Title: High Society

Chapter 4: Party Animal

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Rating Changes to "M" with this chapter

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Amita was smiling as she answered the door. "I thought I recognized the sound of your car," she started, but her speech and her smile faltered a little when she saw her fiancé's face. "Is something wrong?" She stepped back, holding the door open so that Charlie could enter the apartment.

He paused briefly in the doorway to kiss her – always a welcome intrusion, even when he was obviously distracted. "Nah," he grunted when they finally separated. He grabbed one of her hands with one of his own and pulled her toward the sofa in the small living room. "Don just drives me crazy, sometimes. Come and see what I got in the mail, today!"

Amita went with him willingly, kicking the door shut behind her. "It must be pretty impressive for you to bring it all the way over here," she laughed. "You could have just called, or waited until I go back to campus for my evening class." The two settled on one end of the couch and a twinkle entered her eye as she looked at him. "Charlie! Did you sell another book?"

Charlie rolled his eyes and grinned. "You're worse than Ruby."

Amita arched an eyebrow. "The publicist from hell? Thank-you very much!"

Charlie held up the thick, cream-colored envelope. "This should tame even her. Remember I told you about J.T. Morrison talking to me at Bastide? He said he liked my book?"

Amita's eyes widened and she reached to pluck the square envelope from his hand. "You're kidding. This isn't…." She pulled the heavy card-stock insert partially out to read it quickly; then turned bright eyes back to Charlie. "I can't believe this! I just read an article about his parties in People last week!"

Charlie looked horrified. "You read People? I may need to reconsider the whole proposal thing."

Amita smacked him on the arm with the invitation, making a face. "I was in the dentist's office," she explained.

"R–r-i-i-i-g-h-t," Charlie teased, smiling at her rosy blush. "There's a number to RSVP; I'm going to call and ask if I can bring you with me."

Amita squealed, looking again at the card. Her face fell, and she looked back at Charlie. "It's on Friday, sweetie. You know Dr. Rastenbaum and I work on Higgs boson every Friday evening."

Charlie retrieved the invitation and looked down at the date himself. "You can skip one night," he suggested when he looked back at Amita.

She tried to smile bravely as she shook her head. "I already did once, you remember – the night you proposed. I just can't skip again. We're both covering extra classes since Larry hasn't been replaced yet, and it's almost impossible for us to synchronize schedules. We're lucky to spend 10 hours a week working on this together – Larry and I were logging almost 25." Charlie started to protest but she hushed him with a soft finger to his lips. "We have a lot of ground to cover before we go to D.C. at the end of next month to meet with Larry."

Charlie looked truly heartbroken. "Damn. This was only going to be fun if you were there."

Amita laughed and leaned in to kiss him quickly, pulling back before things developed that made them both late for class. "You're sweet to say so, Charlie. You should go. Since I've been working every Friday night, you're at loose ends anyway. You can tell me all about it."

Charlie waggled his eyebrows. "I know – you can call me during the party. When I take the call, I'll use my cell phone camera to take a few shots. I can sell them to the National Enquirer."

She shook her forefinger at him. "You jest, but that story I read said that no cells are allowed into the parties for that very reason. I think you have to leave it in your car, or something."

Charlie huffed out a laugh. "Good grief," he groused good-naturedly. "What am I getting myself into?"

…………………………………

Robin could feel the tension in Don's shoulders.

They were in their favorite post-coital position, reclining on her king-sized bed, both facing the television. At her back was the headboard; against her breasts was the back of Don's head. Perspiration dried in the conditioned air; it would have been uncomfortably warm, if either of them were wearing a stitch of clothing.

The scene was becoming almost achingly familiar, but tonight there was a difference. Usually, regardless how bad a day either one of them had put in on the job, the sex relaxed them. Oh, Don was not as tightly wound as he had been when he had first showed up at the door, that much was true. Unfortunately, she could feel the opposite truth as well – he was far from relaxed.

In one hand she held the remote, and she pointed it at the television and started surfing while with the other hand, which rested lazily on Don's chest, she traced abstract circles around his nipple. She considered the best way to get him to talk. When it came to the 'caring and sharing' part of life, Don Eppes could be – hell, face it; he usually was – a lot of work. She was experienced at cross-examination, though. She had ways of making people talk.

She settled on a course of action. "Remind me to thank Charlie," she said lightly, switching to another station.

Don grunted. "Hey; go back – that one looked good. Why are you thanking Charlie?"

She found the channel she wanted and lowered the remote to the bed beside them. "Ah, there it is. Deadliest Catch. I'm worried about Captain Phil. And every time you're pissed at Charlie, you're particularly rambunctious in the sack. I lose five pounds every go-round. Since the whole clearance debacle, I've become positively svelte."

He grunted again, shifting a little against her. "Not a damn cop show, honey – I get enough of that in real life!" He pushed meaningfully back into her chest. "You don't have to worry about the way you look, anyway. You're freakin' gorgeous."

She laughed, finding it perhaps the most artfully phrased compliment she had ever received. "It's not a cop show," she protested. "These are crab fisherman, on the Bering Sea…" – she pinched his nipple playfully – "…off Alaska. This is where we're going on our honeymoon."

To her dismay, Don stiffened. Well, she was dismayed about which part of Don stiffened. The two of them often teased each other about marriage, but tonight it seemed to plunge him further into his funk. "I'm not pissed about the clearance," he admitted, muttering into her arm. He shifted, again. "I mean, no more than usual. He's found a new way to insult me!"

Robin stopped playing with his nipple and slapped lightly at his pectoral before bringing her other hand up to fully encircle him in her embrace. "Don," she chided. "Have you spoken with Dr. Bradford about this…this unhealthy belief you insist on carting around? Charlie didn't do what he did to insult you."

He sulked. "How do you know? You haven't even heard what he did, yet!"

She rested her chin lightly on the top of his head. "I'm talking about losing his clearance."

Don suddenly pushed up against her arms and broke free of them, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and perching on the edge. He ran one hand through his hair. "Maybe that wasn't his original motivation," he insisted, "but I'm sure he's loving the fringe benefits."

Robin pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, instead. "What are you talking about?"

Don looked at her with such a sullen expression she felt a little fear as she glimpsed the future. If they did get married and have a family, their little boy would look like this all the time. "All I know is that even with things the way they are between us – if I was getting married, I'd ask him to be my Best Man." He snorted derisively, looking away. "Goes without saying I'd tell him first, of course."

The light dawned. "Ah," Robin breathed, reaching out to start massaging his tense shoulders. "So that's it. Has he asked someone else?"

Don shrugged under her touch. "Beats me."

She considered her words before she spoke. "When we had dinner with your father last night, he indicated that Charlie and Amita haven't set a date yet, or even decided what sort of ceremony they're having. Do traditional Indian weddings even have a 'Best Man'?" He refused to answer her, so she plunged ahead. "He's probably just waiting until he has something more specific to go on." The logical tone she saved for closing arguments took over her voice. "I mean, if you want to talk about insults…wouldn't it be a greater insult to ask you to be his Best Man and then tell you he didn't need one after all?"

Don growled low in the back of his throat and then whipped around to silence her with a kiss. "So," he whispered, dropping one hand to her bare hip. "You could stand to lose a few more pounds."

Robin squealed when his mouth dropped lower, latching onto a breast. She buried both hands in his short, dark hair. "Oh, my," she breathed, her eyes almost rolling back into her head. "What am I getting myself into?"

………………………………………

The drive up Mulholland had been staggering. The views – from L.A.'s urban skyline to pastoral scenes – were so extraordinary that Charlie had a difficult time keeping the Prius on the road. True, he was a child of L.A., but he hadn't traveled in these circles. Frankly, before Ruby had thrown him into the deep end of the pool, he had never even considered how the other half lived. Charlie had always enjoyed a comfortable life – but these were the very rich, the very famous. Comfort in a place like Pasadena was no-doubt a soup kitchen to them. At one point, Charlie thought he recognized Diana Ross walking a poodle down the pristine sidewalk, and it surprised him a little how starstruck he was.

Eventually he eased the Prius to a gate at the foot of a long and winding driveway. He announced himself to the mounted speaker system – waving into a video camera he spied near the top of the arch – and the gates soon swept open. He urged his car forward, and traveled another eighth of a mile before the spacious, multi-level home came into view. It was nothing short of opulent, and already well lit for the evening, even though it was only 7:30 in the late spring, and the sun would not set for another hour. He pulled to a stop in front, behind a limousine disgorging a well-dressed couple whose shoes probably cost more than his vehicle. There was a sharp rap on his window and he started, turning his head to see a smiling valet.

J.T. Morrison had a valet service at his parties. Unbelievable.

Unaccountably nervous, Charlie smiled back and shifted the car into 'Park'. When the valet opened his door for him so that Charlie could step outside, he held out his hand. At first, Charlie thought he wanted a tip, and he was confused. Didn't one usually tip the valet at the end of the evening? And if one could afford valets at one's private party, did they still work for tips? Then he heard the handsome young man – a model out of work, probably – speak. "Your phone, sir?" He remembered then what Amita had said about the cell phones.

"Right," he stammered, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing the offensive device. He handed his car and his phone over to a complete stranger, cleared his throat, and started up the Italian tile toward the front door.

J.T. Morrison himself met Charlie there. The young professor was soon well and truly swept off his feet, introduced to more pretty people than he would ever remember. Morrison was sticking close, which was oddly gratifying. He provided a tour of the mansion; leading Charlie up and down so many different winding staircases, he was hopelessly lost within five minutes. After the media room, in the walk-in wine cellar, Morrison insisted upon opening a bottle of 2000 Bordeaux, an offering from Chateau Lafite Rothschild, and sharing a private glass or two with Charlie. Not exactly a stranger to good wine himself, Dr, Eppes was still nearly brought to his knees. The intense flavors of layer upon layer of fruit that cascaded richly over his palate with extraordinary silky precision and seamlessness nearly took his breath away.

Morrison's eyes sparkled over the rim of his glass. "Wonderfully light on its feet, don't you think?" he asked, giving the crystal goblet a swirl.

Charlie choked out a response. "Yet it shows remarkable restraint," he croaked.

Morrison chuckled, and insisted on filling their glasses again. "You'll join the others in the pool and work this off," he said when Charlie tried to stop him. "Not to worry. Besides, if it is unwise for you to get behind the wheel after any of my parties, you are welcome to one of my eight guest suites."

Parties? As in plural? Was Morrison saying that Charlie was on the A-list, now?

He grinned, and enjoyed the wine. Later, after Morrison had pointed out the pool house and assured him that he would find a pair of trunks that fit inside, Charlie weaved around the clumps of guests who dotted the perimeter of the lagoon pool. At one point, a completely naked woman floated by on a pool chaise, her eyes closed. Charlie's own eyes widened, but with an effort he stopped himself from turning around to look at the buxom beauty again.

The sun had almost set by the time he came shyly out of the pool house in a brand new pair of trunks and nothing else. The estate was well illuminated, though, and from his vantage point nearby, Morrison could see Charlie's lean body clearly. Dark hair covered his chest, arms and legs. Sinewy muscles rippled just beneath the surface. J.T. watched Charlie step into the water, saw him smile at the couple wading toward him, and licked his lips.

He had to take his time with this one – but he wasn't sure he could. "Ohhh," he nearly groaned, watching Charlie. "What am I getting myself into?"

……………………………………

Amita had told Dane Rastenbaum about Charlie's invitation, and the two had laughed and made light-hearted jokes about their new jet-setter for the first half of the evening before exhaustion began to creep up on them both, and they began speaking only when necessary.

Now, Rastenbaum was standing at the board in Amita's office, using a lemon-scented dry erase marker to phrase a working hypothesis. Amita, seated at her desk, looked up from her laptop long enough to note again how well his dark polo fit. She could see the six-pack abs outlined beneath the material, and she wondered abstractly what he did to maintain his physique. He glanced at her and smiled, his teeth an almost-dazzling white, and she started when she realized she had been staring. She made a hurried comment about the weather and refocused on her laptop, chagrined. She was tired, she told herself, and easily distracted.

She had almost convinced herself that this was true when Dr. Rastenbaum dropped the dry erase marker. It clattered on the floor, and she looked up from the computer at the sound. This time she caught an eyeful of Dane's firm, fine behind, as it arched into an artful curve when he bent to pick up the marker. He smiled at her again when he straightened, and she blushed furiously as she looked down at the desk and pretended to search for something on the cluttered wood. "Oh my God," she despaired silently. "What am I getting myself into?"

……………………………………………….

End, Chapter 4