Title: High Society

Chapter 9: He Said, She Said

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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When Charlie awoke Sunday morning, Don was long-gone – and Charlie would have liked to spend another day lounging on the couch. He wasn't quite as nauseous as he had been the day before, but he still didn't feel "normal"; in fact, he had improved to the point where it was starting to feel like he had a regular hangover. He lay on his back in his bed and blinked blearily at the ceiling, and tried to decide if he felt even worse because of the psychological impact.

To begin with, he had some serious groveling to do with Amita. He really hadn't been up to even begging the day before, and he had let her hang up on him in a snit. He had to make it up to her, regardless of how he felt physically.

He sat up gingerly on the side of the bed and groaned, letting his head fall into his hands. With his luck, he would probably find himself all over the entertainment pages of the Sunday newspaper, and he groaned again thinking of how he'd embarrassed himself in front of J.T. Two things were relatively certain: One, he was never going to pretend to be a wine connoisseur again – he still could not believe how a few glasses of appallingly expensive wine had turned him into…whatever he was now; and Two, he would never be invited to another of J.T.'s parties, so it probably didn't matter much in the end. Charlie lived a comfortable life. Some would even call it extravagant. But he had perused the bottom row of dusty bottles in the wine cellar – one of those bottles would clean out his bank account for a year.

He felt a little better after a long, hot shower. When he exited the bathroom, a towel around his waist, the smell of something cooking wafted up the stairs. His stomach lurched in protest, and he knew he would soon add his father to the list of people he'd disappointed this weekend. Alan had obviously started breakfast, and Charlie was obviously not going to have any.

He staggered a little as he entered his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. As he groped around the top of the desk near his bed, looking for his cell phone, he saw that it was nearly 10 a.m., already. Breakfast would be long over by now; Alan must have heard Charlie stirring and decided to warm something up. Great. Things just got better and better.

Finally snagging the cell, he sank down onto the edge of the bed and depressed the '1', speed-dialing Amita. At first he thought she wasn't even going to bother to answer, but just before her voice-mail would kick in, he was greeted with a decidedly frosty, "Good morning, Charlie. How are you, today?"

He swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm much better, thank-you," he lied, opening his eyes again and fixating on the small frame on the desktop that held Amita's photo. "I wanted to call and say again how sorry I am. I don't know what happened…"

She snorted. "I do."

Charlie felt himself flushing with embarrassment and shook his head, and the phone with it. "Well, yeah. I mean, it seems obvious. I just don't remember having that much to drink."

Her tone was not warming up. "I believe short-term memory loss is a consequence of an alcoholic stupor, Charlie."

His shoulders slumped dejectedly. "No, you're right. You're right – and I'm not trying to make excuses, really. I was an ass, and I'm very sorry I ruined our day, yesterday. Did you at least get some work done with…with Dane?"

Amita cleared her throat. "Yes," she answered, businesslike. "It was very productive."

Charlie sighed, wondering if she would ever thaw out. "I want to make it up to you, 'Mita," he groveled sincerely. "Maybe we could spend the afternoon together? We'll do whatever you want."

Amita's tone warmed up just a tad, but a hint of regret also entered her voice. "I'm sorry, Charlie. That sounds nice, really. I'd like to…but I have…other plans."

Charlie didn't even try to hide his disappointment, even while he made an attempt at considering her needs. "Oh. Oh. I'm sure you have a lot to do preparing for your classes this week – we could make an early evening of it," he suggested. "We don't even have to go to dinner." In fact, that would not be a problem at all, he thought silently as he waited for her response.

A tiny bit of the former ice seemed to seep back into her voice, and she sounded almost oddly defensive. "I agreed to help…a colleague this afternoon," she stated. "It's an experiment on…on…human behavior. We'll be observing." Amita had no idea why she didn't just tell Charlie the truth; she and Dane had done nothing wrong. They had no intention of doing anything wrong – they were simply using some free tickets! "Besides," she added as a lame afterthought, "you don't sound all that hot, yet. You should probably just take it easy today."

Charlie winced but forced a chuckle. "I know you're angry, sweetie," he protested, "and for good reason. But now I'm not even hot?"

Amita laughed, her previous standoffishness falling away. The low, almost-intimate sound reminded Charlie how hot she was, and the tightening in his groin made him truly sorry for the first time that she was busy that afternoon. "Silly," she admonished. "Of course you're still hot. I meant that you don't sound entirely – healthy, yet."

Charlie grinned and a tiny sigh escaped him; it sounded like she might forgive, and give him another chance. "Tomorrow evening? Dinner?"

"You have a 7 o'clock class," she reminded him.

"I have a test scheduled," he assured her. "One of my T.A.'s can proctor. I can be ready after my office hours end at 4:30."

He could hear the smile in Amita's voice. "My last class dismisses at 4," she affirmed. "That's perfect timing – I'll have half-an-hour to fix my face, maybe change…"

Charlie almost growled in relief and anticipation. "Your face is perfect," he insisted. "Whatever you're wearing is perfect." He grinned. "Especially when I take it off."

Amita gasped. "Charlie Eppes! Your father could be listening!"

Charlie moaned, looking at the closed bedroom door. "That reminds me. I suppose I'll have to face him sometime."

Amita huffed a laugh and wished her lover luck. She had recovered from her anger enough to tell him that she loved him before they disconnected. She tried not to feel guilty when she said good-bye. After all, she had told Charlie the truth – kind of. Dane was a colleague, and there would be all sorts of crowd behavior to observe at the game that afternoon. Surely her observations would come in handy at some future date.

She would just have a nice, relaxing, free afternoon with Dane, when neither of them had to worry about Hoggs boson. Charlie would spend the afternoon fully recovering, and the two of them would get back onto an even keel with their dinner the next evening.

She twisted the ring on her finger absently.

Everything would be just fine.

…………………………..

Alan was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee and reading the sports page when Charlie finally made an appearance. Alan lowered the newspaper and waggled an eyebrow. "10:30, son."

Charlie stopped at the refrigerator for a bottle of water, then sat down opposite his father and shrugged slightly. "Might as well let me have it," he said, resigned.

Alan just smiled slightly and returned his attention to the newspaper. "I think you've been punished enough," he answered drily. "Besides, it's Amita's job to keep you in line now. I've done my time."

Charlie sipped the cool water, reveling in it. He felt almost dehydrated. "Don't worry," he retorted, lowering the bottle. "She's all over that."

Alan laughed and rattled the paper as he turned the page. "I made pancakes. Don was here earlier."

Charlie was surprised. "Been and gone, and I didn't even hear him?"

"He wanted to pour a cold pitcher of water on you," Alan confided. "I was having a hard time talking him out of it. Luckily for you, he's on call this weekend – got called to a crime scene."

"Hmphf," muttered Charlie, lifting the bottle again. "Sounds like he almost created a crime scene himself."

Alan smiled behind the paper. "Yes. Well. I know pancakes aren't your favorite, but I put the leftovers in the oven to warm."

Charlie's stomach lurched again. "Um... I think I'll just have…"

"Toast just popped up a few minutes ago," interjected Alan. He peered at his son over the top of the newspaper. "My word, Charlie – you must have drunk that man out of house and home."

Charlie stood, embarrassed, and weaved toward the toaster. "I didn't think so," he said defensively. "I remember telling him I had to stop because Amita and I were driving to Big Sur in the morning. I just don't remember much after that."

"Apparently your mother and I neglected your education after all," Alan mused. "We should have refined your palate so you could take the expensive stuff."

Charlie snorted lightly and returned to the table with a saucer of toast. "I knew it was your fault somehow," he started, but was interrupted by the vibration of the phone clipped on the waistband on his jeans. "Maybe Amita reconsidered," he said, plucking the phone from his jeans and quickly checking 'caller ID'.

He groaned as he sank back into his chair. "J.T. Morrison," he informed his father. "More consequences of bad behavior."

Alan wisely kept his tongue and let Charlie face his demons on his own. "Hello, J.T.," his youngest said a little breathlessly into the phone.

"Good Morning, Dr. Eppes!" boomed his gregarious new friend. "You're feeling better today, I hope?"

Charlie hung his head in despair. "Please. Call me Charlie. I want to apologize again for my behavior."

"Nonsense," Morrison answered. "Charlie, four of my other guests spent the night Friday; it's not unusual behavior, I assure you. I'm simply glad that you didn't somehow slip out and try to drive home. Although my valets have strict instructions not to let that happen with any of my guests, of course."

"Of course," Charlie murmured. He started playing with his toast, poking at it with one finger. "Still, I appreciate your hospitality."

"Not nearly as much as I appreciate the opportunity to converse with someone of your refined intelligence," flattered J.T. Not giving Charlie a chance to respond, he hurried on. "Have you had a chance to speak to your lovely intended? Will the two of you be busy, this afternoon?"

Charlie poked his finger all the way through his toast and stuttered into the phone. "H-huh? I mean, yes. No."

Morrison laughed. "Oh, dear. Did I contribute to the death of a few brain cells, Charlie?"

Charlie blushed furiously. Alan, watching him around the side of the newspaper, was intrigued. "Amita has plans this afternoon," Charlie explained.

J.T. tried to dance a jig and sound disappointed at the same time. "Ah, that's a shame. I was hoping she would agree to the two of you joining me at the Dodgers' game today. I would enjoy meeting her."

"I'm sure you would," Charlie enthused.

Morrison interrupted him. "But then, if Amita has plans, you must be free, correct? If you've never seen a game from a loge, Charlie, you really should. Plus, it's an anniversary season – the Dodgers' Fiftieth – so each game is really special this year. Please say you'll come. I'll send a car for you around 2:30, and the driver will drop you at the VIP entrance. Loge 101; I'll leave your name on the list."

Charlie could hardly believe his own audacity as he spoke. "J.T., I appreciate the invitation. I'll understand if it isn't possible…but since you were hoping Amita could come, maybe there would be room for my father? He loves the Dodgers. He took my brother and me to so many games when we were kids, I'd love to be able to do something like this for him."

Morrison considered, and quickly decided this could work in his favor. Both the father and the son would be ingratiated to him – and it wasn't as if he intended to ravish Charlie in full view of 56,000 Dodger fans. This outing was intended to be another nail in the coffin, so to speak, and Charlie had dropped in his lap a way to hammer the nail home harder. "That's a splendid idea," he said immediately. "Please ask Alan to join us." The crowd in the loge was always fairly generic; often boring. Sometimes, Morrison obtained one of the luxury suites, and on those occasions very few people actually watched the game. This afternoon would be completely respectable, however, and he decided to go for the trifecta. "Perhaps your brother could come as well?"

Charlie was stunned into silence for a moment. "I…uh…" Finally, he managed to string two words together. "I'll certainly ask, J.T. He's on-call today, so he may not be able to get away. At the very least, he'll need to have his own transportation, in case he's called away."

Morrison responded smoothly. "Not a problem. I can get him a space in VIP parking – I'm a rather large supporter of the Dodgers. Just call and let me know."

Charlie thanked him again and disconnected, lowering the phone to his lap and staring at Alan, whose frank interest had led to his abandonment of the newspaper. "What?" asked his father.

"We're going to the Dodgers' home game," answered Charlie, almost dreamily.

Alan frowned, glancing back at the paper. "But they've been sold out for weeks!"

Charlie's curly head bobbed up and down. "J.T. has a loge. He's sending a driver to pick us up." He thrust the cell at his father. "He said to invite Don, too."

Alan had started to smile at the mention of the loge, but now he frowned again and pushed his chair back from the table a little. "You call your own brother," he said sternly. "The two of you. Impossible. Make an effort, Charlie!"

Charlie scowled when his father stood and grabbed the paper, preparing to leave the room. "The car will be here at 2:30," he sulked, and Alan rewarded him with a giant smile.

"There will probably be snacks there," he mused. "It's a loge, after all. What do you think – should I take a picnic?"

Charlie shuddered and lifted the phone to his ear. "No!" he nearly shouted. "Dad, I'm sure J.T. has it all under control."

"I wonder if I still fit in my old Dodger t-shirt," Alan went on, as if he hadn't heard Charlie at all. He strode for the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house. "I'm going to see if I can find it…"

Charlie shuddered again and was wondering exactly what he had done when Don answered his cell. "Charlie? Can this wait – I'm at a crime scene."

Charlie stiffened a little in his chair. "I won't keep you," he murmured. "J.T. called and asked if he could host all three of us at the Dodger home game this afternoon. He has a loge. He's sending a car for me and Dad, but I told him you're on call and need your vehicle. If you want to go, he said he can leave your name at the VIP lot."

Charlie spoke quickly, and there was a few seconds of silence while Don filtered the information. "The sold-out game? This afternoon?" he finally asked.

Charlie nodded into the cell. "Um-hmm."

More silence, this time lasting so long that Charlie got a little prickly. "Look, I know you don't like him. If you don't want to go, I'll just tell him you caught a call."

That finally eked a response out of his brother. "What? No, Charlie, don't do that! I mean, I should probably get to know him, right?"

Charlie relaxed, and grinned slightly. "So is that a 'yes'?"

"No," said Don, confusing Charlie until he heard the rest of the sentence. "That's a 'hell, yes', Buddy."

……………………………

End, Chapter 9