Title: High Society

Chapter 7: Wasting Away Again in Margaritaville

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Charlie downed another healthy swallow of his margarita, and surveyed the crowd. This week's party had an island theme – complete with tropical drinks and exotic appetizers. He was on his second margarita; he'd downed the first, still seething over his argument with Don. The second was beginning to sink in, and as he swayed a little, he realized belatedly that the drinks packed more of a punch than he'd thought. He was starting to relax, however, and as he looked around the room, he realized that the partygoers this week seemed much different from the week before.

This was a looser-looking, faster crowd by far, and a lot less inhibited. One couple was blatantly necking in the corner already, and Charlie blushed a little and looked away. The group in which he was standing was discussing what had sounded like an interesting movie, until he realized that they were talking about a porn flick, and he decided to go for a stroll. His walk threatened to weave a little, and he moved carefully through the room, and headed toward the far wing. There was another new movie in the screening room, apparently, an advance copy of a highly anticipated release, but it was well underway, and Amita had said she wanted to see it, so Charlie decided not to watch. Instead, he ambled back down the hallway, aimlessly following a woman into the other wing.

He hadn't been into that part of the building before, and realized that it was the wing that held the guest suites that his host had mentioned the week before. A door was open to one of them, and he peered in, gaping. The room was huge, with two king-sized canopy beds, a flat screen television the size of Charlie's car, luxuriously upholstered furniture and its own bar. Through a door, he could glimpse a marble bathroom with a huge whirlpool tub. He took another swig of his drink, shaking his head in amazement, and proceeded down the hall. He could hear voices, music and laughter coming from a room up ahead, and he headed towards it, stopping short at the doorway.

It was open a few inches, and the sight inside stopped him short. Several people, at least six, were in the room, and involved in some serious necking. One woman already had her shirt off, and none of them appeared to care that there were others in the room. He jerked his head away, and turned back down the hall in shock, almost darting into Morrison himself.

"There you are," exclaimed Morrison, and looked with puzzlement at Charlie's stunned expression. He stepped around him and looked into the room, pretending surprise. He knew well what was going on inside; it wasn't an uncommon occurrence for couples or groups to disappear to his guest suites, and he had a housekeeping staff continually refresh the rooms during the evening. He knew he had to tread carefully with his new interest, however, and so he shook his head, saying, "This is how they repay their host." He took Charlie by the arm. "Come on – I'm going to have my security people roust them."

Charlie was beet-red by then, but he stammered, "You don't need to do that on my account. It's really none of my business."

Morrison sighed. "This is why my parties get the reputation they do." He smiled at Charlie conspiratorially, releasing his arm and guiding him down the hall with a gentle touch on his back. "Not that I'm against a good time – I just need to maintain some kind of order. Don't worry – my security people will be discreet – I don't want to ruffle any feathers." He glanced down at Charlie's drink. "That was fine for a starter, but I imagine you'd rather have some wine – and so would I. Give me a minute, and we'll take a trip down to the tasting room."

Before Charlie could protest, he stepped away and spoke to a large man in a suit, who Charlie had assumed was one of the guests, but apparently was a bodyguard or security of some type. Returning, Morrison led the way to yet another hallway, and a small elevator. "I took you down the stairs last week," said Morrison, "but at this end of the house we're closer to the elevator." Not to mention the fact that the professor already looked unsteady on his feet, he thought.

Downstairs, they wound their way through what appeared to be yet more guestrooms, which Charlie hadn't seen the week before. In fact, he was becoming a bit disoriented. As they made the end of the hallway, Charlie saw the stairs and got his bearings, following Morrison into the tasting room, a dark cozy room with a fireplace, leather furniture, and a humidor, with venting for the cigar smoke, for those who wanted to indulge in one of Morrison's fine Cubans. Morrison retrieved a bottle of wine, and poured them each a healthy glass, and they sank into facing leather chairs.

Charlie sniffed at it appreciably, before tasting it. "That's a Chateau Latour Pauillac, 1990," his host said. "Do you like it?"

"Wow," said Charlie, after the burst of flavor had subsided, trying to pick out the subtle after tones. "It's great." He took another sip, feeling the warmth spread through his body. "You know, I appreciate this, but you really don't have to baby-sit me."

Morrison threw his head back and laughed, revealing strong even white teeth. "It's my pleasure, believe me. In my business, I need to do a lot of entertaining to keep up my contacts, but frankly, I find the parties get a bit old, especially when I have a crowd like tonight's. They're not exactly scintillating conversationalists. As you can see, my guest list varies from week to week – I try to keep the lowbrows in one group, and my more cerebral guests in another. To be truthful, you don't belong in this group, but I invited you for my own sanity. I was hoping we could escape and have a civilized conversation."

The young man looked flattered, and Morrison gently led him into a conversation by starting out with details of his own youth, most of which were false, but the professor wouldn't know that. In truth, Morrison generally enjoyed his parties, and had ended up more than once with some of his guests in the guest rooms, but only after the party had ended and the majority of revelers had gone. Charlie's reaction, however, had made him cautious. They young man was more naïve than he'd thought, and judging by the young woman he'd been with at the restaurant, heterosexual. There was nothing like alcohol to loosen a person up, however, and Morrison poured liberally as they talked. By the time he got around to asking questions about Charlie, the professor was more than a little inebriated, and it didn't take much to provoke some venting.

"So your brother's in the FBI. That must be interesting. You said you did consulting – do you ever work together?"

Charlie's expression darkened, and he looked away. "We used to. We don't really get along that well anymore, since - ,"

Morrison's eyebrows rose. "Since?"

Charlie paused, and looked back at him. Truthfully, he was longing for someone to talk to about what had happened, and Morrison seemed so sympathetic. Plus, Charlie figured if the man hadn't been rattled by what looked to be the beginnings of an orgy, then he wouldn't think twice about someone losing a security clearance. So he told him – about Don, about the consulting, about losing his clearance and why. Much to his gratification, Morrison was extremely sympathetic – or at least so he thought; he was getting somewhat fuzzyheaded.

"I think it's admirable," Morrison said, with feeling. "Heroic, even. You stood up for your principles, for the lives of others, at your own expense. Your family must have been extremely proud." Secretly, he couldn't have cared less, except for the fact that the professor now seemed to be on the wrong side of the law – a plus as far as Morrison was concerned.

"Not really," Charlie said glumly. "Don couldn't understand it – for him, the law is the law, and I broke it. I let him down, and he's let me know it. We really don't talk much anymore. And my dad's upset because we don't."

Morrison's eyes glinted. The news was getting better. "And what do your friends think?"

Charlie sighed. "Well, I don't see much of Don's team, anymore. We weren't really close, but I thought I'd gotten to be friends, especially with a couple of them." He fell silent, thinking of the time he'd confided in Colby after the attempt on his life, and of David watching over him, more than once, when Don felt he'd needed protection. Those days were over - he was on his own now. "My closest friend at school, Professor Fleinhardt, has always supported me, but he moved recently, to Washington, D.C." He brightened a little. "My fiancée, though, has been great about it."

Morrison pursed his lips. His fiancée – the competition. "That must have been the lovely young woman I saw at the restaurant. Have you set a date?"

"No, we really have no definite plans – it will probably be at least two years before we figure it out. Her family's from India; and Amita's not even sure which country the wedding will be in, yet."

Morrison leaned forward and poured Charlie another glass of wine, and sat back, listening and thinking. He had a penchant for young men and abusive relationships, and his eyes wandered over the professor's face, following his neckline down to the shoulders, the torso, wondering how it would feel to subdue him, to humiliate him. His first long relationship had been with Ramon, his personal assistant, who had a craving for abuse, and was hopelessly in love with his employer. Morrison rarely dallied with Ramon anymore; he'd found it more exciting to pursue new prey, preferably someone inexperienced, naïve – someone he could destroy, dismantle, defile. His lawyer, van Clefe, suspected some of it; he'd had to help smooth things over once or twice with some of Morrison's earlier liaisons.

Since then, J.T. had gotten smart. He selected only upstanding citizens in the community, or young actors with a definite future – anyone with a lot to lose if word got out of an illicit relationship. The trick was to get them into an initial compromising position, take photos and video, and the rest was pure blackmail – Morrison found it easy to get them to do his bidding, they were so desperate for secrecy. Van Clefe, of course, wasn't aware of that – all he knew was that for the last two years, Morrison had apparently kept to consensual relationships with young men. He smiled, as he watched Charlie take another sip of wine, and his eyes lingered on the young man's lips. Consensual – nothing could be further from the truth.

The professor had presented an especially sticky problem, with a federal agent for a brother. Morrison had done some research, and was dismayed to find that the professor had consulted for government agencies. He hadn't been quite ready to abandon him, however – hell, the fact was he couldn't stop thinking about him, and it had been a pleasant surprise to find out that he had apparently put himself on the wrong side of law, and alienated himself from his brother. Morrison would further that; he always began by befriending his victims, and slowly but inexorably drove a wedge between them and their friends and family. The young man was at a low point in his life, apparently – the only truly close relationships he appeared to have were those with his father and his fiancée. Of those, the fiancée appeared to be the biggest problem. As Morrison listened to Charlie, by now slurring his speech, talk enthusiastically about their planned trip to Big Sur in the morning, he saw an opportunity.

"It sounds wonderful," he said, as he rose to open another bottle of wine.

"Oh, thas okay," Charlie tried to wave him off when he realized that Morrison was going for more wine. "I have to sstop so I can drive home – I have to get up early in th'morning." He frowned, blinked, and rubbed his eyes, obviously trying to straighten out his vision.

Morrison had already stepped into the wine cellar, and the soft thunk of a cork being withdrawn from the bottle made Charlie wince.

"What was that?" Morrison called out, pretending not to hear.

Charlie sighed. The wine Morrison had just opened had undoubtedly cost a fortune – to be polite, he should drink some of it – just one more glass; he told himself. He peered at his watch. It was still early – if he stopped after this glass, he'd have a few hours to sober up before he drove home.

Morrison shot a quick glance out through the doorway to make sure the professor was staying put, and pulled out two fresh glasses from the shelves, then quickly felt for a button, disguised as wood paneling, on the side of the case. A small door hidden below popped open and he poked at the contents with a forefinger until he found the pillbox with the drug he wanted, extracting a capsule. He slipped the drawer shut and opened the capsule, pouring the contents into a glass, following it with wine. It was a powerful sedative, and was somewhat dangerous on top of that much alcohol, but Morrison had experience with it – lots of it.

He carried the two glasses into the room and handed the one with the sedative to Charlie, then ducked back in to retrieve the bottle, displaying it. "This one's a Chateaux Margaux 1995," he said, smiling. "Try this."

"That's good," Charlie conceded after a sip. He really didn't like it quite as well as the one before it – it had a slightly bitter taste, but it was still far superior to anything else he'd ever had outside of Morrison's estate. He smiled apologetically. "I can only have one more glass, though."

Morrison smiled back. 'That's all you'll need,' he thought to himself. Aloud, he said, "Of course. I understand - you have your outing tomorrow."

Less than twenty minutes later, he pulled the glass from the professor's nearly nerveless fingers, and as the young man's head drooped and his eyes shut, he called for Ramon. Between the two of them, they managed to carry the limp form into a nearby guest room.

"Strip him down to his underwear," Morrison instructed, "he should be comfortable."

Ramon shot him a glance that said he knew that Morrison had other motives than wanting the young man comfortable. His long-lashed eyes flashed with jealousy, and he pouted slightly, but he did as he was told, removing Charlie's clothes and hanging them neatly in the closet, then silently leaving the room.

Morrison surveyed the boxer-clad figure on the bed, and swallowed, trying to contain the untoward urges the sight generated. He could take him now, he knew – but Morrison wanted him aware enough to know what was happening, when the time came. His eyes roved over the lean limbs, he traced a finger over the young man's cheek, and touched his dark curls. Then he pulled the comforter over the unconscious form, stepped out, and shut the door.

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Alan paced nervously behind the sofa, and glanced at the clock, although it was only two minutes since the last time he looked at it – 9:33 a.m. "Maybe we should try to call the estate."

Don was lounging on the sofa in sweatpants and a T-shirt, nursing a coffee and a bit of a hangover – he'd had a few too many beers last night, downed in the aftermath of his argument with Charlie. He grimaced. "I don't think you're gonna find that number in the phone book, Dad. Give it a rest – sit down. I'm sure he's fine."

"He's not answering his cell," Alan fumed, still pacing. "We have no idea if he even made it up there last night. All those winding roads – he could have gone over an edge."

"Of course he's not answering his cell," grouched Don. The conversation was hurting his head, and although he was trying to downplay it for his father's sake, he was worried himself. "They take their cell phones before they go in, remember?"

The phone rang before he could continue, and Alan lurched across the room and snatched the receiver. "Hello?" His eyes widened, he glanced at Don, and hit the speaker button. "Yes, Mr. Morrison, how are you?" Don arched an eyebrow and looked at him over the back of the sofa.

"I wasn't certain," came the smooth voice over the line, "but thought I remembered that Charlie said you lived at his home with him, and I feared you might be concerned about him. I wanted to let you know, he's fine. He had a bit too much wine last night – my fault, I'm afraid, and is sleeping it off here. I'll make sure he gets home all right."

"Oh, thank you," Alan stammered, obviously slightly star-struck. "We were a bit worried – it's very kind of you to call."

"Not a problem." The voice floated out over the phone. "He's quite a remarkable young man; I enjoyed our conversation last evening."

They exchanged good-byes, and Alan hung up the phone, with a sigh of relief. No sooner had he done so, than it rang again, and he lifted the receiver, again hitting the speaker button. "Hello?"

"Alan?" Amita's voice came over the line, sounding slightly perturbed. "Is Charlie there?"

"No, dear, he isn't home yet."

"Isn't home yet? From the party?" Amita sounded incredulous.

Alan glanced at Don, guiltily. "I just got a phone call from Mr. Morrison – apparently Charlie drank a little too much to drive home, and spent the night at the estate. Did you need something specifically?"

Her voice now sounded as though she was trying to keep the anger out of it. "He was supposed to pick me up at 8:30 this morning for a drive up to Big Sur," she said.

Don's eyebrows rose, and he smirked a little. "Ooh, he's busted," he murmured.

"What?" asked Amita, crossly.

Alan shook his head warningly at Don. "Nothing, dear. I'm sorry, I didn't realize that."

Amita sounded impatient. "It's not your fault, Alan. Do you have any idea when he'll be in?"

Alan gaped and looked at Don for help. Don shrugged. "You'd better tell her not to wait around," he said.

"What?" repeated Amita.

"We were just saying you shouldn't wait," Alan said to the phone. "We're not sure."

There was a moment of silence, then an icy, "Okay, thanks, Alan. I'll talk to you later."

"Good-bye, dear."

Alan hit disconnect, and shook his head. "Well, he certainly didn't score any points with Amita."

Don snorted. "I should say not. She probably got up early to get ready." He took a sip of coffee. 'Serves him right,' he thought to himself, self-righteously. 'I told him that crowd was trouble.' Still, the whole thing was unnerving. He had never known Charlie to get so inebriated he couldn't make it home – hell, Charlie hardly ever drank enough to get slightly tipsy. He took another drink, and tried to swallow the uneasy feeling that sat in his throat, along with the coffee.

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End Chapter 7