell himself what possessed his body to pull his friend in. He wanted to say it was the drinks, but in truth, it was the idea of finally having his treasure in his grasp. The v-neck rubbed against his own thin shirt as the man's lips opened in response to his own.
They tried to find their place and suddenly it clicked, and all at once, everything disappeared. Their mouths moved rhythmically with each other, thriving in their place, finally meshing perfectly. They pulled apart.
His fellow CSI flushed, his eyes hazy.
They leaned in again.
And again.
He dragged his prize off the floor and against a wall. Pressed against each other, they moved out only for air, bruising each other's lips. He set his lips to work on the younger's neck, earning full compliance. The buzz pushed forward feelings he'd tried to hide for years, urging him to grasp what he had wanted for ages.
They left the club together.
Now the numb has set in.
He's gone like the wind.
And I can barely feel the pain.
He opened his eyes slowly. A light hit his eyes, and one-handed, he reached for the curtains next to his bed.
Wait. His bedroom's window was on the other side of the room, where the light couldn't reach him. He opened his eyes, adjusting to the beams of sun. The decoration, the size, the warmth, none of it made any sense.
Warmth?
He felt a second pair of legs graze his own. He looked over, and spotted his younger coworker sprawled under the sheets. His hair looked messier than usual, but the movement that he always had when awake had ceased in his slumber. The light gently lit up his features, exemplifying that he was younger than the job experience suggested.
He stopped himself from leaning in to stroke strands away from his face. Then, it all hit him at once. The memories, the headache, and the repercussions.
Praying as he lifted the covers, he confirmed that he was wearing a lot less than he had come in with. He crushed his eyelids in hopes of blinking the scene away, only to make it all the more real.
He had been drunk. There was no other explanation.
But, he could remember the passion, the warmth, the feeling of being complete. He still felt the tingles along his lips, and he could easily spot the red bruises on his friend's neck.
He'd completely taken advantage of his drunk friend, aware of who it was.
Shoulda just called it like I saw it.
I shoulda just called for help and ran like hell that day.
He paid for the motel room at the desk, telling them his partner was still there. Getting into his car, he turned on the radio, letting the country music flow over him, and drove away.
The burn and the sting, and the high, and the heat,
and the "left-me-wanting-more" feeling when he kissed me.
He felt very cold when he finally opened his eyes. His head felt like a mosh pit. He wondered how he got home. Shit, had he let someone in with him? He promised himself he wouldn't fall in bed with a random stranger again.
He looked around. Nope, not his room. And seeing the bathroom door opened to see the mirror reflecting a showerhead, it was clear he wasn't in someone else's house either. He'd hooked up with a complete stranger in a motel room.
Lovely.
He chucked the covers off and dressed slowly. There was no point in moving quickly if no one was around. The other person must have left before him. Well, at least there wouldn't be any chance of the stranger becoming clingy and insisting he was 'the one'.
Walking out, he kept his head down. Where was he? Okay, this motel he knew. It wasn't too far from the club. He could go back and grab his car and then crash at home. Beginning to walk the two miles to his car, he tried to recall something, anything from last night.
He remembered a warm body. The stranger had been tan, tall, and everything he wanted without being the person he wanted. The taller guy had advanced first, smashing their lips together in a rush of passion and lust.
He could still feel hot breath on his lips. He remembered hitting the wall with his back and his neck stretching to give his companion better access. Apparently, it must have gone over well if the red marks were anything to go by.
He couldn't remember anything else.
The burn and the sting, and the high, and the heat,
and the "left-me-wanting-more" feeling when he kissed me.
He slammed his car door when he entered his house. He just wanted to forget all of this. Well, that was what had gotten him into this whole mess in the first place: wanting to forget. He'd expected to fall in with anyone else, not his coworker, his friend, his demented crush.
Why was this happening to him? Why couldn't he have fallen in love with anyone else?
He kicked his shoes off, took a quick shower, and headed to the kitchen for food. There must have been some leftovers from takeout over the week. He spotted the kung-pao that his friend had ordered when he came over to play some videogames before the case had even started.
He reached for it and shoved it roughly into the microwave. Might as well get rid of it. He turned the radio on, letting the soothing croons of guitars and twangs calm him down. The song was ending, and the DJ spoke up again, "Well, people out there, we just got a request. A song from the past. Here's Whiskey by Jana Kramer."
He took the food out of the microwave, and leaned in to hear the lyrics. He had never heard this song before.
The burn and the sting, the high and heat, the warmth and the hits. He was the guy. He was 'Whiskey', and he could hear his friend singing the words.
The kung-pao made a dull thunking sound against the wall, smearing peanut oil as it fell down.
He let himself sink to the floor. What was he going to do if his friend remembered any of it the way he did? With all the sloppy, drunk kisses and laughing as they ran into the room, and the way they fell in love all at once in hours instead of the years they spent together?
He turned the radio off.
I shoulda just called him "Whiskey".
Shoulda just called him "Whiskey".
When he reached home, and thankfully finding his cell and wallet still with him, he took a shower to try and stop the pounding in his head. Who had he been with last night?
For the life of him, he couldn't make out a face. He remembered the club, but not the drive, not the room. He groaned when he reflected on his drinking choice. He really should have stopped at two glasses instead of knocking back those extra ones.
He turned on his radio, and was surprised to hear country coming out of the speakers. He didn't remember changing it to this channel. About to go past it with a much darker, heavier style in mind, his hand stopped when he heard the title of the next song.
He felt laughter bubble up inside and before he knew it, his eyes were tearing up. He was about to cry over a guy he didn't even know, and would never see again. It was funny that this was the only country song he'd ever listened through all the way of his own volition.
It was all about finding a guy she didn't know, and falling in love with him the moment they met, and waking up to find him gone. She must have made the song with his situation in mind. He never believed in falling in love in one night. Maybe love at first sight, that feeling that someone is intriguing or attractive or date worthy after seeing them, but never falling in love.
Was it ironic that the only thing he remembered with clear vision, was the lips on his that tasted like whiskey?
I shoulda just called him "Whiskey".
~0~
Care to guess?
Explanation:
Nick and Greg both like each other. A lot. During the case, Greg was attacked, and though uninjured, Nick yelled at him and thus, began a huge shouting match in the break room.
Greg decided to hit up a club, just for fun, to get the argument off his mind. Nick hit up the same club, unintentionally, because he wanted a random hook-up to get his mind off of Greg.
Greg got drunk off of whiskey. He's a bit of a lightweight, and he really didn't care after he got a little tipsy and broke his usual limit. Nick was a bit tipsy after two glasses of the same drink, but didn't drink anymore.
They were dancing away from each other when Nick noticed Greg in the crowd. He made his way over to talk to him, but when he saw the other guy, he got jealous. Fueled by liquid courage, instead of the smart decision he made the easy one and started to dance with him and ended up kissing him.
Greg was completely drunk, and didn't even recognize Nick in his drunken haze. He responded and they ended up going to a motel room and you can guess what happened that night.
Nick woke up first and spotted Greg and realized what had happened. He knew Greg had been drunk and knew he had only been tipsy, and therefore still aware of the events of the night before. He left before his friend could wake up.
Greg woke after and headed home. He's not aware that his one night stand was with Nick.
All in all, Nick knows who he slept with, Greg doesn't, but he knows that they guy was completely fantastic and he actually forgot about Nick for the time he spent with the 'stranger'.
Nick feels screwed because he wanted to go to the club to forget about his crush on Greg and go home with a random girl. And now, his feelings for Greg are now only stronger. Karma sucks, doesn't it?
3 THANK YOU FOR READING THIS! HAPPY 2014 guys! I hope all of you reading this far down have a wonderful, safe year. And I thank all of you for sticking with me for the past two years now...wow, time kinda flies, doesn't it? I love all of you, and I wish you all a wonderful continuing experience on FF. X)