01 The One I Want - 5. It's not About the Boat

"You ready yet?"

Ben kept typing. "I don't need a babysitter, you know."

"How can you still be so grumpy? You know you enjoyed it." Who didn't have a dirty little fantasy of office sex? Certainly did wonders for the stress created by that little scene with Ben's asshole of an ex-boyfriend.

"Fuck you," growled Ben without taking his eyes off the screen, "I'll take the bus."

"Don't make me turn your computer off," he warned, only half-joking. Rick had brough Ben to work that morning; no way would he leave Ben to fend for himself in getting home. Still feeling possessive, he wanted to keep Ben under his watchful eye.

"Screw y--" Turning to glare, Ben's mouth fell open.

Sitting low in his chair, he had a straight shot of Rick's ass. He'd changed clothes, standing by the desk rummaging in his gym bag. What looked like soccer socks, striped in red, white, and blue, clung to his legs, with grungy, white, shoestrings hanging out from underneath the fold at the tops. He'd put on a thick, heavy jersey, short-sleeved and likewise striped in the three colors. But the shorts! The shorts were white, grass and dirt-stained, but they perfectly framed Rick's perfectly-shaped, to-die-for ass. They weren't overly tight, but they were short, like 70s basketball short. Like the jersey, the shorts were made out of a thick, heavy material, had a drawstring in the front, and no pockets.

"What are you wearing?"

Rick glanced over and grinned. "This is my old Academy rugby uniform." Having not made the football team at the Air Force Academy, Rick had learned rugby instead. One hand at his waist and one over his head, he pirouetted like a girl in a tutu. "Wah-lah!"

"That's 'voila,' with a 'v,'" said Ben.

"I know that." Rick rolled his eyes. Then he gave Ben a closer look. "Don't tell me you got a hard-on over this?"

Ben spun back around. He knew he was blushing; it was embarrassing as hell. He just didn't spring erect over shit like this, and he'd already come once already today! He scuffed his feet on the floor as he felt Rick grab the back of the chair.

"Aww," said Rick, brandishing his phone. "I want a picture."

Ben held up a hand in front of his face. "No. No, don't, I take horrible pictures."

"Don't be silly. Come on, please? I'll let you grope my ass ...."

"... Fine." Ben scowled and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Not like that, I want you all needy and lusty."

"Fuck you."

"Maybe I'll let you peel me out of these tonight, what d'you think about that?"

Ben swallowed and shifted slightly. Built like Hollywood's idea of a football star, Rick was a little shy of six-foot, with broad shoulders, a tiny waist and firm ass, tough, muscular legs, biceps that Ben envied, and abs you could bounce a quarter on. He wore his dark chocolate hair shaggy, but still clinging to his goody-goody, military upbringing. Not handsome in the classical sense, Rick's beauty came from his gorgeous, honey-brown eyes. He certainly didn't look like the college English professor he was.

The thought of Rick stretched out on his bed, naked but for those shorts sparked far too many fantasies for Ben to count. He blinked suddenly in the aftermath of a flash. "Hey! You fucking asshole!" He lunged up and out of the chair. "Gimme that!"

Laughing, Rick held the phone up and out of reach, hopping backwards a little. "I don't think so -- ow! You little monster!" Still grinning, he stepped towards Ben instead of away, trapping the man's head with a sturdy grip on the back of his neck. Ben pushed against him, but the protest was short-lived under the steady, irresistible barrage of Rick's kisses.

"Dammit," he sighed. Must be one of God's cruel jokes, allowing a man to kiss like that.

Rick ruffled the short, blonde hair affectionately and turned slightly to stick out his ass. "Now, I believe I promised you a grope?"

Betty knocked on the door, clearing her throat in embarrassment. As the secretary for the Los Angeles branch of Two Pair, an online dating and social networking website, Betty always made sure that she was the last of the staff, excepting Ben, to leave each night.

She would never have accepted the job eight years ago if she'd had a problem with Ben, but she'd never walked in on him -- or anyone, for that matter -- that had so much lust in their eyes, like they'd just been caught in the middle of something far more scandalous than a kiss. Ben didn't help matters by jumping and scurrying away from the other man, blushing darkly like he was definitely guilty of something. She had to smile at that, a full-grown man acting like a horny teenager. She had two of those at home.

"I, ah, just wanted to say that we're the last ones." The nightly ritual was a little awkward what with all the excitement that afternoon and Rick's laughing eyes daring her to give into the giggles.

"We'll be right on your heels, Betty," said Rick. "Thank you." She nodded and quickly saw herself out.

"But, I'm not done," Ben protested, frowning. He stared after Betty for a minute. There was something strange going on.

"Uh-huh, and you'll likely work all night if I let you. Come on, it's time to go."

"Go? Go where?" He wanted to go home; it'd been an awful day and he wanted to crawl into bed and never come back out.

"Practice, of course. Since I don't have time to take you home first, you're stuck with me."

"Oh, come on!"

"You should be happy for the opportunity to ogle."

There was a short pause.

"God dammit!" Ben muttered, flopping back in his chair with a thump.

Rick grinned. He checked his watch as they piled into his car. He was going to be late, but not too bad. In the passenger seat, Ben grimaced and pushed the button for the cd player. He still sulked, not speaking and staring out the window.

"So, Ben?"

"What?" He cringed slightly as Rick changed lanes.

"What do you do for fun?"

"Hu -- Jesus!" There weren't any arm rests; he found and curled his hand around the oh-shit loop by his head.

"Problem?"

"Do you always drive like this?"

"What's wrong with the way I drive?"

"You take risks I wouldn't on my motor -- damn, Rick!"

"Relax, Candy can take it."

"Um, 'Candy?'"

"Yep, that's her name." He patted the steering wheel, grinning. "As in candy-apple red." He quirked an eyebrow suggestively, "Or, as in eye-candy."

Ben rolled his eyes. "That's so lame." Why a grown man would drive a Volkswagon Beetle -- forget the color or its convertible-ness -- Ben couldn't fathom. The asshole didn't look gay, but for God's sake, he listened to Celtic music, wore pink, had cats, and drove a god-damned bug, and nobody thought anything of it! Years of practicing macho-ness hadn't yet served to wipe off the invisible 'fag' tattoo on Ben's forehead. It was maddening.

"So, what do you call your bike, then?" That was something Rick had yet to see, Ben on his motorcycle. He was betting it'd be totally sexy, like James Dean sexy.

"I don't have a compelling urge to name every inanimate object I come across."

Rick sighed. He let the silence drag on until they were on the highway. Tuesdays had the worst traffic. Even the carpool lane was only inching along. He drummed his fingers on the wheel.

"So, Ben?"

"What?"

"Your place or mine?"

Ben didn't release his tight grip on the door handle, but his head snapped around so fast that Rick was surprised it didn't pop off.

"What?"

He smirked. "It wasn't a come-on." The smirk grew an added element. "Unless you want it to be."

"H-home," sputtered Ben, trying to ignore the suddenly-renewed throbbing sensation in the vicinity of his groin. "I want to go home." Rick made as if to ruffle his hair again and Ben glared, pulling back into the corner of his seat.

Rick only smiled. He slipped the Volkswagen through the lanes fluidly, steadily, if still slowly. "You know," he commented, "Anaheim's kind of a haul from Hawthorne."

"It can be, but the house was owned by Shelly's aunt. She passed while we were in college, and the family let Shelly have it, for free, so long as we fixed it up. They were originally going to sell it, but," he shrugged. "We liked it, and we couldn't afford a closer place at the time." As proud as he'd been to start his own business, those early years had been a struggle. Now that they were franchised under Two Pair, all those worries now rested on somebody else's shoulders. "What we could get was too small or in a bad area. Shelly eventually arranged for the family to sell it to us."

"So you own it?"

"Partially. Or did, anyway. Shelly and Doug bought me out when they got married, and I put that as part of my down-payment on my place. What about you? Couldn't you get campus housing?"

"I could, but the Air Force base is just down the road --"

"In El Segundo?"

"Yeah." He laughed. "It's amazing how few people know it's there. Part of it has condos being built on it now, off El Segundo Blvd., between Aviation and Douglas. Next to Raytheon."

"Oh." There was an Air Force Base in El Segundo?

"You know, Douglas is so wide because we -- and I mean 'we' in a general sense -- the Navy used to build airplanes there and taxi them over to LAX by using Douglas. That's also why the street's so wide. And one-way. Or used to be, anyway. They changed that with the latest round of construction."

Technically attached to Los Angeles Air Force Base for his last three years in the service, Rick had returned from his last tour in Iraq to see an almost completely new place. The city of El Segundo and the Air Force had negotiated a swap: land for buildings. Now the same number of people worked on half the land they used to have, in brand-new, modern office buildings and the city owned land that wasn't as valuable as it could be due to the sliding economy.

"I take it you don't build airplanes there anymore?"

"Well, I never did." He grinned as Ben frowned. "But, yeah. The Air Force does space-stuff there."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Not a clue. I'm not an engineer. Doesn't make sense to me. Besides," and he grinned, "if I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"That's so not funny."

"So, anyway, a buddy got transferred quite suddenly and would've broke his lease if he couldn't get anyone to take it over. The rent was within my allowance for housing, so I talked it over with my roommates, and, basically, I was just too lazy to move again once I got settled."

"You've lived there awhile, then."

"Yep. Figures I'd move closer to the base just before getting out, wouldn't it? What about you?"

"Angie."

"Hmm?" Seeing his exit, Rick hauled the little car across two lanes of traffic, making Ben breathe harshly again and huddle into a corner of the seat.

"I, uh, Angie was a client. Is," he corrected himself. "Is a client. El Segundo went through a small building boom and that complex was one of a few that was completely torn down and re-built. Angie mentioned landing a job there, said she got a bonus if she successfully referred anyone, and, since I was looking, I let her show me around."

"Nice."

Ben shrugged. "I suppose." He frowned out the window. "Where are we?"

"Northern part of Long Beach. Do you like Long Beach? I love it. I'd live here if it wasn't even further away. There's this part, along Ocean -- have you been down there? Well, there's this bar we hang out at a lot, just over the bridge from San Pedro, where the 710 ends. Ocean parallels, well, the ocean, obviously, but there's this little, old-fashioned strip, been there forever. There's this fantastic pizza place. Remind me to take you there some time."

"Sure. Huh. You practice at a high school?"

"Where else would we practice? Do you know anything about rugby?"

"Something like a cross between hockey and football?"

Rick laughed. "Something like that. Well, we need a lot of space. A football field, obviously, and the best places to find one are ...?"

"High schools."

"You got it. And we're here." He turned off the ignition and tossed the key to Ben. "Feel free to sit here, if you want, or you can come watch. If you go anywhere, be sure to be back by ten-thirty."

"Ten-thirty?"

"That's nominally when practice is over, but the actual time varies." Leaning into the back, Rick grabbed his bag and headed for the field. Not wanting to be left behind, Ben followed.

As they approached, two older men helped a limping third to a seat on an aluminum bench on the fifty-yard line. The one on the left scowled.

"You're late."

"Sorry, Coach." Rick grabbed out a sealed envelope from his bag to offer the man. "Signed, sealed, and delivered, as ordered, sir." Idiotic, really, but Ben's anti-anxiety meds hadn't exactly provided the best first impression. It wasn't Ben's fault; Rick hadn't known enough about his new boyfriend's history to realize that the crowded bar would trigger a panic attack.

"Smart-ass," grunted the coach. He folded the envelope to stuff in the pocket of his jacket, eyes glancing from Rick, sitting down to pull on his boots, to the well-dressed young man hovering anxiously behind him.

"You remember Ben, don't you, Coach?"

"Yes." He turned away, to head back over to where the team was working through their warm-ups. On the other side of the field, the women's side ran drills. "You owe me five laps after practice," he called back.

Rick sighed. "Sure thing, Coach!" He looked over at his old friend and teammate, Pickles, foot now being propped on top of a couple bags and surrounded by ice. Their team medic, a dour-faced, older woman, knelt on the grass going through her kit.

"So, what'd you do this time?" Shorter than Ben and built square-shaped, Pickles was the clumsiest man Rick had ever met.

Pickles sighed theatrically. "I swear the place grows holes like clover!"

"You tripped on the ladder again, didn't you?" Pickles flipped him off. Rick laughed and looked over at Kate. "How bad is it?"

"Not bad," the RN-trained Kate replied before Pickles could. "But not good enough to finish out the season."

"It's the end of the line!" groaned Pickles.

Kate started taping on the ice bags. "Oh, stop it, you're not dying. Now, stay put. I don't want to see you hopping around. I'll be back to check on you."

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Idiot." She nodded to Ben as she passed. It'd be her job to analyze Rick's drug test, and she hoped for his sake it was negative. He was a good man; she'd hate to see him dragged down into addiction. First gay, now drugs, what was next?

Ben nodded back absently, shivering from the colder than ice looks tossed his way. Laces tied, mouth guard in one hand, helmet dangling from the other, Rick gave Ben a grin and trotted off. "Behave," he told Pickles. The smaller man just grinned.

Five-nine or so, Rick's new boyfriend was slim with just a hint of muscle under his fancy clothes. Blonde hair cut short and gelled to stand up in mini-spikes, he didn't look quite old enough to drink. He also didn't look like Rick's usual type. Rick had so many boyfriends that the team had quit trying to learn all their names. Rick's nickname was Skipper, because Captain was too awkward to shout across the pitch, so all his boyfriends became 'Gilligan' by default. Made things easier that way.

"Hey, cutie, I don't mind if you keep me company." And maybe he'd learn something of what had Rick so captivated.

Dragging his gaze off Rick's ass, Ben looked down at Pickles. The man just grinned.

"Got to love those shorts, mm?" He laughed as Ben blushed, not sure if Pickles referred to the shorts in general or Rick specifically, and doubly not sure what he felt about that. The twinge of jealousy at the idea of someone else ogling Rick took him by surprise.

Pickles continued on, oblivious, "A gay man's dream. You have no idea how happy I was to learn he played for our team, in more ways than one." He winked.

Ben really began to doubt the intelligence of talking to this man. "You play rugby?" he asked, because some sort of response seemed called for.

"Don't sound so surprised. I'm the hooker."

Ben blinked. "What?"

Pickles laughed. "God, I love that reaction! It's a position! Number two man, front-line of the scrum." If anything, Ben looked even more confused. "Okay, look." Pickles struggled to sit partially up-right and pointed down the field to where the women, finished with their warm-ups, were now separating into two groups. What appeared to be the biggest of the lot grouped together, while the rest lined up in a seemingly haphazard pattern across the field.

"That group," explained Pickles, gesturing, "are what are called forwards. They, um, do you know anything about football?"

"Some."

"Well, in football, there's an offensive side and a defensive side. You could say that the forwards are the defense and the backs, that's the other half, are the offense. Technically, anyone can score, but it's primarily one of the backs. Their job is to move the ball forward and the forwards protect the line of scrimmage."

"That explains a lot."

Pickles ignored the sarcasm. "Just watch. See that thing?" He pointed to a strange, metal contraption behind the try line. "That's a scrum machine. The forwards form what's called a scrum. The machine lets them practice technique without an opposing team."

"Okay, I got that."

Two women stepped to the front of the group. They looked fairly identical in height and breadth of shoulder. The one on the left was slimmer, but both seemed huge.

"Those are the props," said Pickles. "The third person, between them, is the hooker. That's me. They're the front row. The next two, they're typically tall and lanky, are locks, they're in the middle, then the flankers, they're on the sides, and the eight-man, are the back row. All together, they're called the pack. Got it so far?"

"I guess. Rick said he's the, um, the eightman?"

"Yep. Now, watch this. See how they're all getting in tight together? That's one-half of a scrum. Imagine there's an identical group facing them, that's what we use the machine for. Their shoulders go in-between those pads, which would be the shoulders of the opposing team."

"Okay."

"To start play, usually after a penalty, the team that won possession rolls the ball into the center of the scrum, between both teams. See that girl there? That's Dyna, she's the scrum-half, that's what that position is called, the number nine. She rolls the ball in and the hooker's job is to 'hook' the ball with a foot while the scrums push each other. Ideally, the hooker of the team with possession gets the ball, but a good hooker can steal the ball. A good scrum will drive -- that is, move the whole kit and caboodle forward -- over the ball, pushing the line of scrimmage forward. That's the eight-man's job, to direct how the scrum moves."

Pickles directed Ben's attention to the backs. "Typically, the forwards are big, slow, and do most of the tackling. Any time the ball gets bogged down somewhere, the forwards, the pack, get together to win the ball back out of the mess. The backs, on the other hand, are usually smaller, but faster. Unlike the forwards, who roam all over the field, the backs have certain, um, lanes, they patrol, like in soccer. The eight-man is, nominally, in charge of the scrum, but the scrum-half is boss of the forwards, does that make sense?"

"No."

"Well, anyway, the fly-half is the position that's in charge of the backs. He, or she," he pointed out the woman at the head of a diagonal line of players lining up on the field, "is usually the team captain and calls all the shots. She'll tell the scrum-half what she wants and it's the scrum-half's job to get the ball out away from the pack and to the backs. The backs then carry the ball up the field. When one of 'em gets tackled, play shifts to the forwards, who hustle over to fight over the ball, get it back to the scrum-half, to the backs, and the whole thing starts again."

"So," said Ben slowly, watching the women toss the ball backwards to each other as they ran up the field, "it's like football: run two yards, get tackled, pile up, and stop. Over and over and over again."

Pickles laughed. "Something like that, but, you see, in rugby, play never stops, unless there's a penalty or the ball goes out of play. There's no messing around to set up each play, it's go-go-go, all the time. Got to think on your feet."

"Right."

"It's a lot more complicated when you're just watching. Easier just to play."

"Uh-huh."

They watched in silence for several minutes. On the women's side of the field, the team had re-formed and Pickles started up his commentary again. Extra players, or non-starters, formed a ragged defensive line to give the others someone to run at. From time to time players switched in and out and changed positions. There was no full scrum; the players clumped together and waited for their coach's whistle to let them break. The flankers were the first away, followed by the scrum-half and eight-man, then the locks, and then the front row.

They played touch, which meant that when the 'opposition' landed a two-hand tag on the person with the ball, that person was declared 'tackled' and had to hit the ground. The players then bunched up over them in what Pickles called a 'maul' when the women were all on their feet, or a 'ruck' which looked confusingly like a scrum. Backs and forwards mixed for those, but the scrum-half was at the back, waiting, for every single one.

"How do you keep from being kicked?" Ben asked. "When you're lying down like that?"

"Getting stepped on is a hazard," Pickles admitted. "You just have to try and lay still, make yourself as small as possible, and protect your head. Once the pack moves away, you can wriggle free, but if at any time the ref thinks you're interfering, he can call a penalty and-or card you. Just like in soccer, the ref can throw you off the field if you do something dangerous."

"Oh, what're they doing now?"

Finished with their drills, the men had broken up into forwards and backs, and the forwards, the group that Rick was with, had grouped together on a side-line. There were enough men to form two lines that Ben fairly easily recognized as offense and defense. A man he vaguely remembered from Saturday night stood between them and threw the ball, like a soccer ball, down the tunnel formed by the players. Only, as the ball left his hands, the men jumped up, two throwing a third person between them, all leaning over the tunnel to try and grab the ball.

"Fuck!" Two guys had their hands fisted in Rick's shorts, arms fully extended above their heads.

Pickles grinned. "Yeah, Skipper's a good jumper." He shrugged. "Typically, being tallest, the locks are the ones that get tossed, but Skipper's always had a knack for it. He can get really high."

When the jumper caught the ball, he turned backwards and the whole line bunched up again in that moving tackle-thing until the scrum-half got the ball and made a passing motion. Then they lined up and did it again.

"It's called a line-out, for when the ball goes out of play," said Pickles. He pointed to the players in turn. "The hooker's the one who throws the ball in, and the scrum-half stands there, but the rest of the positions vary. Typically, the props lift, and the locks jump, but there's really no set rules about who has to go where, it's whatever works best. Oh, hey, look, they're going to run a play, this'll be neat."

Directed by the coaches, the backs lined up behind the line-out, and the hooker threw in the ball. Rick caught and tossed to the scrum-half, who sped the ball to the fly-half, who tossed the ball in a rather complicated-looking maneuver to someone who hadn't been there a minute before. That guy, dreds flying behind as Ben recognized Rick's friend, Jazz, darted around the defense and charged toward the goal line.

"Whoo!" shouted Pickles. He cupped his mouth to shout, "Go, Jazz-y! Damn, that guy's good. He's one of our starting wingers, 'cause he's super-fast."

Ben watched eagerly as the teams formed up for another line-out, blushing as Rick gave him a wink. Practice resumed with the forwards and backs running up and down the field in carefully-choreographed plays, A-side against B-side. This close, it all just looked like random legs and arms going in random directions. Just as Pickles had said, play moved quickly and with few interruptions. When one of the coaches blew a whistle, the players quickly stopped what they were doing, listened to the coaches shout at them for a bit, and then started back up again. Sometimes they formed a scrum, sometimes they kicked, and sometimes they did this thing where the person with the ball tapped their foot and immediately charged into the other team. It made no sense, even after Pickles' explanation.

"We stagger training," said Pickles, as the women trooped off to one side and the men took over the whole field. "The women start at eight, and us at eight-thirty, so we all get plenty of time on the field. You forgot about me!" he accused the medic as she came towards them.

Kate ignored him and cut off the remains of the soggy tape. She dried the foot on a towel and, after prodding experimentally, wrapped the ankle in an ace bandage. "You still have your crutches, yes? Good, then use them for the next week, and make sure you have an x-ray taken, to be sure there's nothing broken."

"Will I be okay to play sevens?"

She gave him a long look. "You need to let your body recover. I'd prefer it if you took the summer off."

"But then I'll be all out of shape for Nationals!"

A buzzing in his pocket distracted Ben from the little drama. He paced away down the field to get away from the chatter. "Hey, Shelly, how you feeling?" He was a little worried for them, with the baby being premature and Doug the worry-wart that he was. They were his best friends and partners, and Shelly was by far the most reliable and responsible. With her out of commission, things were bound to be rocky for awhile.

"Good. Doug told me what happened today."

Ben rubbed his head. "Dammit." So, word that Will had shown up and thoroughly humilated him would now be making the rounds of all their friends. Terrific.

"How are you doing?"

"Fine. Fine, Shelly, really."

"Well, I think you should take tomorrow off. In fact --"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Shelly ...."

"Don't you 'Shelly' me. I'm serious. It'll be good for you. Go hang out with Rick or something."

"Shelly!"

"Or, better yet, bring him by tomorrow. I haven't had a chance to meet the guy yet and you still haven't spent any time with your namesake."

"How is Ollie?"

"Don't change the subject. You've still got some boxes in the garage, that'll be a good excuse to come by."

"What boxes?"

"Oh, and I got a message from Riley. He switched to an earlier flight and will be here ... well, should have landed at LAX by now. He said he'd be at work tomorrow. Doug will cover the morning, so there's no need for you to drag yourself in."

"Yes, there is!"

"Ben! The place won't fall apart if you're not there."

"You don't know that!"

"Yes, I do, or don't you remember the last time you actually took a vacation? That poor baby of yours must be feeling awfully neglected."

"Don't even bring my boat into this."

"I don't need Doug hovering around, worrying all day, Ben. I swear to God, he's driving me crazy! If he doesn't go back to work, I may have to kill him."

"Shelly ...."

"No, no, don't even try to talk me out of it. He'll work, you won't, and I better not hear of you sneaking back into the office until next Monday, understand?"

"Shelly!"

"Ben." She heard him huff on the other end and smiled, giving Doug a thumbs-up. They knew Ben had to be feeling pretty shaken-up, but since he no longer lived with them, they couldn't keep an eye on Ben to be sure he rested and dealt with the situation, rather than hiding as he was wont to do. "Don't make me pull my 'technically I'm you're boss' line."

"You wouldn't."

"I think you know me better than that. I love you, but I'll make it an order if I have to."

"God damn it! You're as bad as he is!"

"Hmm, the more I hear about this guy, the more I like him. So, it's settled, then. I'll see both you and Rick sometime tomorrow afternoon." She was giggling as she hung up.

Ben, however, scowled at his cell before jamming it back into his pocket. "Damn her and her mothering ways!" Unfortunately, Ben knew better than to try and go to work anyway, but what was he going to do with four extra days? Five, counting Sunday.

He watched the remainder of practice quietly by himself, but the thrill of seeing so many hot, sweaty men in their short-shorts had lost its appeal. Trudging back to the bench, he sat down again with a sigh.

"Trouble?"

"No."

Pickles waited, but nothing else seemed forthcoming. "So," he drawled, "you and Skipper, huh? I'll bet he's a kinky bastard, huh?"

"What?"

"Come on, hunk like that? Got to be a real dominant seme. We've all been wondering, is he top? He's top, isn't he?"

Ben's mouth opened, closed, and settled into a firm line. He went to go sulk in the car. What's a seme?

Not seeing Ben when he finally got off the field, Rick worried, especially when he saw the way Pickles was smiling. "What'd you do?"

"Me? Nothing."

Rick tossed him a look.

"Honestly, I only told him about the game, nothing else."

"You're sure?"

"Not a real talkative sort, is he?"

Rick smacked the heels of his boots together to knock off the dirt clods and gave Pickles another look. "What did you say?"

"Nothing! I just asked if you were seme or uke."

Opening his mouth to swear, Rick started laughing. He shook his head. "So? What'd he say?"

"Nothing." Pickles grinned. "But he looked charmingly confused, and then stalked off."

"Brat."

"And that's why you love me." He smirked. They'd been friends from the start, but their connection had deepened when Rick came out. "I hope you decide to hang onto this one for awhile, Skipper," he said decisively, nodding towards the red bug. Quiet or not, pissy or not, this new Gilligan felt all right to Pickles. He couldn't say why, but he trusted his intuition when it came to people.

"Yo, Grant, baby!" He lifted his arms. "Give me a lift to the car?"

Rick shook his head, laughing, at the prop's resigned but amused expression. Grant grabbed their bags and scooped his smaller partner into his arms, Pickles giggling and snuggling into the sweaty, dirty chest. Watching their easy relationship, Rick felt something he'd never felt before: envy. He frowned.

Jazz slapped Rick on the shoulder. "Good practice today, man. Everything all right? You look exhausted."

Rick gave his friend a tired smile. "Was up late." Jazz's eyebrows rose. "No, not like that, you pervert. Working." He pulled off his socks, rolled them up, and shoved them in his boots. He grabbed his sandals, stuck the mouth guard in its case, and tossed everything in his bag. He groaned as he stood. "Going to sleep well tonight."

"Sure you will."

"Night, Jazz. Say hi to Teresa for me."

"I will."

Waving a little or nodding to his other teammates, laughing and teasing each other as they clustered around vehicles prior to departing, Rick found Ben curled up in the passenger side of the bug, looking very small and alone. Rick tapped on the glass. The car beeped as the doors unlocked. Getting in and tossing his bag in the back, he gave Ben a cheerful but tired smile.

"Thanks for waiting."

"Whatever," was the grunted response. Rick took back the keys and they pulled out of the parking lot. He took main streets back to the 405, but abruptly pulled in at a McDonalds drive-thru.

"I feel like some ice-cream," said Rick. "You want anything?"

"No."

Rick got two cones anyway, rooting in the cup holders for the correct change. Taking a big mouthful of his ice-cream as they left the drive-thru, Rick sighed. "That hits the spot." He glanced at Ben and grinned. The man had his head tilted practically sideways, licking around the base of the cone and carelessly smearing nose, forehead, and cheeks with ice-cream. Eyes saw him watching and Ben frowned.

"What?"

"How old are you?" It wasn't what he'd meant to say, but he got Ben to blush even though he was scowling.

"Older than you!" he snapped and wiggled about in the seat to put his back to a grinning Rick. Ben was still licking sticky fingers when they parked back at Rick's apartment.

He yawned hugely and grabbed his bags. "I'll just get your helmet."

Ben stepped out of the car after Rick. The beep of the automatic locks seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet. He walked over to his bike and saw a yellow card stuck to the handlebars with duct tape. The message told him in plain terms that he had until morning to move his vehicle or it would be towed. He sighed and crumpled up the paper, but couldn't quite bring himself to toss it on the ground. He stuffed it in one of the saddlebags instead, sitting heavily on the padded seat, leaning against the sissy bar.

Rick came back down the stairs, with helmet and jacket, but Ben made no move to accept the items. Right then, his condo seemed only empty and lonesome instead of safe and comfortable. When he'd moved there, it had been more about shame and guilt than that he didn't feel welcome anymore with Doug and Shelly. The two of them, and the accompanying pain in his heart, combined with their joy against the raw remains of his own personal failure, had just been too much. He'd wanted to be alone, needed some space he could call his own, to start over.

Not speaking, Rick draped the jacket over his arm and perched on the motorcycle next to Ben. He threw an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. He didn't have to understand to recognize the lost expression on the older man's face. They sat quietly for several minutes before Rick could no longer hold back a deep yawn and Ben pulled away.

He rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, you're tired, I should go."

Rick gave back the gear and dropped a quick kiss to Ben's forehead. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"

Ben watched him leave, and just felt more alone than ever, sitting there in the dark, with nothing and no one to go home to, not even a plant. Or fish. He'd had an aquarium once, gave it up after somehow killing three fairly expensive fish in a row. He stared down at the helmet in his hands. Even at its worst, being with Will had made him feel wanted, and that had felt good. He hated to admit it, but a small part of him had been glad to see Will again, and another part had gotten a cheap thrill out of seeing the two men fighting over him so possessively. That had never happened to him before.

He really wasn't quite sure what caused him to call out. "Rick?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't -- I . . . Can I stay?"

Rick smiled softly, but the shadows cast by the lights behind him hid his face. "Sure thing," he replied. He continued up the railing with a lighter step. Leaving Ben alone, after such a tumultuous few days went against his better judgment. He left the door open but the screen closed and moved quickly to sort out his things, opening the gym bag to air, grabbing up the dirty clothes to toss in the hamper, and setting his work satchel and laptop on the table.

His cat, Tyler, meowed at him, circling his legs, and Rick was too tired to move past without tripping. Sighing, he held out his arms and called. Tyler reared up on his hind legs to claw his pants, then backed up and leaped into Rick's arms.

"Whiny butt," he murmured affectionately. Tyler butted his chin with his head. Rick tossed him on the bed and pulled off the still-damp and sticky clothes. Beginning to wonder if Ben was really coming up, or if he should close the door, he crossed quickly into the bathroom for a shower. He was just spitting out a mouthful of toothpasty foam when he realized he was being watched.

"Moved my bike," said Ben.

"Ah." He offered his freshly rinsed toothbrush. Ben grimaced and ducked away. Rick grinned.

Ben didn't enter the bathroom until Rick finished and even though he was quick, all the lights were off and Rick was in bed by the time he flipped off the light. Uncomfortable with remaining in the boxers he'd been in for two days, he still hesitated before completely undressing. Rick hadn't left out any clothes for him and Ben didn't want to snoop about in the dark.

Rick smelled crisp from his shower, the familiar scent more inviting than any spoken words or gestures. Ben snuggled in close, feeling something tight inside him loosen at just the feel of another body next to his own. Will had never let him cuddle, not even after sex. He'd had a few boyfriends who didn't even like to sleep together unless sex was involved, but Rick just grunted a little and adjusted an arm to pull Ben closer. Throwing a leg over Rick's and pillowing his head on his chest just seemed natural after that. With a couple deep sighs, Ben relaxed.

Instead of helping ease him further into sleep, listening to Ben breathing softly, sleeping so trustingly beside him, only served to keep Rick awake. Ben seemed to take pains to project a tough-guy exterior and it was easy to see how his private nature caused him to be the one others relied on, but did Ben have anyone he could turn to, when he needed someone? Somehow, Rick doubted it. Then he had to ask himself what he felt about taking on that role. Could he do it? Ben was obnoxious, and not inclined to accept or even ask for help, but ... it just felt so right, and Ben seemed the type not to hold it against him if things didn't work out. Rick rather thought he'd like to have Ben as a friend, although, the sex had been amazing.

He frowned slightly as those thoughts stirred up his nether regions. He tried shifting, but Ben clung like a barnacle and Rick couldn't decide what would be worse, having Ben's backside teasing him or having his front available to jerk off when he didn't want to do that, either, for fear of waking up Ben. He gnawed on his lip and stared at the ceiling, trying to think of less naughty things, but all that conjured was Ben looking all cute and annoyed, and so damned fuck-able.

He groaned a little, because that reminded him of the best damn blowjob he'd ever received, and because he didn't have to be self-conscious about the noises he made when there was no one listening.

Unfortunately for him, Ben had other ideas. As Rick cautiously tried to edge out from under clinging arms and legs, Ben woke. Momentarily confused, he held on tighter. When it dawned on him what was going on, he almost laughed. Nothing like inspiring a hard-on while asleep to boost the ego.

Ben let his arm slide down Rick's chest, taking a perverse delight in the agitated groans and shivers -- all of which ended abruptly as Ben wrapped his fingers around Rick's cock.

"Going somewhere?" he whispered.

"I didn't -- oh! M-mean to ... t-to ..." Rick groaned again. "Mmm-nngh! Ben!"

There was a nipple temptingly close. Sliding along Rick's body, Ben leaned up on his elbow and gave the nipple a gentle tug with his teeth. While he didn't particularly care for his being messed with, Ben knew that most people loved having theirs played with. Rick, apparently, was no exception. He practically screamed.

"Don't come yet," said Ben, pausing his ministrations.

Rick opened his eyes, staring at Ben with some confusion. "Wha ...?"

"I forbid you to come." He teased with a flurry of quick, feather-soft touches all up and down the shaft. "Don't do it, Rick. C'mon, you're a G.I. Joe, you can take it."

"But ...!" He tossed his head back, words deserting him. Toes dug into the mattress for purchase, but Ben's weight on one leg kept him pinned. The little, wet kisses across his chest and side were maddening, and torment took on a whole new aspect as Ben moistened his finger with precome to tenderly caress the soft skin between the base of the ball-sack and the anus. Rick didn't know what to do with his hands. Every time he tried to grab Ben and return the caresses, Ben nipped him.

"I'll tie you down, you keep doing that," Ben warned. "I'm in charge now, so, in your own words, just lie back and take it."

"Ouch!"

"I said, lie still."

Rick whimpered. He whimpered and immediately threw his hands over his face in mortification while Ben chuckled against his stomach. In another minute, Ben slipped fully between Rick's legs. He shivered in anticipation, grabbing for a pillow to hold over his face.

Ben stopped and sat up, grabbing the pillow. He leaned over Rick, catching just the shine of his eyes in the darkness broken only by a few streaks of light from the alleyway through the blinds. "None of that, now," he whispered, brushing Rick's lips with light kisses that trailed down his chin, to suck at the base of his throat.

"B-Ben!" gasped Rick. "Please! I can't!"

"Tsk," said Ben, easing up on the grinding motion. "Should have woken me sooner." He sat up. "Don't come yet," he repeated the warning. "You can't come until I say so."

"That's ... crazy!" His hands reached for himself, but Ben quickly scampered forward to straddle him and slap the hands away.

"Not so fast! You jumped me twice, now suffer your just desserts." Easing back, he made sure to rub against Rick, making him cry out again.

"This's against the rules!" whined Rick, panting harshly now.

Ben lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?" He rubbed harder. "Then I guess you don't want this, then?"

He started to lift away, but Rick grabbed him, pulling him back down. "Don't you fucking dare!" he snarled.

"Oh-ho!" chortled Ben. "Score one for me!"

Rick surged up and forward, wrapping Ben in his arms and bearing him down backwards to the bed. Ben's laughter was abruptly muffled with deep, frustrated kisses. Rick thrust against him, groaning. Quickly, still chuckling over his success, Ben grabbed the base of Rick's cock, pinching firmly.

"Not 'til I say, Rick, not until I say."

"I don't think so." He threw Ben backwards again, pinning him down and proceeding to kiss him insensible. Then, he was sure, he could get what he wanted and end this horrible teasing. Only, Ben wiggled loose and slid backwards through Rick's legs. In a flash, Ben's mouth around his cock held Rick prisoner once more. He sagged forwards with a half-moan, half-sob.

"Ben!"

He was concentrating so hard on maintaining some semblance of control that he didn't realize at first that Ben was gone. Rick collapsed onto his stomach, shaking with effort.

"Not yet," whispered Ben, grinning as Rick jerked in surprise. He danced away as Rick made as if to grab him. The bed bounced under his knees as he hopped back up with his prize. Just as he'd thought, condoms and lube hadn't been far away, or hard to find.

"I'm going to fuck you so damn hard!" growled Rick, turning over.

"Promises, promises!" laughed Ben. "But, first, you ever hear the phrase, 'Do as the Romans do?' Least I think it's the Romans. Might've been the Greeks, though, they were horny bastards."

"'When in Rome,'" Rick started in a sing-song, watching, wide-eyed as Ben slathered lube on himself.

"Why, Rick, you're suddenly looking very nervous."

"It's because you're making me crazy!" he snapped back.

"Ah, but you see," Ben replied, slithering back up Rick's legs, "turn-about is fair play." He felt Rick shiver again when his lube-coated hands slipped between the strong thighs. They couldn't go far with Ben sitting astride and Rick's hands came up to rest on Ben's knees.

"Ben," he started.

He dribbled more lube between them and gave Rick a smirk. "You worry too much."

That got an annoyed frown. "I do not. You're the o-one wh-who ... ?"

"Yes?" sighed Ben. He pulled back from the tight embrace of Rick's legs and thrust again. "Not exactly what you were think-mngh! Was it?"

"Greeks!" grunted Rick, holding Ben close. "Must've been the Greeks. Oh!"

"Who was it wrote about Alexander and ... and -- oh, God -- whatshisname?"

"Fuck, who cares?"

"Huh, and h-here I thought you were the -- ah!"

Rick grabbed Ben and in one, fluid movement, slammed him back against the mattress, rolling on top. "Shut up! God, you fucking talk too much!"

Ben smirked. "Who's got the dirty mouth now?"

"Turn over."

Sticking his tongue out, Ben complied while Rick hunted down the lube in the tangled sheets. After a minute, he propped his chin up with a hand, looking back over his shoulder. "Looking for this?"

Rick snatched up the bottle and offered condom, swearing under his breath. He was so hard he hurt. His hands shook as he rolled on the protection, hissing with the addition of lube. Grabbing Ben he pulled him back, using his legs to press Ben's knees apart.

"Ready for this?" he asked.

"Yes!"

Rick grabbed Ben by the hips, but paused. He could feel the tension across Ben's shoulders as he braced himself. "Are you --"

"Fuck me, dammit! Don't you get all -- hey!"

Rick flipped him over onto his back, leaning forward to grab his face with both hands and kiss him. "No."

"What?"

"Not yet."

"Oooh, you are sooo going to get it for that! Fucking asshole! Mmmnngh! Ah!"

"You were saying?"

"F-fuck! Mmm!"

Rick lay down on his side next to Ben, kissing gently while he fingered him slowly. Ben threw a leg over Rick's hip as he turned to embrace him better. As before, Ben was tight and slow to relax. When Rick finally slid inside, Ben clutched him tightly, face pressed into his neck, and Rick's desire to fuck Ben into oblivion changed. They stayed that way, not moving, for several minutes. Rick kissed the top of Ben's head and rubbed the back of his neck, playing with the short hairs there.

Being on top, Ben moved first, but the sex they had was slow and gentle, lacking any of the almost-violent activity of before. Feet tucked up and back, Ben rocked against Rick's chest, holding on tight and panting into his shoulder. They came quietly, and afterwards Rick held Ben while he fell asleep, plastered together and sticky. He woke up cold, managing to slide Ben off without waking him up. The condom was where he'd dropped it on the floor. Cat eyes blinked at him reproachfully from the sofa, but Rick merely harrumphed softly in amusement while he readied himself, a second time, for bed. The alarm blared early, of course, and Rick woke Ben with kisses instead of threats.

Blue eyes blinked at him blearily, and then he smiled. "Morning."

"Good morning, Sunshine. Time to get up. Want to walk down to Good Eats for breakfast?"

"No," Ben replied, yawning sleepily. "I'm going to stay in bed all day."

"No work?"

"Nope."

"How come?"

Ben frowned, rubbing his face with the back of one hand. "Doug told on me."

Rick chuckled. "Well, you're welcome to stay however long you want. Don't feed the cats, and make sure the door's locked when you leave. Will I see you tonight?"

"You want to?"

"Why not?"

"Shouldn't we, I dunno, actually spend some time apart? Like, you know, date, and stuff?" That's how it normally worked, and Ben would know. This was awkward for him; he didn't quite feel like he had control of this relationship.

Rick smiled and leaned back down for a kiss. "I'll have more schoolwork to grade tonight, but I'll be done at school around noon. How about we do lunch and let whatever happens, happen?"

"M'kay."

Making a mental note to do any negotiations with Ben in the mornings, Rick gave his lover another quick kiss and slipped from the bed. By the time the coffee pot chimed, Ben was fast asleep again, burrowed tightly under the quilt. Rick shook his head, amused, and got ready for work.

He ended up returning later than he'd anticipated, close to one o'clock. He found Ben wrapped in the quilt and draped with cats, fast asleep on the couch. One of Rick's ancient video games waited on pause on the TV. Dropping his bag on the table, Rick perched on the edge of the couch and tickled the back of an ear with the end of a feathery cat toy. First his nose twitched, then his hand, and then Ben grabbed for the ticklish annoyance.

Eyes opened mere slits to glare. "Asshole," he muttered, but then yawned.

"Rise'n'shine, Sleeping Beauty, it's time for lunch."

"Screw lunch, let's just stay here."

"Shelly called --"

"Dammit." He ought to have known she'd call and check up on him. Wait, how'd she get Rick's number?

"-- to remind us to come pick up some boxes?" He cocked an eyebrow at Ben. "And something about a boat."

"I don't want to." He wasn't sure he wanted to know. This smacked of a conspiracy. Shelly must have sicced Rick on him, that was the only explanation.

"The sooner we get out there, the sooner we'll be back. I don't want to get caught in traffic. What do you want for lunch?" He got up to change clothes. The cats scattered as Ben rose as well, stretching.

"How 'bout that sandwich place on Main Street? I like their fries."

"The Cuban place?"

"Yeah."

"Sounds good, I like them, too."

They drove separately to Ben's so he could put his motorcycle back in the garage and change his clothes. Rick chatted to Angie while she teased him about keeping Ben out all night. A fairly quick bite for lunch and they headed to Anaheim. They stopped in front of a ranch-style house in a neighborhood of other identical houses.

Doug and Shelly's house was green with white trim and one of those trees that screamed, "Climb me!" in the front yard. There was a standard two-car garage, with an extended roof ... no, Rick amended, a carport, sheltering a canopy-wrapped object behind a beautiful, antique Ford the color of Ben's eyes.

"Nice truck!"

Ben grinned. "Yeah, my Uncle Charlie, that's Gran's brother, gave it to me. He bought it new ages ago. Still in working condition. Come on."

The front yard was a split-level, with a small section of grass and a hedge under the front window, and a bricked path to the in-set front door. Beautifully flowering rose bushes filled the lower section of the yard. Rick parked on the street. The top was down, so he simply jumped up in his seat and over the side without opening the door.

Ben scowled and led the way up the drive-way to the door. Between the garage and the front of the house was the entryway, with a vine-covered lattice to throw the area into shade, an old, wooden bench, and a fountain amongst the flowers. Ben pulled a set of keys out of his pocket, knocked twice, and entered without waiting for a reply.

"Shelly?" he called. "Shelly, we're here!" Ben gave the room off the entrance a quick glance, then padded down the hallway towards the dining room Rick could see at the back of the house. There was a fair-sized yard visible through the sliding glass doors.

"Hmm," said Ben, scratching his head. He turned down the hallway, passing a room that was obviously used as an office, also empty, and then to the master-suite in the corner. This door was closed. Ben tapped cautiously, and then peeked in. He grinned back at Rick. "She's asleep. Maybe we can get lucky and get out of here before she wakes up."

"Why don't you want me to meet your best friend? You threw me at Doug easily enough." He had kept Doug company until Shelly's family had arrived. Ben had been with Shelly, because Doug had fainted and been kicked out.

"You think Doug gave you the third degree? That's nothing to what Shelly will do." Either that, or he'd have to watch them painfully pretend to not know one another, and Ben wasn't sure which he would prefer.

"Well," drawled Rick, "I do have recent proof I'm drug free ...."

The hallway turned towards the garage with another bedroom, a nursery, and a bathroom. Ben opened the door to the garage with a shrug. He slapped the control for the garage door and flipped on the light. A workbench filled one wall and Rick automatically went over to poke around. The garage was as untidy as the inside of the house was neat and clean. On the back wall was the washer and dryer, another door to, presumably, the carport, and the other wall had shelves. Obviously, only one car ever parked inside the garage.

Ben stared up at the shelves with their plastic tubs. "Hell if I know what she's talking about!" He sighed. "We'll have to go through them all."

Rick stepped away from admiring the surfboard hanging on pegs next to backpack frames and an ancient, Schwinn bicycle, and grabbed the step-ladder. Since he was taller, he grabbed the tubs and handed them down to Ben who stacked them on the floor of the garage. There were more than a dozen, all told, though the first four were holiday decorations, so they were quickly put back. Another held what felt like clothes in garbage bags, two had camping gear, another had old textbooks (that one was heavy), and then Rick popped the top off of a tub filled with trophies. He pulled one out.

"Hey, what's this?"

"Oh, my God," said Ben, looking up from the pieces to Doug's old train set in another box. He took the trophy and dusted off the figure on top, and then the nameplate. "I can't believe she still has these."

"What are they?" Rick leaned over. "First place, huh? What in?"

"These are our old cheerleading trophies."

"Cheerleading, huh?"

"Shut-up, it's a sport. How do you think I got to college? I certainly wasn't a brainiac like Shelly." He set the trophy down and reached for the next.

Rick picked up the abandoned one. "You went to high school in the eighties?"

"Duh." Ben rolled his eyes. "How old do you think I am, anyway?"

"It's hard to believe you're older than me, that's all."

"Hmphf. Graduated in eighty-nine." He'd had to take summer school and study his ass off, but he'd graduated with the rest of his class. Seventeen and ready to take on the world.

He continued to pull out trophies, some small, some large. At the bottom was a large scrapbook and a shoebox. Ben opened up the scrapbook. "Wow. Shelly's mom made this for us, look." The first page was an old, grainy photo of a much younger Ben and a young, Latino woman with black hair. Both wore cheerleading outfits, Ben in pants and Shelly in a skirt, beaming happily at the camera. Below that was written their names and the date, September of '85. Ben turned the page and there were a few pictures of the squad at practice, then a newspaper clipping of a competition, with another photo on the opposite page of the whole team holding up their trophies.

Ben pointed to a face in the front row. "That's me. God, I was so short! Hit my growth spurt my junior year. That was a nightmare, let me tell you, almost six inches between the beginning and end of the year."

Rick looked over at him. Ben continued flipping through the pages, but he looked so wistful, caught up in memories, that he didn't interrupt. Instead, he reached for the shoebox. It was heavier than it looked. The old, faded-yellow tape peeled off easily, to reveal a 5x7 framed picture on top. Rick lifted it out, seeing a collection of metal disks and faded ribbons beneath. He dusted off the picture with the edge of his shirt.

Two boys stood there, wearing swim-shorts and goggles, arms around each other's shoulders, grinning. Ben looked off to the side, laughing. Around his neck dangled one of the medals. The other boy looked straight at the camera, holding up two medals by their colored ribbons. His goggles, like Ben's, perched high on his forehead. Ben was the taller, though not by much, and the other person had an uncanny resemblance to Will.

Rick tilted the picture towards Ben. "Who's this?"

Ben took the frame with a puzzled frown that turned into a gasp. He rocked back on his heels, the fingers of one hand tracing the face of the shorter boy. He shoved the picture back at Rick, hand shaking.

"Put it away! Just, put it away!" He jumped to his feet. "I need some air. Fuck."

Rick looked down at the photo as Ben left the garage. The boys looked like good friends, and he pegged Ben as fourteen or fifteen. He set the picture aside to pull out one of the medals. The first one he grabbed was silver, 1 meter springboard, December 1985. He counted quickly in his head and that corresponded to Ben's freshman year of high school. All the other medals were for the same year, except for one, the only gold, won in November 1986 for the same event.

At the bottom of the shoebox was an old, yellowed envelope, addressed to Ben, but unopened. Beneath that was another newspaper clipping, partially stuck to the cardboard. He carefully worked it free and unfolded it. The picture in the top right corner caught his eye immediately. It was the same boy in the photograph with Ben.

"Oh. Crap," said Rick quietly. He was holding an obituary. No cause of death listed, only the time and date of the memorial and a quick note with his name, James Edward Rutledge the Third, champion diver for Los Angeles High School. He'd died in 1986, two days before Thanksgiving. The memorial service was the day after Ben won that gold medal.

Rick carefully folded the paper and put everything back in the shoebox. He went inside for a glass of water and stared out at the backyard for several minutes, looking up as a bathrobe-clad figure shuffled towards him.

"Good afternoon," he started to say, but Shelly squealed and took off running. Rick laughed and set the empty glass in the sink.

When Shelly returned, she had on jeans and a casual shirt, hair pulled back in a ponytail. "Sorry about that," she said.

"Don't worry about it," Rick returned with a shrug and smile, shaking her hand lightly. He met her appraising stare squarely. He had nothing to hide, and he really wanted Ben's friends to like him. Their approval would go a long way towards courting Ben.

"Where's Ben?"

"Outside."

"Oh, okay, can I get you anything? Something to drink? Eat?"

"No, thank you, I'm fine. It's a fine-looking house you have here."

"We were lucky to get it, too," Shelly agreed. She poured herself a glass of juice. "So, you're Rick."

"And you're Shelly."

She grinned. "Yep. I've heard a lot about you, Rick."

"Anything good?"

"Possibly." She shrugged, but smiled brightly. "To be honest, you're not as handsome as I'd pictured."

Rick laughed. "Everyone says that."

"Nice black eye, by the way."

"Thank you. I play rugby."

"I know, Ben told me. Did you guys find everything okay?"

"Yes, though we weren't sure which boxes, so we got them all down."

"Oh, well, I had expected to be awake when you got here. The baby sleeps at completely random times, sometimes."

"We figured it out okay. Got to see pictures of Ben from high school."

Shelly laughed. "Wasn't the hair fun? Spent hours each morning poofing out my hair. It was huge!" She shook her head. "Crazy stuff, isn't it?" As she went to take another drink, a buzzer sounded in her pocket and Shelly jumped.

"Dammit!" she swore as juice sloshed over the side of her glass. She yanked the phone out of her pocket and glared at it. "I'll never get used to the vibrator!"

Rick politely hid his chuckles by reaching for a paper towel. When he turned back, Shelly was tucking the phone away and shaking her head, but smiling, too.

"My mom. I'm not talking to her right now."

"Okay."

"She just wants to lecture me on how to be a good mother. All my sisters said she did the same thing to them. She'll get over it." Her grin was full of mischief, completely overriding the fatigue in her face.

Rick grinned back. It was easy to see why Shelly and Ben were such good friends. They must've been something growing up together!

"So, where'd you say Ben was? I want to heckle him about bringing home someone normal for a change."

"Um," said Rick, wondering if he should be concerned by that last sentence or not. "He should be back by now, seemed to need some space. He just went for a walk." Though, to be honest, Ben didn't seem the type to just walk things off.

Shelly frowned a little but then shrugged. "Yeah, probably. I'll bet he's out messing around with his boat and forgotten all about us. Did he show you the boat?"

"No, what boat?"

Shelly started back towards the garage. "Me and Ben found this great old boat in the junkyard one year. Well, it wasn't a real junkyard, just some stuff parked out in this tiny, fenced-in yard. Anyway, we saved up forever to buy it, and fixed it up. After graduation, we took it out to Big Bear for a whole month, camping and sailing on the lake all day. It was a blast! Ben loves that boat."

Rick held open the door to the garage.

"Thank you. Wow, Genny wasn't kidding, you are a gentleman. How come you don't have an accent?" Hadn't Genny said that Rick was from North Carolina?

"Thought it made me sound like a hick," said Rick.

"Oh." She pouted a little, opening the door to the carport. "Father Thomas has a Southern accent. I could listen to him all day. All day!" She grinned. "And here's the boat. Huh, maybe he didn't come back here, the tarp's still on. Anyway, Ben and Doug put on the carport and bricked it up just so Ben could have somewhere to put his boat. Hey, why don't we pull the cover off? I'm sure Ben'll want to show it to you anyway."

Rick shrugged and gave her a hand. The main tarp snapped onto the boat just below the railing. Two additional tarps were affixed to the sides, weighed down at the bottom with bricks. Rick kicked off the bricks working his way towards the stern while Shelly moved toward the bow. As he turned around the other side, he saw that the bricks were already gone, the tarp detached to --

He saw a foot, bare and tanned and sprawled at an awkward angle on top of the crumpled tarp. He stepped forward automatically, and then he saw the blood. It was everywhere, like some horror movie's idea of a murder scene. He was at Ben's side in an instant, not even realizing that he'd called out.

"Ben! Oh, my God! Ben!"