Usual Disclaimer
I don't own the characters of Bodie and Doyle, or any others from the TV series. They belong to Mark One Productions and Brian Clemens.
I borrow them to write fiction for my own (and hopefully your) pleasure, with no financial gain to myself or anyone else.
ONE OF THREE
I stopped dead in my tracks, my hand on the door knob, as I caught sight of Ray Doyle, dripping wet and slightly steaming from a hot shower. His hair was almost straight and brushed his shoulders. The weight of the water and the steam from the changing room caused the curls to abandon their usual fight for survival on his head. He needs a haircut, I thought to myself.
I stood to onemoved to the side of the door and peered through the glass and into the changing room, watching as he walked across to his locker. He nodded to the others who had been on the obbo with him: Murphy, tall and athletic, vigorously towelling his broad shoulders. Roberts was tying his shoes while Anson was already dressed and reaching for a his usual foul smelling cigar. All were in various stages of undress, having cleaned up following the overnight stakeout. The conversation was loud and peppered with expletives, a sure sign the op had been dangerous and they were glad to be home without losing anyone.
I saw as Doyle drag a towel across his head, rubbing the moisture away briskly. Soon the curls had returned, shiny and rebellious. I could almost smell the clean, freshly shampooed locks from where I was standing.
The towel, slung low across his hips, was in danger of falling open entirely. It wouldn't have worried Doyle if it did. Clothed or naked he just accepted his body as it was. The effect it would have on me was an entirely different matter!
Anson pulled on his jacket and made for the side door. He ignored the KEEP SHUT sign and with a deft movement, unlocked the heavy fire door, and pushed it open. Such abuses of health and safety were regularly overlooked by the CI5 operatives, especially when the door lead to a small alleyway and a shortcut to the pub.
"Time for a pint my boys," he said grandly, standing in the doorway. "Get a move on you lot."
"Hey the old man said to wait until Betty comes down and dropsto offdrop off those photos," shouted Murph above the noise. "See if we can identify those blokes on the roof."
"You'd better get some clothes on then," said Anson nodding towards Murphy. " Don't want to frighten the poor girl. Anyway, Doyle's nowhere near ready yet, He won't mind waiting for the lovely Betty."
Murph grinned. "D'you mind waiting Doyle?" he asked . asked. "She's got a soft spot for you."."
Doyle shot him a leering smile.
"Putty in my 'ands, mate,", he said.
By now most of the agents were dressed, and congregating around the door.
Murphy looked across at Doyle who was now sitting quietly, running an electric shaver over his blue chin.
"Are you gonna come across for a pint later Ray?" he asked.
Doyle looked up.
"Need to finish some paperwork first, and clean me gun. Bloody thing jammed again. I might let the armourer take a look. Might see you later."
Murphy followed the others through the door and pushed it shut with a loud bang.
Doyle stood up and in one swift move took off his towel.
I moaned softly – he was jaw droppingly desirable.
He casually dried his torso, the chest hair springing back to life, and the silver chain he wore catching the light. The scars from the shooting were clearly visible, healed now, but their violent legacy a silvery, spidery scrawl on his skin.
His hands moved downwards, towelling his belly. He lifted a leg and placed his foot on the bench. I caught sight of his genitals, heavy and dark. Gently, he dried himself there before continuing down the raised leg.
I knew I shouldn't look, but I was captured by the sight of him. The ache in my groin was palpable and I had to fight the desire to touch myself there, if only to ease the sweet pain. Oh Doyle, if only I could have you for a night. You'd never want anyone else but me. My thoughts were almost as uncontrollable as my body.
I looked back observing the private rituals of this strange man. He was applying some aftershave, an expensive brand from the smell wafting across. Citrus with a subtle tone of spice. Something I'd want to smell of after a night of unrestrained passion with him. Next came a quick spray of deodorant, and then he began to dress.
Only Doyle could make something as mundane as dressing look like an act of self love. He wriggled into a pair of jeans, tight fitting and moulding to his body. He smoothed his hands down his legs, easing out any wrinkles, before thrusting his feet into a pair of blue Kicker boots. He reached into a locker for a tee shirt, slowly pulling the garment over his head. Lastly, he donned a battered leather jacket. Now dressed, he leaned against the locker, one leg bent, hips pushed forward, while he checked his wallet, looking all the while like the good time waiting to be had by all. Especially me I thought.
I needed to get away. I couldn't let him find me here, he'd soon guess I'd been looking and it was too risky a chance to take.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs; quick, decisive footsteps. Cowley. . . . with the photographs that Betty was supposed to be bringing. Christ I hope he wouldn't see me.
Before I could move away, he caught up to me.
"Ah Bodie," he said. "I'm looking for RobertsDoyle. Have you seen him? I've a job for both of you. Observation out at Bray. Find him and come to my office will you?"
thought I might catch up with him here."
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.
He thrust the photos into my hands.
"I thought I'd save Betty a trip as well, and drop these photos in. See if anyone on the squad from last night recognises these faces. Let the boys have them will you?"
He walked off and retraced his steps. Stopping, he turned back to look at me.
"You alright laddie? You look flushed."
At that moment Doyle chose to amble out of the changing room, carrying his towel.
Cowley looked at us both, and I swear a small smile crossed his features as he mounted the satirsstairs.