A/N: This chapter is rated 'M' for reasons which will be very apparent when you read it.
Disclaimer: I do not own a)the song "Roadhouse Blues" or b)the song "At Last". They belong to The Doors and Etta James, respectively. I make mention of them in the story for effect. I do not own "House" either. David Shore and Fox have that honor.
-13-
Well, old man, that was a lovely way to spend a morning, eh?
Immediately after parking the Lincoln in his parents' driveway, House reached into his shirt pocket for his pills. He popped the cap, shook out two, dry swallowed. The movements were practiced, fluid. It always pleased him how quickly the meds dulled the jagged pain in his thigh. But the edginess in his gut was still sharp. The ache in his leg had actually been tolerable; he could have held off medicating himself until he settled in at the airport, later this afternoon. It was anxiety he was looking to eradicate. Obviously, it would take more than Vicodin to do that.
He had a problem. Another doozy. His confidence, so hot and strong in Mifflin's office, had waned.
You have a promise to keep, big mouth. So what the hell are you going to do about it?
Good question. He was so weary, so on edge. His eyes grazed the abandoned bird feeder in the elm tree, his mother's herb garden set in a rectangular plastic tub by the porch, two fake flamingos standing beak to beak on the lawn, thinking how many years it had been since he'd felt really great, not just marginally okay, but freakin' wonderful. How long had it been since he enjoyed getting up in the morning?
Probably years and years ago, when you were in school getting perfect grades, playing lacrosse...
"Maybe," he thought. But even then he'd had problems: zits, gawkiness, and his coolness factor was marginal, except when the jocks deigned to let him hang out with them.
There was a time you were feeling good. There were those perfect series of moments. Moments that lasted days, perhaps a week, maybe even two. Hmmm, yeah, I think you know when it was.
No.
You know exactly when it was because it was the only time in your life you ever felt...gloriously happy.
No!
Hell, nobody forgets those times. You might pack them away in big wooden crates and cardboard boxes, but they're always going to be inside you, right upstairs in your special private room, Greg's Self Storage. Usually under lock and key. But not today...
He tried to fight it off. But this one was tough. This one battled back hard. Perhaps because the person involved was such a fighter, but more than that...she was crafty. Her mind was wicked sharp. Sometimes, he was forced to admit, even sharper than his. It was no wonder his relationship with her had been the most enduring and satisfying of his life...
It starts with sex. Before they even touch, or discover the other's name, they know how it will be. Rip roaring, tear your clothes off, needful, demanding, ravenous mouths, greedy hands, two bodies pumping, writhing, savoring the heat, the extraordinary intensity. They know. And there is no doubt in either one of their minds that this knowledge will be acted upon before the night is through...
They meet for the first time in, of all places, a strip club. Greg sits by the stage at a small round table for one. A bottle of Johnny Walker stands before him, its amber liquid glimmers, catching the blood red luminosity that roves up and down, all around, marking every sinner in the room In his glass, the scotch shivers to the pounding beat of The Doors' "Roadhouse Blues."
"Yeah, we're goin' to the roadhouse,
We're gonna have a real good time..."
With thumb and forefinger he swirls the mouth of his Don Tomas in the scotch, then tucks the cigar between his teeth and puffs contentedly, enjoying the view. Bettina Patina, the scarlet lipped, brassy blonde stripper, writhes onstage, gyrating her pelvis and twirling her silver spangled pasties in his face. He's a regular, an excellent tipper, a man who warrants her special attention.
She's good, one of the better dancers in the club, keeping perfect time with the long dead Jim Morrison's proclamations about beer for breakfast and uncertain futures. Her provocative display is most likely not what Morrison had in mind when he penned those sentiments (although he probably wouldn't have objected to Bettina putting them to such good use).
The scotch in the bottle is half gone before he senses 'the look'. It is like an itch inside his cranium, a feeling he can't shake. Someone is watching him. The stripper is so close he can smell every musky, sweet and sour inch of her. Again she shakes her ample boobs in his face. Absently, he tucks a ten in her g-string. He is not the paranoid type, but that 'being watched' feeling grows stronger with each one of Bettina's bumps and grinds.
He turns and looks to his left past the three guys at the next table, who slobber and shout their bawdy suggestions to the entertainment, past the lone young man, pasty faced and moon-eyed, sipping his drink, head bopping ever so slightly to the music.
Then...he sees her at the table way over on the far side of the stage. She's watching him; her dark eyes gleam with amusement.
Mocking me, he thinks, but doesn't look away.
She lifts her brows, leans her chin on her palm and throws him that closed lipped smile/smirk that sends him over the moon.
He does the valiant thing and returns her smile, which causes his heart to do a riddly-diddly cha cha cha against his ribs; his cheeks burn. He is that gawky fourteen year old again, averting his eyes, gazing at his sneakers, fully expecting her to lose interest in this uninteresting man but, no, she is still there when he looks up, those amazing eyes locked on his, that X-rated smirk causing his balls to tighten. Immediately he wishes he had rented that DVD and gone home, as he'd originally planned. A pathetic excuse for an adult human male is what you are, he thinks.
He doesn't consider himself a ladies man, although he's never had a problem finding partners for sex. He figures those women were either intrigued by the fact he was a doctor or just looking for...something, something he was unable to give them. It never took long for them to figure out that he was not that 'special' guy they thought he was (or fantasized him to be), and they didn't hang around long. It was just as well...
Her gaze continues to burn into his, and the thoughts he's having would probably be banned in about eighty percent of the fifty states. The stench of cigars, sweat, booze and sex only serve to feed his lust. His blood pulses and thrums against his temples and way down in his nether regions, the relentless beat of the stripper's dance deepening his arousal. It occurs to him, noticing the goddess's smile widen, that these thoughts are not his alone. She swirls her stirrer in her drink, brings it to her lips and, with tender loving care, circles her tongue around its tip, causing Greg's breath to catch in his throat.
What the hell does this exceptional creature want with the likes of me? he thinks, then abruptly notices she is with someone. The guy to her right has one proprietary arm across the back of her chair. He sways as he leans toward her (a teeny bit gassed, aren't we? Greg muses). Pressing his face into that gorgeous mane of chestnut hair, it seems like he might take up residence there for the night. She throws Greg a 'can you believe this jerk?' roll of her eyes, then tilts her chin in the direction of the restrooms. Narrowing his gaze, Greg make a me-you gesture with his forefinger. She nods her assent, then, with both hands, shoves Annoying Boyfriend back into his seat. The guy grabs his mug of beer and guzzles it down, while she hitches her purse over her shoulder. Boyfriend hails the waitress for another, while the goddess throws Greg a discreet wink, then heads off toward their meeting place.
He considers turning the other way, toward the sign that screams "Exit", hotfooting it out into the frigid January night, across the parking lot, settling into the warmth of his car and driving...anywhere, as long as it's away from here. But his feet have other ideas. They propel him past the bleary eyed, the drunken, the aroused. The swirling lights work their magic to disorient him, but he soldiers on. He can't lose his way, must not lose his way...
He stumbles through the swinging door marked 'Restrooms' to find himself in a corridor reeking of urine, disinfectant and semen. The only source of light is a single bulb that hangs by a chain from the ceiling. Its glow serves to illuminate the goddess, who is seated on a bench outside the ladies room. She looks almost prim this way, her hands clasped protectively around the purse in her lap. She wears a black pantsuit, white blouse...and that smile.
"Hi," she says. Not surprisingly, her voice is nice, a little rough, like sand against satin.
"Hi."
She pats the seat beside her. "Sit."
He digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket, takes three steps toward her. Then stops. " Your boyfriend..."
"He's not my boyfriend." She slaps the bench. "Now sit."
Greg is not really sure he wants to close the distance between them, much less become part of her personal space. But he doesn't stand a chance with those eyes reeling him in. The music is muffled but he can just about recognize Stevie Ray Vaughan's "Pride And Joy" as Bettina's fantasy fuck tune of the moment.
He sits.
"Relax." She places a hand on his knee.
Something electric...some kind of molten heat burns through him. It's not just his balls... his entire package now stands at attention, waiting for orders. He swallows hard and can tell by the flush on the goddess's cheeks, the way her chest is heaving, the hard clench of her hand around his thigh, she's feeling it too.
As if in a dream, he leans forward, one hand floating to caress her shoulder.
She stops him with a hand against his chest. "What's your name?"
"Greg," His voice is rough, heavy with desire. Her musky scent is like some strange drug, dissolving any misgivings he might have about-
A corpulent man, perspiration dotting his brow, saturating the collar of his shirt, lumbers past and pushes into the mens room, breaking the spell.
Greg's shoulders sag. His tongue travels lightly across his dry lips, he shakes his head, then breathes out a long sigh. " You shouldn't be here."
Her head tilts. "Why?" she asks, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.
"I mean," he says. "I could be a rapist, serial killer, cat burglar, swindler."
"You're not." Giving him an appraising look, she says, "You're a professional of some kind. Smart, tops in your field..."
"Damn, you're good. But, hey," he whispers, "I could be a transsexual."
Hitching one brow, her gaze falls to the prominent bulge in the crotch of his jeans. "Not with that gear you're hauling around."
"Uh...yeah. Sorry." He is definitely fourteen again.
"Oh," she says, still eyeing his crotch. "Don't be."
The big sweaty guy trounces past them and returns to the action.
"So," he says.
"So?" She brings her hand up to touch his cheek, running her fingers lightly over the stubble. "Mmm, I like."
He grips her hand, shuts his eyes, and brings her fingers to his lips, letting the tip of his tongue graze each one. She inhales sharply, lets it out slow. He opens his eyes to see hers are now closed. Her head is thrown back, that wonderful white neck exposed, waiting for his mouth, his touch..
"You don't even know me." He releases her hand.
She blinks, smooths her hair. "Oh, I think I do."
"Okay you do...sooo," he says again.
"So...what?"
"Your name. Should I just guess? I could make one up."
Sliding over so their thighs touch, she wraps her fingers around his.
"My name is Stacy."
-----------------------------
Stacy's evening with Michael Perkins, the Annoying non-Boyfriend, turned out to be nothing more than a date. Their second over the course of two weeks. She was a lawyer for a prestigious New York firm, he was a client. Thankfully she didn't represent him. The fact that he'd opted to take Stacy to a New Jersey strip club for drinks said volumes about the smarts he didn't have.
Crafty. She was craftier, more conniving and convincing than any woman House had known before or since. While he wondered how they were going to make it out of the club without Michael seeing them, she was dragging him along to meet Non-Boyfriend. "You're my cousin. Haven't seen you for years. Isn't it amazing how we bumped into each other at a place like this? Why, we need to get reacquainted. Family is family after all. Michael will understand." Her grip tightened around his upper arm as they trudged through the wild and woolly landscape. "Can you swing it?" He nodded, thinking how stupid the guy would have to be to fall for that. But the ache in his loins was becoming almost painful. At this point he would have dressed up like Bettina and wiggled for the crowd to leave with the goddess.
Michael's inebriation and general gullibility worked in their favor and they were out of the club before Bettina finished her final dance of the night. Stacy drove Michael's car, while House followed in his. They dropped her plastered date at his Riverside Drive apartment building, where he proceeded to fall against Stacy and plant a slobbery kiss on her cheek.
It was a small inconvenience, a minor glitch in the flow of things, seeing as how what came after lifted the curtain on that memorable perfect series of moments...
He stared at his goal: the door of his parents' house, To get there he would only have to reach for the handle on the driver's side, push it down, open the door, step out of the car. Easy? Nah, nothing was easy. Gazing heavenward, he sang, "I don't have time for this."
Sure you do. How often to you get the chance to relive the moment you thought you'd found the golden scarab, the key to happiness? I mean it isn't every day, y'know. Remember that feeling? The euphoria hitting you like a spike full of morphine. But you were clean then, weren't you? Clean and yet...so gosh darn blissfully unperturbed by anything.
"I don't need this now."
Oh, come ooonnn. It's the icing on the cake, the gravy in the ladle...
"Nope."
Just a little going away present from me to you.
"Gotta go." His fingers brushed the door handle.
A little traveling music puhleeze...
"At last...my love has come along," Etta James croons from the radio in the next room. He likes the song. It's sultry, sexy, as is the woman in his bed. The goddess is impatient. He must tend to her needs...
Their first time is rushed. Like a pair of hot and horny teenagers, they are wild, uninhibited, amazed with each other, with the sex, which goes by in a blistering rush. It is just as they imagined it would be: arms and legs entwined; where one body leaves off the other continues, rolling, pushing, pumping, moaning, gasping, crying out, hips grinding, tongues tasting, deep, deep inside, pounding, pounding, pounding until...eyes wide with euphoric disbelief, their pleasure overwhelms them over and over, until they fall into each others arms. Spent.
Greg drifts, buoyed by the afterglow. Stacy's head rests on his chest, her hair tickling his stomach. The radio plays...something jazzy...saxophones, vibes.
The next time starts as a languid conversation. He opens the forum with the tip of one moist finger against her erect nipple, rolling his question around and around until she responds with a groan and a deep kiss. From there the debate covers a vast area of uncharted territory. A stroke here, a taste there, a tongue flicked, teeth nipping lightly, a deep thrust embellished by a slow, delicious roll of the hips. Soft sounds of pleasure float through the air like motes of dust in sunlight, passing over hastily discarded clothes and crumpled condom wrappers. The two maintain this flow as long as possible. But their conversation soon grows heated with an intensity no moderator could ever hope to control. The frenetic creaking of the bed melds with Coltrane's "My Favorite Things" as passion overtakes them again.
He is happy. Dangerously so. Over the next two weeks the perfect moments occur with alarming regularity. It's not just the sex. It's the give and take, the meeting of the minds, the ideas, the times he starts a sentence and she finishes it.
And then she moves in with him, and they settle into comfortable domesticity.
Of course it doesn't last. The infarction, his selfcenteredness, her emotional neediness, all serve to help wrap things up after five years.
"It was a good run," he mumbled, one hand grasping the steering wheel like a lifeline. After a moment he sighed, eased his grip, then reached for his cane in the back seat. He had an idea. And with the idea came a light wash of confidence. But having an idea and getting up the nerve to act on it...those were two different things. He pushed open the door, but a cheek burning realization hit him and he pulled it closed again. Sinking down, down, down in his seat, he found he couldn't go just yet.
Woah, old man. Pants a teeny bit tight in the ol' crotch-ola?
"Damn!" Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose and forced his mind to wander through some recent case files, the starting line of the Jets, Dolphins and Packers, and the names of every one of his University of Michigan professors.
A sudden insistent rapping on the driver's side window caused his eyes to pop open, the names of teachers, sports figures and diseases jumbling into one ugly mass. With a groan, he checked his crotch and was overjoyed to find his erection withering away.
Lucky you. The boys are all tucked nicely back in their beds.
His mother peered at him through the glass, her eyes filled with questions, her mouth forming his name.
He rolled down the window.
"What's wrong," she asked.
"Nothing."
"You're just...sitting here."
He took a moment to gaze at the porch, the lawn, then back at her. "Yeah..."
"What happened?" she asked. "At Mifflin's. What happened?" She had that panicked look, her eyes too wide, the corners of her mouth tremulous, turned down, like the time he took that spill off his bike and broke his collarbone, or when he cut his finger on the rusty can behind the PX.
"I need to talk to Dad."
"He's sleeping."
"That's okay." He dragged himself out of the car, digging the tip of his cane into the dirt to support his weight. "I don't have much time. Gotta make my flight."
"Stay another day if you think it will help."
"I can't and it won't," He rested a hand on her shoulder. "I'll need a cab in a couple of hours."
"I'll drive you to the airport."
"You don't have to do that." He turned and made his ungainly way to the porch. The traffic will be hell."
"I 'll drive you," she insisted.
------------------------------------
"When John House snores, nightmares are born." The quote, a classic from Uncle Mac, had all the earmarks of a line that would stand the test of time-certain to be passed down through generations,. Truth endures. The sound was like the gasps and gurgles of an underwater diver, whose air was slowly, steadily running out. For as long as House could remember, the snores signaled John's descent into sleep. Their familiarity bred no comfort. As a child, he would struggle to block them out by planting his hands over his ears or humming snatches of the hits of the day. Nothing helped, and he would end up drifting off with images in his head of drowned divers, dead and bloated in their shiny wet suits, bobbing gently away on an endless black sea.
Squashing the distasteful memory, House leaned forward in the hard backed chair beside his parents' bed, and watched his father sleep. John snored his classic snore, lying on his side, on top of the comforter, two pillows cradling his head. His snore was cut short by a cough, then a snort, his mouth lolling open, tongue clicking a dream rhythm against his lower dentures. House was reluctant to rouse him, even though time was galloping by. He sat back and tapped his fingers against the armrest, his eyes panning the family photos atop the dresser, the nightstand, on the walls. The display was his mother's doing, he was sure. But one black and white photo stood out, definitely his father's choice, displayed prominently in a black metal frame over John's side of the bed.
It was a 'buddy' photo. Two Marines, clad in fatigues, stood side by side, proud, dopey grins plastered across their faces, arms flung over each other's shoulders. His interest piqued, House pushed himself to his feet and limped, sans cane, toward the bed for a closer look. One of the men was his father. The other, judging by the nameplate on his uniform, was a guy named Kurdofski. The photo was inscribed, "To John, "The Bear", 'Semper Fi, Do Or Die', Eddie."
Semper Fi. House rolled the words around on his tongue, then said them aloud. "Semper Fi."
"Do or die, " his father murmured in his sleep.
Wow. Cool. Smirking, House hitched up a brow, and tried it again. "Semper Fi."
"Do or die."
Had John had been brainwashed? Had the military planted the Marine credo deep within his subconscious?
"Semper Fi-"
John's head jerked; his eyes flew open. "Shut your damn mouth," he growled.
The surprise verbal assault caused House to take a stumbling step back. One hand groped for his cane, which rested well out of reach by the chair.
"You have a hell of a nerve."
Reeling into the nightstand. he winced as a sharp pain shot through his right leg. Framed family photos toppled from the table and clattered to the floor. Groaning, staggering forward, he felt more like a football linebacker than a sad eyed doctor from Princeton. He rubbed his thigh and limped slowly back to his seat.
"One hell of a fucking nerve."
House eased into his chair, then reached over to grab his cane. Head bowed, he tap-bounced its tip against the carpet.
"You think you can just say anything you want."
Tap, bounce...tap, bounce...tap, bounce...tap...
"Semper Fi is the Marine credo. And the Marine credo is something I should never hear coming out of your mouth." John's voice was low, trembling with restrained rage. "I thought I taught you something about respect. Didn't sink in, did it?"
Tap, bounce...tap, bounce...tap...
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Tap...House stilled the cane and raised his eyes to meet his father's.
"What right do you have-"
"You're killing her," House said.
"What?" John attempted to push himself up, once, twice, before grunting and falling back against his pillows.
"We'll get back to that." House said. He was standing again, this time gripping his cane and moving toward the bed. "I think it's a worthy credo, your Semper Fi..."
"Get out..."
"If I'm not mistaken it means 'always faithful'. Am I right, Dad?"
"... now!"
"Does that faithfulness the Marines hold in such high esteem extend to personal physicians?"
John struggled like an animal trapped between the bars of a cage. He grunted and pounded a fist against the headboard, his attempts to prop himself up, thwarted by his disability.
Reaching over his father's head, House grabbed two of Blythe's pillows. "Lift your head."
John's glare was rife with scorn and frustration. "I don't need any goddamn help from you."
"Lift your head," House said again.
John put forth the effort, which caused his face to darken to a purplish red, the tendons in his neck straining and pulling like thick ropes. Finally, he managed to hold his head up, allowing his son to slip the additional pillows beneath it.
"Better?"
John blinked at the ceiling and licked his lips, remaining mute.
"Good," House said. "Now let's see. Yes. First thing we need to talk about is an alternate plan."
"You're an idiot," John groused, eyes still focused up above. "You just babble on and on. You make no damn sense at all."
"It's never idiotic to plan ahead. Now-" House raised one finger and moved into John's field of vision. "When Mifflin's practice goes belly up, what will you do?"
"What in God's name are you talking about?"
"You can't start looking for a new doctor. Not in the shape you're in. And you can't remain loyal to your wonderful Doctor Mifflin, 'cause he ain't gonna be doctorin' any more."
"Is this what he told you?" John asked. "That he's closing his practice."
"I didn't say that."
"Yes, you did." John's eyes flashed with anger.
"I said 'belly up', which means he's not going to have a say in the matter."
"You're completely out of your mind, Greg."
"Well, this is what happens when a physician makes a habit of bilking his patients out of their insurance money rather than treating them," House said.
"Mifflin knows what he's doing."
"Yeah, you're right there. He does."
Silence, thick and tense blanketed the room. House hobbled the length of the bed, then stopped and met his father's eyes again. A tiny smile hitched up the corner of John's mouth. "And, of course, you have documented proof."
"I'll get it. But that's not your concern."
"You're telling me to plan for something that's all in your head."
"How do you know?" House asked. "You could get a call tomorrow saying Mifflin's been brought up on charges by the AMA."
John narrowed his eyes. "You're full of shit."
"Semper Fi, Do or Die. Better consider what all this will do to Mom. Starting all over with a new doctor, someone she doesn't know, will finish her." House hitched up one shoulder. "She's already halfway there. You're killing her with your obstinance."
"This is all a ploy."
"Tell Mifflin to give me the files. I'll hand them off to my neurologist. You'll come to Jersey-"
John shook his head. "You'll do anything, anything to try to prove me wrong, won't you?"
I could say the same to you, House mused. He banged his cane against the carpet, willing away the irritation that threatened to send him packing, leaving this insane, arrogant man to deal with his illness on his own. It was the thought of his mother that kept him there. His father was lucky she still gave a damn.
"Let's make a wager."
"Eh?"
"If it turns out I'm right, you'll come to Jersey, no questions asked, and let my people treat you."
John scoffed at him. "I'm not agreeing to anything. If and it's a big 'if" it turns out you're right, I will get a referral from Doctor Mifflin and will go on from there."
"You would trust a referral from a doctor who was swindling you?" House shook his head, incredulous.
"You know nothing about loyalty or trust." John said, his tone gruff. "If Mifflin did what you're saying he did, there is a damn good reason for it.
"That's like saying if he smacked a kid for crying in his exam room, it would be okay too."
John pursed his lips, his brow furrowing. "Where do you come up with this shit?"
"So anything, anything Mifflin did would be okay, as long as there was some sort of warped logic behind it."
"...yes."
The man was out of his head. House gave him a moment. A moment to change his mind, to apologize, to come to his senses. For his trouble, he received a cool, condescending look and a dismissive wave.
House whipped around and hobbled out the door without saying goodbye.