by Jennie
No problem, right?
Shit.
I hadn't known squat... He—for that kid was no longer me—hadn't known
anything about anything. What a fucking fool he was. I'd been.
Whatever.
Absently, I reached for the red marker and started doodling on the photo. How
very appropriate—Officer Mansfield, clown in training. Yep, that was me.
Thought I'd be helping people, bring down the bad guys. Idiot. Little did I
know—we were the bad guys.
Bulbous nose, exaggerated mouth, turned down a bit at the corners. Almost,
but not quite done—it needed a final touch. Without conscious decision, I
added a big fat teardrop under one eye.
Perfect.
All I needed now was a frame.
Don't ya just love symbolism? I know I do.
Wearily I got up and crossed to the kitchen in search of a drink. Found an
old bottle of JB in the cabinet. What the hell? Though I hadn't really had
much of a taste for the stuff after the inglorious end of my law enforcement
career, it somehow seemed appropriate to drink it tonight.
In the living room, settled on the couch, I thought back to my partnership
with Stan. We'd been good together. Good friends, great partners—I'd even
begun to think that more might develop between us.
Jesus! I really had been an idiot.
Surprised to see that I'd already finished my rather healthy drink, I rose to
fetch myself another. Getting drunk seemed a most excellent idea. One of the
best I'd had in ages. In fact, why do all this walking back and forth? When I
returned to the living room, I carried my trusty bottle of JB with me.
And some damned fool knocked at the door. I frowned and looked at the clock.
After midnight. I just knew who was out there in the hallway. Didn't want to
see him, though. Not at all.
I ignored the knocking and sat back down, swallowing half of my drink in one
gulp. Dammit, why oh why did he have to touch me? Through the aftermath of
tonight's events—dealing with cops, the Director, my own sorry memories,
the warmth of his hand on my shoulder had stayed with me.
This was not good. Of all the times for him to decide to be supportive, he
couldn't have possibly caught me in a more... needy frame of mind. I wanted
him—always had. Fortunately, keeping that want to myself had been fairly
easy up until now. All that needling and sniping kept a good healthy distance
between me and my ridiculous desire for him.
And, ridiculous it was. Laughable, even. He could hardly have made his
opinion of me any clearer. Stick-in-the-mud. Staid. Boring. Old.
Old, for chrissakes. I'm only 35. Oh, I suppose that from the view of a
25-year-old kid, that seems ancient, but, shit, couldn't he see that we
weren't so very different? That I wanted the same things he wanted? A home,
security, someone to love—someone to be loved by.
Blessed silence from the hallway. Finally, he'd given up. A very good thing.
In my current mood I just might find the balls—or the stupidity—to do
what I'd always wanted to do with him. To him.
Nope—that would surely lead to disaster of huge proportions. Though, the
look on his face would be just priceless. With a slightly drunken giggle, I
let my head relax against the back of the sofa and envisioned the expression
he'd come up with if I ever told him how very much I wanted...
A noise interrupted my inner rambling. What the hell?
Fuck. He'd picked the lock. Opening my eyes, I looked in dismay at the man
standing over me, concern glowing in his brown eyes.
"Mac, what are you doing here?" I finally asked simply, after staring at him
in silence for several moments.
"I was just... um, well, I was a little worried about you, Vic," Mac
responded in a halting tone. "You seemed so—" Breaking off his words, Mac
shrugged helplessly. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay, that's all."
"Well," I gestured expansively; arms open wide, "as you can see, I'm fine and
dandy. Now go away."
He just stood there, staring at me with a slight frown. Hell, looked like I
was stuck with him for a while. Fine... fuck it all, anyway. Let him stay.
Watch the old man get drunk and then pour him into bed. Enjoy the show, Mac.
Decision made, I poured another generous shot of scotch into my glass and
defiantly drank it in one swallow.
"Uh, Vic... How much of that have you had tonight?"
I glared at him, then looked at the bottle. "Oh, not nearly enough, Mac."
Leaning forward, I filled my glass again. "Soon though, god and JB willing,
I'll be too drunk to care about any godamned thing. I'd ask you to join me,
but there just isn't enough to share." Holding up the bottle, I let him see
that it was already half empty. "You're welcome to get your own, though.
Booze is in the cabinet over the microwave."
Shrugging, obviously confused by my attitude but apparently determined to
stick it out and "make sure I was okay", Mac disappeared into the kitchen. I
could hear him rummaging around in the cabinets and fridge. I snickered. That
was why I'd decided on just straight booze tonight—no need to waste time
with ice and mixers and such—just pour and drink.
Perfect.
So I did. Poured another and tossed it back.
Mac returned, holding some kind of mixed drink—looked like whiskey and
soda. Crossing to the sofa, he sat carefully down beside me. Probably afraid
that if he flopped down in his usual manner I'd fall over in a drunken stupor.
Well, I'd show him who was old and infirm, by god. I grabbed my scotch and
proceeded to pour myself another.
"Vic, don't you think you should slow-" Mac began uncertainly.
"Hell no, I don't think anything. That's the object of the exercise, Ramsey.
Not to think." I hefted the bottle blearily judging my progress by the
level of liquid within. "Shouldn't be too much longer, at this rate."
The little shit actually made a grab for my bottle. I couldn't believe it.
The nerve of it astonished me. I moved it beyond his reach and thwapped him
upside the head with the flat of my free hand.
"Touch it and you die," I warned in a low growl.
"Hey!" Mac objected, ducking away from me. "What'd you do that for?"
"You," I poked him in the chest with my forefinger, "just keep your hands to
yourself and away from my scotch or I'll hurt you."
"Victor..."
I groaned and covered my ears. Mac being the kindly voice of reason was not
something I needed in my living room just now. Nope. And, since he wouldn't
leave... Dammit, I would.
Stumbling to my feet I turned towards the bedroom.
"Uh, Vic?" He rose behind me and put one hand on my shoulder.
Oh shit. Not the hand-on-the-shoulder routine again. Anything but that.
"Lemme alone, Mac." Shrugging him off, I wove an unsteady path away from him
and his godamned fucking warm hands. I could think of several places I
wanted those hands—not one of which was my damned shoulder.
Bastard. What was up with this sudden touchy-feely Mac?
"Get your ass out of here, Mac. I'm going to bed," I grumbled as I pulled the
bedroom door closed behind me.
Ah, peace and quiet. No talking. No hands. No temptation. All to the good. I
lifted my scotch to pour another shot, realized I'd forgotten my glass,
shrugged and drank from the bottle.
Naturally, while I was in the process of this, Mac followed me into the room.
Damn him, the kid needed to get a clue already.
"Victor!"
Oh lord preserve us. Now he was playing the role of
Shocked-and-Horrified-Mac! It should have been howlingly funny—if I hadn't
been so damn close to jumping on him and fucking his ass through the floor, I
might even have laughed.
"What now?" I asked him, knowing the answer, wanting to hear him say it. Oh
yeah, I really did want a lecture from Mac Ramsey on self-control. Sobriety.
Proper drinking etiquette.
He tricked me, though. Instead of answering, he stepped closer, holding my
eyes with his and... the fuckhead took my bottle. Dancing just out of my
reach, he led me a merry chase around the bedroom. Dammit, once I sobered up,
I was gonna kill him.
Finally, I got smart. Waited until he was just rounding the end of the bed
and leapt for him, using the mattress as a springboard. Worked like a charm,
too. He had assumed that I was too intoxicated to have any kind of
coordination left in my body.
Wrong again, Ramsey.
So, there we were. I'd tackled him, we'd gone rolling across the floor, and
now I was flat on my back with a heavily breathing Mac draped over me.
Shitfire! Not good. Not good at all. There was no way in the world I could
ever get drunk enough to not react to having his length pressed against me so
completely. Panicked at my incipient arousal, I struggled, desperate to get
away from him.
Of course, that only made him lay on me more heavily. Oh boy. This was very
bad. I groaned and went limp.
"Get offa me, Mac," I whispered, unable to speak any louder.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Mansfield," he asked, raising his head to
meet my eyes. "You're acting like... well, I don't know what you're acting
like—but, I do know you're not acting like yourself."
Once again, I attempted to shift him off of me. No go. And, worse yet... I
was hard as a rock. Said hardness being pressed firmly against him; Mac
could hardly miss it.
Sure enough, his eyes widened in astonishment when my state of arousal
finally made it's way into his awareness.
"Vic?"
Drawing in a deep breath, I bucked my hips.
He held firm.
Fucker.
"Mac, if you don't get off of me right now, I'll..."
"You'll what?"
Okay. Enough already.
"If you don't remove yourself damned soon, I will fuck you into next week,
kid."
There. Chew on that Mr. Ramsey.
And then he kissed me.
Oh. My. God.
Mac Ramsey was trying his level best to ascertain whether or not I had
tonsils with a lingual exploration.
I figured it was a drunken fantasy. The whole fucking think—just one long
hallucination.
He groaned and pressed his own equally hard cock against mine.
Okay, not a dream.
But what?
Mac was straight. I knew that. Hell, everyone knew that. Kinda hard to
miss, the way he was always chasing women.
What in the hell did he think he was doing?
Tearing my mouth away, I fought for breath. "Mac," I gasped, "I am not in
the market for a pity fuck."
"Well, that's good, Vic," he answered in that smooth voice of his. Fucker,
where did he get off being able to breathe? "Cause I'm not offering one."
Huh?
"Wha-" I licked my lips and swallowed nervously. "Then what are you doing?"
"I'm seducing you, Victor. Can't you tell?"
He offered me a smile—I wasn't in the buying mood, though.
"S-s-seducing me?" I squeaked. "Have you lost your mind? You were drinking
before you came over," I accused him. "Go on, admit it—you're drunk."
Shaking his head slowly, he grinned at me. "Nope, didn't touch a drop 'til I
got here."
"But... Why?"
His fingers pinched one of my nipples and I almost succeeded in throwing him
off with my rather extreme reaction. Where the hell was my shirt? I know I
had one...
"Shit! Mac, you've gotta stop."
He smiled lazily and his hand followed a path to my groin and closed around
my aching erection.
Dammit... where were my trousers? Know I had those on, too.
One stroke from that hand, though, and I no longer cared about my clothing.
I cared about nothing but getting my cock into his ass as soon as possible.
Which, as it turns out, was exactly what he wanted too. Lucky me.
Somehow, we managed to get from the floor to the bed. I haven't the vaguest
idea how. It'll probably forever remain a mystery—just like my shirt and
trousers. Which, by the way, I discovered were actually still on me—a
little disheveled, all the fastenings opened, but, still there after all.
How they got that way..?
So, now I found myself in bed with a naked Mac. I even remembered—quite
clearly, actually—how he'd gotten that way. Oh yeah. Watching Mac strip
is a pastime I could definitely get into. In a large way.
I realized, with a loud groan, that I have no condoms. Damn the luck.
"We don't need one," he assured me.
"But-"
"Forget the condoms, Vic. We're both healthy. Shit, if we weren't the Dragon
Lady would probably just shoot us like a couple of horses with broken legs."
"Mac!"
He started, then looked at me inquiringly.
"Do. Not. Ever. Mention that woman in my bed again. Fuck! I'll be having
nightmares for weeks now."
Snickering, he agreed to my terms. See, I'm not so very hard to get along
with, now am I? I don't ask for much. A cute guy. A good fuck. And no
thoughts of her.
Simple.
"Do you have lube?"
The very thought made me weak. Damn good thing I was laying down—otherwise
I'd have fallen on my ass. "Uh... yeah, I think so." I reached over and
rummaged through the drawer of the bedside table, turning back with one tube
of Astroglide clutched in my shaking hand.
"Good man," Mac said happily.
Then, he pulled me on top of him and wrapped his legs around my waist. Every
bit of blood in my body rushed to my dick, and I nearly fainted. Opening the
lube, Mac squeezed a generous amount onto his hand and reached down to slick
me up.
"There," he said, laying back and lifting his legs higher. "All set."
Whoa.
"Wait a minute, Mac. I have to... I mean you need me to... Shit, Mac—I
don't want to hurt you."
He just smiled up at me. "Not a problem, Vic. You won't."
He sounded so damned sure of himself... of me.
Who was this guy and what had he done with Mac?
Tired of waiting for me to actually do something, he reached back down and
guided my weeping erection to his opening. "C'mon, Vic. You're killing me
here. Fuck me already!"
So, I did. And, I somehow managed to not hurt him. I think. At least, I
assume that his sighs and moans—and eventually howls—indicated pleasure,
not pain.
I'm pretty sure I'm right, too. He's been back every night since.
I think I'll let him fuck me tonight.
Variety, after all, is the spice of life...
stared at the photograph musingly. How very sure of myself I'd been in
those days. Life was simple—be a cop, save the world.
