Title: High Society

Chapter 11: You Never Know Who Might be Listening

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Don managed to get a grip on himself, and shut his gaping mouth to look at Charlie. His brother was dead white and was leaning forward slightly as if he'd just been punched in the gut, and Don kept a hand on him, sliding it from his back to rest on his upper arm – it looked as though Charlie was ready to keel over. The camera, mercifully, had flitted away like a butterfly in a field of flowers, looking for new beautiful people upon which to rest.

"Charlie?" Don managed, and looked around uncertainly for Alan, wondering if his father had seen the screen. From all appearances, Alan hadn't; he was just entering the room holding an oversized foam finger, amiably chatting away with a woman, about his age, in the corner. Don did a double-take – that woman was a famous actress, and his jaw dropped for the second time in as many minutes. He wrenched his attention back to Charlie as his brother spoke.

"I asked her if she wanted to do something today," Charlie was saying despondently, his eyes directed out the window. "She said she was busy." His shoulders were slumped, and his gaze was fixed on a single spot. Don searched the spot with his own eyes, and realized that Charlie had managed to find the couple – they were seated just below them, behind home plate. As he looked, he saw Dane and Amita's heads come together, almost touching. Charlie's voice turned bitter. "She said she was going to help a colleague with an experiment on human behavior."

"Charlie," said Don, in a cautionary tone. "You don't know what's going on here."

"Damn right, I don't," muttered Charlie. The hurt was still in his eyes, but there were the beginnings of anger there, also.

"What I'm trying to tell you is that you shouldn't jump to conclusions," urged Don. "There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. You did stand her up yesterday."

It was like touching a match to tinder; the smoldering anger in Charlie's eyes flared. "Oh, so that gives her license to go out and flirt and kiss other men? She's my fiancée, for God's sake."

"She didn't kiss him, Charlie, he kissed her, and the camera didn't stay on them long enough to get her reaction. For all you know, she smacked him for it – or at least told him politely to back off."

"Not likely," retorted Charlie, "considering the fact that it looks like they're glued together at the head right now." He shot Don a reproachful glance. "Why in the hell are you sticking up for her, anyway?"

Don was beginning to get impatient; Charlie was arguing with him as if it was his fault, somehow, and his words came out sharper than he intended. "Because you've been acting like an ass lately, Charlie. Did you ever consider some of this might be your doing? You've got a good thing with her – I just didn't want you throw it away."

"Oh," Charlie rolled his eyes sarcastically. "Now I'm getting the lecture on relationships – as if you have any business giving it."

That last jab hurt, and set off a flash of anger of Don's own. His phone was vibrating, and he pulled it impatiently out of his pocket and snapped it open. "Yeah. When?" There was a pause; then he said, "Okay, I'm heading out now. It'll take me about twenty to get there." He looked at Charlie, who had turned to stare out of the window, brooding, hurt, and anger still on his face. "I gotta go, Charlie."

Don had to admit, in spite of all the arguing lately, and the sting, still smarting, from Charlie's last comment, he felt sorry for him. Charlie, however, had been acting out of character; maybe he needed a jolt like this to bring him back in line – maybe this would be the wake-up call he needed. Charlie didn't respond, and Don shook his head in mingled regret and irritation, and turned on his heel. What had looked like a great afternoon had just turned sour, the outing ruined by what they'd just seen, and now, he had to go deal with the aftermath of a drug-related shooting. He had half a mind to tell his father what had happened, but then decided it would be better if Charlie did that, himself. Instead, Don simply stopped to tell Alan he was going, and with a last glance at the forlorn figure at the window, strode out of the room.

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J.T. Morrison stood in the far corner, surrounded by a group of fawning young actors, and enjoyed the show. He had purposely called the producer of the televised game, and suggested that he train his cameras on certain seats behind home plate. The producer owed him a favor, and he was more than happy to get a shot of the photogenic young couple. Morrison had stood back and watched as the shot had come up on the Jumbotron, watched the couple's faces fill the screen, watched the shock and the hurt appear on Charlie's face. It was almost too much to bear; Morrison lived on the pain of others, and to see the object of his desire already hurting…he'd had to look away for a moment, to quell the arousal he felt.

When he looked back, he could see Charlie speaking with his brother, and from the expressions on their faces and the impatient way the agent turned on his heel, Morrison could tell they were arguing. He watched as Don stopped and spoke to his father, and then gave him a friendly wave as Don headed for the door. The agent gave him a nod of thanks, but didn't stop; J.T. was surrounded by people and impossible to access. His eyes wandered back to the dejected figure at the window; this had gone better than he'd hoped. Not only had he created a rift with Charlie's intended, he also had apparently sparked an argument with the brother.

He excused himself, not noticing or caring that he cut off a young woman in mid-sentence, and she faltered, staring at him as he pushed his way through the group. Leeches, all of them – they all wanted his fame, his connections to boost them into stardom. He shook them off impatiently, like a retriever shaking off water, and moved next to Charlie at the window.

"Great view, isn't it?" God, that hair. He imagined his fist closing on it, and jerked his mind away. "Are you having a good time?"

Charlie looked up at him, trying to compose his features. "I – yes, it's a wonderful game – great to see it like this – up here -," he gestured vaguely at the interior of the loge.

Morrison eyed him sympathetically. "But -," he prompted.

Charlie flushed. "Am I that easy to read?" he laughed, deprecatingly, but it sounded hollow. "I'm sorry, I guess I just don't feel that well, still." As he spoke, his gaze wandered again down to the couple in the seats below.

"That's too bad," Morrison murmured. "The game is almost over. If your father is ready, I can have my driver take you home."

Charlie's gaze flickered back over his shoulder to Alan. His father was shaking hands – actually, it was more of a squeeze than a shake – with – Charlie's eyes widened, as the notable actress dimpled at his father, then turned and walked away. "Oh, my God," he said, "was that - ?"

Morrison smiled. "Susan Dawes? Why yes – it appeared she and your father were getting along wonderfully. They chatted all through the eighth inning." He turned his smile on Alan, as the senior Eppes approached them, a satisfied and dreamy smile on his face. "Mr. Eppes – may I call you Alan?"

"Of course, of course," Alan responded heartily. "I have to tell you, I haven't had this much fun in ages."

"I'm afraid Charlie isn't feeling well," interjected J.T., as Alan started to continue, and watched as Charlie's face filled with guilt.

"I'm okay, really," Charlie protested, but Alan was looking at him with concern.

"You do look a little tired," he said, and then turned to J.T. "You know he was really sick yesterday – beyond what one would expect from a few drinks." He looked back at Charlie. "I wonder if you don't have a touch of the flu. Maybe we should be going."

"I'll call for my driver," murmured Morrison. He held out his hand, and gave Alan's a shake, then offered it to Charlie. As Charlie took it and Morrison looked into the big dark eyes, he could feel the shock wave of pleasure traveling straight up his arm. He wanted nothing more than for Charlie to stay, to go home with him, but that was yet just a dream. He had much more to do before he could make that happen; he would just need to be satisfied with today's progress. Still, he couldn't resist placing a second hand on top of Charlie's and holding it in both of his, as Alan stepped away toward the door. "Whatever is bothering you," Morrison murmured in a quiet voice, "you have a friend in me. If you ever need to talk, just call."

Charlie was looking at him with a slightly startled but grateful expression. "Thank you," he said, as he drew his hand away. He flushed a little, and stammered earnestly, "I want to tell you, I really appreciate your friendship."

Morrison beamed, and threw a casual arm over the young man's shoulders as they walked toward the door. "My pleasure, Charlie, believe me."

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Charlie closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the headrest in the limo, only half-listening to his father's excited prattle. "I have to tell you Charlie, that Susan Dawes is so down-to-earth, such a nice person to talk to. You get the impression that so many of the Hollywood crowd are flaky or self-centered, but she's very real. She's involved in many charities, you know…," The words went on, but Charlie lost them, they floated through the vehicle, landing on deaf ears.

Now that his initial rush of anger had subsided, he felt as though his heart was in a vise. He could still see Amita lifting her head from Dane's shoulder, her laughter, the teasing gleam in her eyes. Even Dane's kiss didn't have as much impact as that vision, because the camera had swooped away before Charlie could see her reaction. That look on her face, though, just before the kiss, drove a dagger right through him.

Back at the Craftsman, he escaped into the garage. Alan had headed for the kitchen to prepare a light supper of soup, and although Charlie didn't feel like eating, he let his father go, just to get some privacy. He didn't feel like discussing this with Alan – it was bad enough that his brother had insinuated it was his fault.

What on earth was going on here? he asked himself. Just a few short weeks ago, he'd asked her to marry him and she'd happily accepted. What had changed? How could she do this? The more he paced, the more worked up he became. She owed him an answer. He knew he'd screwed up this weekend by standing her up, but he didn't deserve this. He stopped in the middle of his pacing, and then made purposefully for the garage door. Yes, she owed him an answer, and by God, he was going to get one.

He strode through the kitchen on the way to the living room, where his keys sat. Alan saw him come through, and followed him through the kitchen door, frowning as he saw Charlie pick up his keys. "Charlie, where are you going? I thought you weren't feeling well."

"I'm not," snapped Charlie. "I just have to run to campus. I'll be right back." He bolted out the front door, leaving his father standing there, with a bewildered expression.

He tried her apartment first, but her car wasn't there, so he headed for CalSci. Sure enough, her vehicle was in the lot; and without hesitation, Charlie made straight for her office. The campus was quiet on a Sunday night, and as he headed through the hallways, they echoed, each doorway he passed, dark. It was good thing – they would want some privacy for this conversation.

He paused as he got to her doorway, trying to collect himself at least a little; then pushed through the door, allowing it to remain open as he stepped forward. She was seated at her desk, and her head came up in surprise. "Charlie! What are you doing here?" Did she sound defensive, or was he reading that into her voice?

He just looked at her, and for a moment, the anger dissolved, and he felt as if his heart was going to break. She was so beautiful and intelligent – everything he'd ever wanted.

She was staring at him now. "Charlie, what is it?"

He took a deep breath. He'd give her a chance to come clean, he decided – he'd let her bring it up. "I missed you. I drove past your apartment, but you weren't there, so I drove here, and saw your car. I just wanted to tell you in person how sorry I was for yesterday morning."

She reddened and looked down at her desk. "Charlie, forget it, it's over." She looked back up at him. "Is that the only reason you came here?"

He swallowed and shrugged. "I – yeah. How was your day, anyway?" He looked at her, his eyes locked on hers. 'Tell me,' he pleaded silently. 'Tell me the truth. Please make this right – I can forgive you if you just tell me the truth…'

Her mouth opened; then closed. "I, uh, I told you, I was helping a colleague with a project." She stared at him with confusion, tinged with suspicion, as his head dropped, dejectedly.

Charlie felt a surge of despair, and on the heels of it, anger. His jaw hardened and he looked up. "Tell me," he said, his voice tight with emotion, "about the project. What colleague?"

She flushed, and her words came out defensively. "Charlie, what is this?"

"That's what I'd like to know," he said heatedly.

Her eyes flashed with irritation. "Are you interrogating me?"

"Why do you ask?" Charlie's words dripped with sarcasm. "Do I need to be? Why don't you let me answer the question? Your project, apparently, was counting baseballs at Dodger stadium while you drooled over Dane Rastenbaum."

Her face went blank with surprise, and her eyes darted nervously to the door, as she rose. "Charlie, I can explain -,"

"I tried to give you that opportunity," he snapped, "but you whiffed on it. Care to take another swing?"

"Charlie, now is not the time for this -," she began, looking again at the door.

"For what? What is 'this?'?" Charlie's voice rose, in disbelief. "There's a good time to talk about the fact that the woman I'm engaged to is seeing another man?"

"I'm not seeing another man," snapped Amita, anger returning to her face. "Yes, I went to a ballgame with Dane – the tickets were free. I worked all weekend, and I needed a break, so I told him I'd go. God knows, I couldn't count on you for an outing."

"Oh, you said that was over, but it's not, is it - you're still upset over that. Look, I told you I was sorry, I called myself an ass, I groveled, for Pete's sake, but that wasn't enough? You had to make me pay for it by going out with someone else?"

Her jaw tightened. "I've had enough of the accusations, Charlie. I think we should talk about this later, when you've calmed down."

"Don't stop on my account – this is pretty entertaining." The words, spoken in a familiar voice, came from behind Charlie, and he whirled to find Dane Rastenbaum lounging against the doorframe, an amused smile on his face. "I don't mean to interrupt, but the lady was probably right when she said you should discuss this elsewhere – you never know who might be listening." He held up a takeout bag, lazily. "I brought dinner. Care to join us, professor?"

Charlie had frozen, his gut clenching as he realized that Rastenbaum had been standing there, listening, but the realization that the two of them had planned to eat dinner together suddenly deflated him. He could feel the fight leave him, as he looked at Amita. "Amita," he said, then stopped and looked down, at a loss for words. Realizing how pathetic he must look, he pulled himself together with a huge effort, and straightened. He looked at her again, not with anger this time, but with pain in his face, and said quietly, and he hoped, with some fragment of dignity, "Excuse me, I didn't mean to interrupt your evening."

"Charlie-," he heard the plea in Amita's voice behind him as he turned, but he ignored her, and walked past Dane Rastenbaum, and out the door.

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End Chapter 11