Title: High Society

Chapter 8: There's Got to be a Morning After

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Charlie groaned, and his mouth closed on a large wad of cotton. It wasn't until he tried to swallow that he realized that the cotton was his tongue, and he groaned again as a surge of nausea was answered by a corresponding burst of pain in his head. He managed to open an eye, and took in the dim room around him, then closed it again. Wait a minute, where in the hell was he? He opened both eyes this time, and took in the strange bedroom with growing confusion. Soft light came from an attached bathroom and illuminated the sleek German digital clock by the bedside. Twelve-thirty p.m. he read, and it took another minute to register that in spite of the darkness in the room, it was p.m., not a.m. – it was the middle of the day, it was dark, and he had no idea where he was. He flung back the down comforter and discovered, to his chagrin, that he was wearing nothing but boxers. He'd just woken up half-clothed in a strange bedroom after apparently drinking himself unconscious. Not good.

He pushed himself slowly into a sitting position, and looked around the room. Morrison – he still must be at the mogul's estate, he realized. The last thing he remembered was drinking wine in the tasting room…

"Aw, damn it," he muttered anxiously, suddenly throwing the blankets aside and fighting to get his legs over the side of the bed, as he remembered his date with Amita. He struggled to his feet, the room rolled, and he rolled with it, swaying badly. Nausea erupted again, and he staggered for the bathroom, which was fortunately bathed in soft light from a night light, because he wouldn't have found the light switch in time.

After emptying his gut, he staggered back out, breathing heavily, bathed in a cold sweat. Someone had told him once that good wine didn't give one a hangover, but that was obviously a myth. He'd never felt so bad in his life. He sank onto the edge of the bed until the room stopped whirling, and gingerly turned his head this way and that, until he spied a phone. He stood, weaved over, and grabbed the receiver, thanking God it was cordless, as he wobbled back to the bed and collapsed on the edge. Peering at the buttons in the dim light, he dialed.

The answering machine at Amita's apartment came on, and he hung up and tried again, this time dialing her cell phone.

"Hello?" He could hear the question in her voice, and he knew she was wondering at the strange number.

"Amita?" he croaked.

"Who is this?"

He cleared his throat and tried again. "It's Charlie." He sounded pitiful.

"Oh." He could hear the disapproval in her voice. Not good.

"Amita, I – uh -," he paused, struggling to find words that didn't sound so incriminating. "I'm sorry I missed our outing -,"

"That's okay," she said, sarcasm rolling through the words. He could hear muted conversation, and the clink of silverware. "I enjoy running around late on Friday nights picking up food for a picnic, and then getting up at seven on my day off, for nothing. I hope you enjoyed yourself."

"I'm sorry," he repeated miserably. "I don't know how it happened – I didn't think I was that bad, and I was on my last one so I could sober up to drive home, and I -," Wow, this sounded awful. "I don't remember anymore."

"Look, Charlie, I really don't want to have this conversation right now. I'm in the middle of lunch." Her voice was curt.

"Lunch?" His gut lurched again.

"Yes – with Dane. We decided to get some work done, since I suddenly ended up with a free day, and we took a break for lunch. I'll talk to you later." He heard a click; then a soft tone, and fumbled for the 'off' button, despondently.

………………………..

J.T. Morrison looked at the pale young man slumped across from him in the back seat of the limousine. "Charlie, I am so sorry. This is all my fault."

Charlie waved a hand at him, although his face remained downcast. "No, it wasn't your fault. I should have known better than to mix tequila and wine."

Morrison shook his head, and a slight grin crept to his face. "If you could see how awful you look," he said and Charlie turned his head, catching the friendly sympathy in the other man's eyes. At least one person on the planet felt sorry for him, he thought.

He smiled back, although it was faint, and rueful. "Actually, I have to thank you. I needed to blow off some steam last night, and apparently I succeeded."

Morrison threw back his head and laughed. "You've got that right." He smiled at Charlie, affectionately. "Look – I don't know if you have plans for tomorrow, but the Dodgers are at home – would you want to go? It's a four o'clock game, I have a loge, and I invited a few friends. Let me make it up to you – and no alcohol involved, unless you want it."

Charlie hesitated – he really wanted to spend time with Amita, but he had no idea whether she would be available or not on Sunday. "That sounds great, but I'm not sure – I should really talk with Amita -,"

"I understand," said Morrison agreeably. "Why don't you program my cell number into your phone, and you can call me later and let me know for sure?"

He handed Charlie his cell phone and recited the number, watching the young man's nimble fingers as he punched in the number and saved it. The limo was turning down a side street and Morrison glanced behind him, making sure that the man driving Charlie's Prius was keeping up behind them. As they pulled in front of an attractive Craftsman home, Morrison's eyes narrowed, as he picked out two men in the front yard, doing yard work. No truck in sight, so they weren't hired help. One older man and one younger man, although both appeared to be older than Charlie was. The father and the brother, no doubt. The limo came to stop along the curb, and his man pulled the Prius into the driveway, as the two men straightened. The older man looked a bit surprised and impressed, but the younger one's face was like stone, his dark eyes hard, disapproval on his face. Morrison smiled to himself. He'd apparently not only managed to anger the fiancée, he'd irritated Charlie's agent brother, also. He decided on the spot to confront them, to see if he could further his agenda.

He stepped out and fell in beside Charlie, who was pale, and still looked unsteady on his feet. "Beautiful home," he said.

Charlie glanced at him, and a slight tinge of pink actually came into the wan face. "Thank you. I grew up here. I bought it from my father."

The other two men were coming forward, and Morrison put on his most engaging smile as they stopped, facing each other on the lawn. Charlie spoke up, "J.T., this is my father, Alan Eppes, and my brother, Don. Don, Dad, Mr. Morrison."

"J.T., please." Morrison put out his hand, shaking Alan's warmly, then Don's. The father was impressed, he could tell, although he sent Charlie a stern look.

"I have to thank you for bringing my son home," Alan said. "I'm sorry for any inconvenience he may have caused."

"Oh, he caused no inconvenience, at all," said Morrison. "I was driving into L.A. today anyway, it was no problem." He clapped a friendly hand at the base of Charlie's neck, and watched the agent's eyes narrow even further. "Dr. Eppes is a breath of fresh air." He dropped his hand and winked conspiratorially. "In my profession, I get an overdose of mindless Hollywood glitz. It's nice to talk to someone intelligent."

Alan beamed at that, and the agent's face relaxed slightly, but he still looked wary. Morrison bid them good-bye, politely, reflecting that it was lucky the two brothers weren't getting along. Agent Eppes didn't look like someone he would want to cross. The bigger the chasm he could put between the brothers, the better.

As he stepped back into the limo, his thoughts turned toward the professor's girlfriend. He'd done some research on her that morning, and as the vehicle pulled down the street, he pressed the intercom button for the driver. "Take me to CalSci."

"The campus, sir?"

Morrison sat back against the seat. "None other. It's close to here."

"Yes, sir."

He really hadn't any intention other than to look at the place, but as the limo tooled through Pasadena traffic, a vague notion crept into his head. Perhaps he could invite the girlfriend to the game, also, the next day, and stage something to upset her – maybe pay off some wanna-be starlets to fawn over Charlie. The thoughts were still rolling around his head as they turned into the roads around the campus, and he ordered the driver to slow, cruising slowly along as he took in the surroundings. As they turned a corner, he spied two figures walking down the sidewalk, and realized with a start it was her – Amita.

Morrison had seen her at the restaurant and he had also spent some time researching her on the computer, so he was certain it was she. Interestingly enough, she was walking with a tall, athletic-looking blond man, and as he watched, a sudden thought occurred to Morrison.

In addition to his loge at the stadium, he kept several of the best seats reserved for those of his guests who enjoyed the authentic ballpark atmosphere, and liked to sit in the stands for at least a few innings. He hit the intercom for the driver. "Sammy, is there a file in the front seat?"

"Yes, sir."

"Pull over for a minute, and take a look inside. There should be an envelope with extra tickets for the game tomorrow."

"Yes, sir, I see them."

"All right, pull up near that couple up ahead and park as close as you can. Listen carefully."

………………………

Amita was in the middle of discussing the applicability of Poisson distributions to certain data sets, when Dane's attentive eyes suddenly left her face, and looked over her shoulder. At the same time she heard footsteps, and curious, she turned to see a man in a suit approaching them. He was wearing a small cap with a bill, like a doorman or a limo driver, and behind him, sure enough, she could see a limousine pulled up to the curb, its dark tinted windows hiding any occupants.

"Excuse, me, sir, miss?" the man said, with an apologetic smile. "I'm handing out tickets to tomorrow's Dodgers home game on behalf of the Dodgers' ownership. We've had a slump in attendance lately, and the team owner is running a promotion, giving out a few free tickets." He had stopped in front of them, smiling. "Especially to attractive young people such as yourselves. He's trying to bring in college students, young people, to make the crowd look more hip on television." He held out two tickets, one in each hand. "I'd appreciate it if you would each take one, and consider going to the game."

"Oh, I don't know -," said Amita. She was smiling, but she looked uncertain.

"They're authentic – if you want to verify that, simply call the ticket office and give them the number at the bottom." The man smiled, disarmingly. "It's not like I'm asking for money for them." He glanced back at the limo. "Look, my boss is in the car, watching. Just do me a favor and take them – you can decide yourselves if you want to go later." He handed a ticket to each of them, and took off down the sidewalk, and they watched as he approached two students, waving two more tickets to flag them down.

They both looked down at their tickets at the same time, and then up at each other. "Huh," said Dane, "if I'm not mistaken, these are some really good seats. Would you want to go?"

Amita fingered her ticket. "I'm not sure," she said doubtfully. "Charlie might want to do something, since we didn't today-,"

Dane was smiling at her, but he was shaking his head. "Listen to yourself. You've done nothing but work all week, and he stood you up today. You said he wasn't feeling well – what if he isn't up for anything tomorrow, either? You owe yourself a break – and so what if he did want to do something? It's not every day you get a free ticket to a major league game. I'm sure he'd understand."

He looked at her, with the amused, knowing smile that she was beginning to have a hard time resisting. "It would be fun," she admitted.

"Great!" he enthused, taking her statement as an acceptance. "I'll plan on picking you up at two. Now, where were we?" They continued down the walk, oblivious to the keen eyes observing them from behind the dark glass of the limousine windows.

…………………………

Don sat slumped in the armchair, an absent frown on his face as he observed his brother. Charlie was dead to the world, sleeping on the living room sofa, a damp curl plastered to his pale forehead.

After Morrison had gone, Charlie had wobbled inside, but no sooner did he get through the doorway than he was stumbling for the bathroom, where he'd been violently ill, and had actually gone down on his knees as he tried to make it to the sofa. Alan, concerned, had asked Charlie to tell him what he'd had the night before, but all Charlie could remember was two margaritas and two glasses of wine, maybe three. Granted, that was a fair amount, but it had been spread over a few hours, and shouldn't have generated the reaction they were seeing now. Either Charlie was mistaken about what he'd had, or was lying. A few weeks ago, Don would have assumed mistaken. Now, he wasn't so sure.

He reflected, as he looked at the wan face, that he really didn't know his brother as well as he thought he had. No, he corrected himself – he did know the old Charlie, he just didn't have a grip on this new model, yet. This Charlie was a rebel – sending emails that resulted in the revocation of his security clearance, partying with a fast crowd, drinking too much. Even his engagement to Amita spoke of a different mindset – the old Charlie hadn't seemed ready to take that step. This Charlie seemed to be willing to put everything he once had behind him, and move on. Not that Don begrudged him that. It was just that he was doing it with such frightening speed. As if he couldn't wait to get away from his past, from his days of consulting, from a life that once included his brother.

All of it was unsettling, but there was something else here, something that made Don extremely uneasy, although he couldn't put his finger on it. It was going off in the back of his mind like the flashing lights on a police cruiser, and when Morrison had been there, the feeling was that much stronger – as if the blare of a siren accompanied the lights. He couldn't imagine why – the man was an icon in the community, and certainly did seem to be genuinely impressed with Charlie. Don knew it was probably nothing more than his discomfort with being cast aside, but the troubling impression remained. Something was not right here, somewhere.

Charlie suddenly lifted a hand and batted at the air next to his face, as if shooing away an insect. His eyes flickered open, still dazed with sleep, and he muttered, "Stop touching me." He blinked, and looked crossly at Don, still trying to focus.

"I wasn't touching you," Don retorted.

"Were too," Charlie scowled. "You touched my cheek and my hair." His hand went to his head suddenly, patting it, as if looking for something that Don might have placed there.

Don looked at him as if he was certifiably insane. "Charlie, I'm sitting way over here – I haven't moved for twenty minutes. You must have been dreaming."

"Mm," Charlie grunted. His eyes closed again, but he was frowning. In moments, he was asleep again, the frown had eased, but there was still a faint line between his brows. Don tightened his lips, and shook his head. Silence settled again, thick, and somehow ominous.

…………………………..

End Chapter 8