by EM Lynley
“Just clean it off, okay?” Race didn’t want Derrick to see him with Stella’s lipstick on his mouth. He hadn’t kissed her back, but he’d thought about it.
“’Kay, close your eyes while I clean it up,” she giggled. He closed his eyes and felt her rubbing his lips. “All done!” But when he opened his eyes, he realized she’d put more lipstick on! “Oh, pretty,” she said and started to kiss him again while he tried to push her off.
“Stella!” Derrick was suddenly right behind Race in the doorway to the bathroom. Shit, he probably thinks we’re making out in here, Race thought with alarm. How the fuck could he explain this? “Stel, just stop fucking around, and get that lipstick off of Race. And please stop drinking, okay?” Derrick raised his voice nearly to a shout, which was practically unknown in Race’s experience. Usually Derrick was easygoing and laughed everything off, but not tonight. He wasn’t sure which one of them Derrick was more annoyed with, and he didn’t want to find out. Stella pouted as she cleaned off the lipstick and stuck her tongue out at Derrick’s retreating back. At least there was plenty of makeup remover available, and thankfully the lipstick didn’t leave a stain on Race’s lips. That would have totally ruined the image of Indiana Jones he wanted to project.
“Oh, Rick, you’re no fun tonight!” Stella sounded more like a child than the Queen of the Nile. Race had never seen her in this mood—or Derrick, for that matter—and the evening hadn’t even started yet. He wondered if he could still get out of the party. “Oh, baby! You look so good!” Stella said as Derrick finished putting on his costume, her mood quickly swung back to light, bubbly, and half-baked.
Derrick did look good, even Race had to admit. The tunic was a bit short, coming to just above his knees, and showed off his pale, golden-haired, and very muscular calves perfectly—if you happened to be into that sort of thing. The fabric was covered with gold embroidery and fake jewels, which looked fairly realistic and very regal. A long gold-edged cape draped over his shoulders. He carried the helmet, which was also jeweled and sported a feathered plume down the back. With that helmet on, Derrick would be about eight feet tall, and Race could certainly understand why so many nations had surrendered to the Roman armies. Hell, even Race was ready to.
He was impressed Derrick could pull off the dress thing so well. It was all in the legs. The long hours Derrick spent in the gym paid off, and he could display his legs for a change. Race, on the other hand, absolutely hated showing off his legs. He’d never quite recovered from an episode on a previous series where he’d been forced to wear shorts.
Derrick’s cell phone rang and he clasped it to his ear, spoiling the near-perfect image of the regal Roman general. The network car was downstairs ready to take them to the party—like the proverbial carriage—and they gathered up their belongings and headed out.
The party itself wasn’t so bad once they got inside. Of course they had to pose for a shitload of photographs outside, freezing their asses off in the unseasonably late October L.A. chill. Race struck a series of action poses for the cameras, hoping he looked more like Indiana Jones than he felt. Indy would never stand around modeling like this! He wanted to crack the whip at those stupid photographers, but he was afraid he’d hurt himself again, not to mention the fuss the network would make if he actually hit anyone else. His agent’s words about appeasing the suits and how it would help his career came back to him. He widened his smile and prepared to suck it up, vowing to look more carefully at the fine print next time he signed a contract.
Inside, nearly everyone either wanted to wear his hat or play with the whip, and Race wasn’t exactly thrilled with all the attention. He was still peeved that he was forced to be here and wasn’t in a party mood despite the cocktails at Derrick’s. Second to costumes, dancing was high on his list of things that made a prostate exam sound thrilling. He’d hoped to blend in or hide in the shadows and not have to speak to the other guests, except for his friends.
That plan failed, and he ended up letting Stella convince him to join in a few dances with her and Derrick, but as soon as he could, he escaped to the bar, standing there drinking beer and glancing at his watch every five minutes. How long did they have to stay before they could safely leave without being reprimanded by “The Powers that Be” at their network?
Glancing around the room, Race was angered to discover Derrick didn’t look to be in any hurry to escape. Even more so than Race, his costume had caused quite a stir—especially among the female partygoers who loudly admired Derrick’s muscular legs and daring short tunic. A few were so bold as to attempt to lift his skirt—tunic—and Derrick laughed. He was all dimpled smiles, even as he slapped their hands away. Race chuckled with the knowledge that Derrick would be mighty embarrassed if anyone did manage a look up there and felt a slight pang of guilt that he’d convinced his friend to go commando, but Derrick was a big boy and could take care of himself.
Finally Derrick managed to break away from his group of admirers and join Race at the bar. He had the helmet on now, and Race felt like a midget next to him despite being more than six feet tall himself. He had to admit, Derrick sure did make a fantastic Marc Antony.
“Ready to go yet, Rick?” Race didn’t try to hide his impatience from his best friend.
“You’re kidding, right?” Derrick pointed at Race’s beer when the bartender came over and held up two fingers. “This is a great party! We’re having a blast and it’s still early. We can’t possibly leave yet.” He took a swig of the beer the bartender placed near his elbow. “They gave us a late call tomorrow, so what’s the hurry?”
“Where’s Stella?” Race sipped at the fresh beer Derrick handed him and greeted everyone who walked by with a fake smile and a nod. He acted like he was having fun, just as his agent suggested.
“Dunno. She disappeared. I hope she’s not puking in the ladies’ room.”
“Yeah, sorry. I shouldn’t have made that last drink for her.” Race glanced down guiltily at his shoes as he apologized, and Derrick just shrugged. “There she is—dancing with Catwoman. Is that Caitlin Kassidy? Damn, she makes one helluva Catwoman.”
“That she does,” Derrick said with an edge to his tone that surprised Race. He started to walk toward his girlfriend, leaving Race standing at the bar on his own. He watched Derrick go up to Stella, who was slow-dancing, cheek-to-cheek with her arms wrapped around Caitlin. She pulled him into the dance. Lucky bastard, Race thought as Derrick danced with both women. He remembered some of the other things Caitlin was good at. A few years earlier, they’d been on the same series up in Vancouver, when Race had been cast as her love interest for half a season. They’d spent quite a bit of time together off-set, working at building some chemistry between their characters. Might check and see if there’s still any chemistry with Catwoman later on. He smiled and took another long pull at his beer, imagining the possibilities.
Race finished his beer as he watched the rest of the guests dance and mingle. He was polite to the network and studio suits who came up to schmooze; his agent would have given him a gold star for his behavior. He even danced with one female executive, until she started getting a bit too friendly and grabbed his ass. He extricated himself politely and found sanctuary at the bar. He caught up with a few more actors he’d worked with in the past: either guest stars on his show or fellow guests on episodes of other shows. Sooner or later it seemed the same set of actors made the rounds of the network, ending up on every show; so Race was bound to run into the same faces year after year.
He ran into a couple of his closer friends, Tim and Baxter, whom he’d known for years. One was dressed as a vampire, which complemented his dark hair and fair skin. The other dressed as a pirate… a bit like Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack, but with a lot less guyliner. They chatted for a while until Race noticed Derrick across the room trying to get his attention. Finally, Derrick looked like he was ready to call it a night, and Race’s spirits rose.
“Race, we’re gonna leave now,” Derrick told him
. Catwoman and Cleopatra were still tightly wrapped around him, both giggling.
“Huh?” Race wanted to be sure he was getting this right. “The three of you? Got room for me?” he asked half-seriously.
Derrick threw him a cryptic glance, which surprised Race. Dude’s leaving with two hot chicks, so why doesn’t he look happier? And why didn’t he invite Race along?
“Well, uh….” Derrick stopped. Tongue-tied Derrick was someone Race had never met before. Not too surprising since Race had practically just asked to come along and fuck his girlfriend. “We’re taking the car that brought us. You okay to find your own way home?”
“Yeah, sure.” Race waved a hand nonchalantly, but he was pissed as hell, and it had nothing to do with the car. “Plenty of other cars or cabs.” Race smiled and nodded as the three of them started to walk away. “Have fun!” he added unnecessarily.
Well, fuck. Not only had Race stuck around waiting for Derrick to leave, but there went his chance with Catwoman. That was two strikes for the evening. He hadn’t seriously expected to hook up with anyone here, but now he was determined not to leave alone. He couldn’t let that happen after Derrick left with the two best-looking women at the party. Race looked around. Could he find two or even three? He couldn’t let Derrick beat him. It was a simple matter of self-respect. Race still couldn’t quite believe Derrick, who never, ever looked at other women when the guys all went out. None of his other friends there tonight would ever let Race live it down once they found out. He knew he shouldn’t have come to this fucking party after all.
After a few minutes of feeling sorry for himself he formulated a plan. Thank God that grabby network woman was gone! He’d hate to have to rebuff her advances then leave with someone else. That would totally fuck up his career. He spotted a likely candidate for seduction: Eliza Hall. Tall, leggy, and nearly as gorgeous as Caitlin, she looked particularly delectable in the mermaid costume she was wearing. Well, if you could call it wearing, since there really wasn’t much of it. Yahtzee! That should be no trouble at all; actually it was almost too easy, but she was definitely the hottest woman at the party now. He knew that when he danced with her—and yes, he let her talk him into dancing, or think she’d talked him into it—that they were the best looking couple there. No one was really surprised when they left together shortly afterward.
A piercing shriek woke Race up the next morning, and he threw his alarm clock across the room, knocking over another lamp. Fuck! At this rate, he’d have to go lamp shopping soon, but at least the alarm stopped screeching. He was alone, head pounding slightly, and his body ached in places he barely knew he had. He had a hazy recollection of what had happened after he’d left the party with Eliza, but he had a sinking feeling he didn’t want it to get any clearer. They’d come back to his place, and all he could remember was that Eliza had worn the Fedora the entire time—and the leather jacket for a good part of it too. He didn’t even want to think about the whip; he wasn’t ready for that just yet. He might never be ready to think about it.
He dragged himself into the shower, and miraculously he managed to get ready and be waiting downstairs when the studio car came to pick him up. Derrick was sitting inside and held out a very large cup of coffee to him once he’d gotten seated and buckled up. Coffffeeee, he thought, reminding himself of the way the Cookie Monster might say “cookies!” He sipped silently, feeling the caffeine reinvigorate him almost as soon as it hit his bloodstream. He glanced over at Derrick. The same old Derrick-morning-face, smiling and eager, like he couldn’t wait to get on set and pout his little heart out at Race all morning. You couldn’t tell by looking at him what he’d gotten up to the night before, and Derrick didn’t volunteer any information. Race was dying to know what had happened with Stella and Caitlin, but he knew asking outright would cross a line. Derrick was business-as-usual and wanted to run lines while they drove to work. Unbelievable!
It turned out to be a good thing they did, because Race needed the practice. The late night with Eliza, and at least one too many beers, had really caught up with him. The morning’s shoot went horribly, and the director was less than impressed with their progress. They’d had to do so many takes that Derrick was practically finishing Race’s half-forgotten sentences, which was not at all what the director wanted. Race struggled to concentrate on his work.
How did Derrick manage to look so relaxed and fucking well-rested after the night he must have had? It just wasn’t fair. And he hadn’t flubbed his lines—well, no more than usual—but not like Race, who was definitely off his game this morning, and everyone on set knew it. It only got worse as the day wore on. He felt like crap; crap that had been run over by a steamroller and then thrown over a cliff. Wile E. Coyote on his worst day looked better than Race felt. Eliza had folded, spindled, and mutilated him; and it took all of his acting ability to keep anyone else from knowing it. At least he hoped he’d been able to keep it a secret. He was pretty sure he hadn’t managed to hide much from Derrick. He’d been shooting Race pointed looks—glares, really—all morning. Finally, the director called a break while the crew set up cameras and lights for the next set of shots.
“Race, you okay? You’re moving like you got hurt or something. We haven’t even done any stunts this morning.” Derrick caught up with Race as he started to walk toward his trailer, the first moment they’d been alone together since they got out of the SUV. His voice was concerned, not annoyed.
“Yeah, well, I kind of had a rough night last night—after the party.”
“Really?” Derrick asked with a somewhat pained expression that Race couldn’t quite identify. Why did Derrick care what Race did after the party? “What did you get up to? Go out for an after party with Tim the vampire and Baxter the pirate?”
“Uh, no, I left with Eliza Hall, and let’s just say she really went to town with Indy’s whip,” Race said half laughing and half grimacing. He turned around and raised his shirttail up enough so Derrick could see one of the painful welts on Race’s back.
“Ow!” Derrick said sympathetically. “Still hurts, huh?” Race nodded. “I know what might work on this. I have some aloe vera gel in my trailer. It works on burns and stings, so it might work for this.”
“Okay, thanks. It’s not like I can go to the set nurse on this one,” Race said gratefully as they walked to Derrick’s trailer.
“Why not? You really can’t tell it’s from a whip.” Derrick was attempting to hide the smile that fought to break out and was losing the battle. Race really couldn’t blame him. Had it been anyone else, this would have been fucking hilarious.
“Well, y’see,” Race added sheepishly as they climbed the steps into the trailer, “it’s not the only one.”
“Ah.” Derrick closed and locked the trailer door behind them. He went into the bathroom and came back with a clear tube of the gel.
“See?” Race pulled his shirt off and displayed his wounds to Derrick. There were several more welts on his chest and back.
“Jesus fuck!” Derrick exclaimed, though there was no trace of humor in his tone. Now he seemed to be genuinely sorry for Race. “Let me do this for you, probably can’t even reach some of these on your back, can you?”
“There are a couple on my legs too,” Race admitted. He thought for about the ten-thousandth time how glad he was that he had a close friend like Derrick, who wouldn’t immediately make him feel like a complete asshat. He could just imagine what Tim or Baxter would say if they found out what had happened.
“Take your pants off and lie face down on the bed; I’ll put this stuff on all of them for you.” Derrick waited while Race pulled his boots and jeans off and lay down, and then he sat at the edge of the bed and squeezed some of the clear gel into his hand. He dabbed a bit of it at a mark on Race’s shoulder, clearly not wanting to hurt him. “How’s that? Too much pressure? Let me know if I’m hurting you.” Race just shook his head, and Derrick continued dabbing. “Feeling any better?”
“Yeah, it does. It’s nice
and cool. Thanks.” Race let out a strangled sigh.
“Now I can see why you couldn’t act your way out of a paper bag this morning.”
“That bad?” Race really was embarrassed. He prided himself on being professional and competent. He hated turning in a bad performance, especially in front of the crew. It made him feel like he was wasting everyone’s time if he didn’t nail it on nearly every take.
“Worse. When the director sees the dailies, we’ll probably have to re-shoot some of the scenes.”
“Thanks, I really feel better now. I don’t know what I’d do without a friend like you.” Race’s tone oozed sarcasm.
“Race, I don’t understand. Why didn’t you stop Eliza if it hurt? I mean, unless you like that kind of pain. Even if you do, there are limits. But I get the feeling you’re not into that sort of kink.”
“I couldn’t really stop her, because she had my arms tied up.” Race felt like an idiot. “And I’ve discovered that I don’t like this kind of thing. I thought it would be fun, but it really wasn’t.”
“Well, it can be fun if you’re with someone who you can trust to stop when you want them to. You need to set some rules before you start, otherwise, that kind of game is just dangerous.”
Race wondered how much experience Derrick had with that kind of game but refrained from asking. Derrick shared next to nothing about his sex life with Stella, and Race respected his decision on that.
“I sure hope this was the best fuck of your life.”
“Not even close. It was possibly one of the worst.” Race wasn’t even talking about the whipping. The whole thing had been so unsatisfying even though he had come several times. Just getting off isn’t enough anymore, he thought. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected any more than that with Eliza; because when he’d decided to leave with her, his main goal had been mindless casual sex. He wished he’d just gone home alone and jerked off, but something about Derrick leaving with Stella and Caitlin had made him feel compelled to compete. Why had he been so annoyed at Derrick? It didn’t feel like simple jealousy that his best friend had left with two women. There was something else there, at the edge of his consciousness and emotion, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.