Drinks and dinner.That's a date.
Right?
RIGHT??
They were going to the best, damn steak house in Denver. Just the two of them. That had to make it a date.
Hell. Maybe it wasn't. At least, maybe it wasn't in Chris's mind. But it was in Vin's.
He'd stopped at SuperCuts on the way home to get his hair trimmed. They'd taken off a few more inches than he'd wanted, but at least it wasn't all ragged anymore — at least Chris wouldn't be embarrassed to be seen with him at the restaurant.
At least he hoped the man wouldn't be. Oh, Chris'd never say anything — no way would he be that rude. But, Vin didn't want him thinking it either.
He'd showered and shaved when he'd gotten home. And now he was struggling to do up his stupid tie! But the knot kept turning out crooked.
"Dammit!" he shouted, throwing the offending piece of cheap, imitation-silk down onto the bed. "Whoever thought wearing a fancy-lookin' noose 'round yer neck was a good idea anyway?" Vin mumbled. Whoever it was, Vin would have decked him if he'd been standing there.
He paced back and forth across the bedroom floor, trying to breathe, trying to calm his nerves. It wasn't working.
God, what if this really is a date?!
But this thought only made Vin's clumsy hands shake worse. He needed a drink. No, he needed to get drunk. It would be about the only thing that could possibly calm him right now.
How this had even happened Vin still wasn't sure. Normally the fellers all went for beers after work on Friday night, but not tonight. Oddly, everyone had other plans. But Vin didn't know this when he'd agreed to dinner. He'd thought they were all going.
It wasn't until 5 o'clock rolled around that Vin realized it was just going to be him and Chris.
His stomach had sunk to the floor even as his heart seemed to float right up to the ceiling.
Vin was beyond caring that Chris was straight. It didn't matter. The man was out of his league any way you sliced it, but he could still dream and that's what he planned to do tonight. Who would it hurt for him to think of this as their "first date"? So there wouldn't be any handholding or kissing ... or anything else. That stuff didn't really matter as much as just getting to sit there staring and talking to the love of his life for the entire evening — completely uninterrupted by work or their friends.
Vin took a deep breath, which he then let out slowly. He picked up the tie and tried the knot again: "X marks the spot; small end at my belly button. The rabbit goes once around the tree ... behind the bush ... then pops up to dive down the hole!" Vin recited the little lesson he'd long forgotten where he'd learned.
He snugged up the knot, and then checked his work in the mirror. Well, it wasn't terrible, that was something. He fiddled with it for a minute, but he was too afraid of making it worse to really make it any better.
Finally, he just left it alone. He checked the clock on the nightstand and realized that he was going to be late! He grabbed his keys and wallet off the bed, stuffing them into the pockets of his slacks, then grabbed his sport coat and rushed out the door.
He had to get across town — he just might make it, if he didn't hit any traffic.
Naturally, he hit traffic.
"Dammit," Vin groused. He checked the small clock on his dash. He was so going to be late. Chris would wait for him, though. Wouldn't he? "Dammit!"
Normally patient, Vin blared his horn at the line of cars that seemed to have nowhere better to be than in his way. "Don't you people have homes?!" he asked them all, but no one answered.
Vin checked the clock again. Then he turned the dial on the radio; he couldn't find a single song he liked. The country station was too twangy for him, the light rock too sappy, the hard rock too loud, the rap too annoying, the classic rock too ... psychedelic: "Inna-gadda-da-vida: what the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway?"
Vin sighed. Checked the clock. Leaned on his horn. Changed the radio station again. "Dammit!"
Vin finally managed to get onto I-25 heading north. The freeway was fairly clear and his heart stopped thundering in his chest as he made up much lost time. He swung the Jeep off at Speer Boulevard, but — "Dammit!" — was soon bogged down in stop-and-go traffic again.
"There must be a late game at Coors Field tonight — that has to be it. That is the only explanation for all this traffic," Vin finally reasoned, not that it made him less stressed about being late. And, unfortunately, Morton's — the best and most expensive steak house in all of Colorado — was just a few blocks west of the stadium. But it was Chris's choice. Chris's treat, he'd said. Now Vin was grousing about it — some date he was turning out to be.
"Dammit. Pull yerself tagether, Tanner," he ordered himself, finally — finally! — turning onto Wazee Street, over Cherry Creek, then just three blocks more. Another left. One more block. And there it was!
Vin checked the clock on his dash again — impossibly he was only twenty minutes late. Chris couldn't hold that against him, could he? He couldn't be mad when Vin had tried so hard to get there. At least Vin hoped he couldn't.
Then a sinking feel began in his stomach. What if Chris hadn't felt like waiting? What if he'd just left?
But, as Vin circled the parking lot, he spotted Chris's truck and breathed a sigh of relief. He lucked out with a parking spot even closer in than Chris's, and then locked the Jeep. He struggled into his sport coat as he hurried across the lot and into the restaurant.
He was supposed to meet Chris in the bar and was thankful that he wouldn't be the one to deal with the notoriously snooty maitre d'. You'd think for the prices they charged for food in this place, Vin wondered, that they'd be a bit friendlier — but he received better treatment at the hole-in-the-wall diner down the block from his apartment that only charged $4.99 for a chicken-fried steak dinner. Granted that steak couldn't compare to this steak, but still....
Vin hurried into the bar, but immediately came to a halt. The sight before him seemed to freeze his feet to the ground just as easily as it froze his heart solid.
Chris was in the bar all right, but he wasn't alone. He was sitting at a small table with two women! Hot, flossy babes, he'd once heard Buck say, and that pretty much described these two. The one facing the door, facing Vin, had loose wavy hair that slipped teasingly across her shoulders as she moved her head in conversation. She wore a silky blouse that looked like it would hang wide-open if she bent far enough forward. She was laughing at something Chris had said, putting her hand on his arm in the process.
The other woman had her back to Vin. Her pale hair was pulled into a ponytail that cascaded down her back. She, too, was dressed well with a vest over a nice blouse and a suit jacket folded over the back of her chair.
Chris had gotten tired of waiting for him. That was the only explanation. Now, the only question was, did he break up this happy ménage à trois or did he just leave Chris to enjoy himself. Vin weighed the options, tried to put himself in Chris's shoes: scrawny ol' Texan versus two flossy babes. If he were straight, he'd take the babes.
Vin was about to leave when the one woman, the blonde, turned slightly and Vin caught her profile. It was Mary Travis! What the hell was Mary doing here with Chris? But suddenly Vin knew.
No wonder the other guys conveniently had other plans tonight. It was a set up! A double date: Chris with Mary and Vin with whoever that other woman was. And Vin had nearly walked right into it.
This wasn't at all about him and Chris hanging out. He wondered how long Chris and Mary had been planning this. And he knew exactly what would happen. After ordering, but before their meals arrived, Mary would start feeling ill — just a headache, maybe, or even an upset stomach, whichever she thought would be more convincing — then Chris would offer to drive her home.
"No, stay, Vin," Chris would insist. "You and the flossy babe just stay and have a good time. It's on me. Order whatever you like."
And then they'd go and Vin would be stuck entertaining some stranger, some woman who would make overtures to him all night long, never figuring out that he not only wasn't interested in her, he wasn't interested in anyone of her gender.
And for the entire night, Vin's thoughts would stray to Chris. To Chris and Mary. Maybe they were having an affair — they did insist otherwise just a little too often. He'd picture Mary in Chris's arms, in the arms that he so wanted wrapped only around himself. And then, when it was mercifully over, when he'd finally gotten rid of the flossy babe without being too impolite, he'd go home and he'd get drunk and he'd stay that way until he'd forgotten the whole damn evening.
The only problem was, he knew he'd never forget. It was bad enough seeing Chris with those two woman — that would be difficult to push from his mind. He really didn't need the suffering of an unwanted blind date on top of it.
Vin turned quickly and left the bar. Outside, he headed immediately for his Jeep, revved the engine and nearly peeled out of the parking lot.
He didn't know where he was going, just anywhere but back to that restaurant. Or his apartment. He didn't really want to go back there, to that empty, hollow tenement.
He then reached for his cell phone. It would serve Chris right to be left worrying about him, but that would likely lead to the man showing up on his doorstep later, lecturing him for his rude behavior, all the while playing innocent about the blind date set-up. Vin wouldn't be able to stand that.
He dialed Chris's cell phone number. "It's Vin," he said coldly when the man answered. "I, ah, had some car trouble. I'm not gonna make it." He sure as hell wasn't about to say he was sorry for it, though. "NO! I— I don't need a ride. I'm just waitin' for the tow truck. —Mary? Ya just happened ta run inta her, huh? Imagine that." Vin nearly screamed when Chris mentioned her name. "Well, ya two enjoy yer dinner— I gotta go, the tow's here."
He hung up without even saying good-bye.
Vin turned his car toward Capital Hill, then down Broadway. A few blocks down, he found a parking space on the street and maneuvered his way in. He was just half a block from the place he'd decided to go and drown his sorrows.
Had all the happy emotions not been frozen along with his heart, Vin might have smiled when he saw the bright letters painted on the front window of the place: "Pony Expresso And Dessert Bar."
He'd tried it the first time just because of the name. But now he came back because it was, bar none, THE best place in the city to indulge a sweet tooth. And Vin really couldn't think of anything better right at the moment than inducing himself into a hyperglycemic coma.
It was still early in the evening, but the place was busy enough that he had few seat selections. The most private, ironically, seemed to be in the corner next to the front plate-glass window. He ordered a large piece of coconut/key lime pie and a double espresso. Hell, he'd have ordered an IV drip if it would have gotten the near-lethal combination of caffeine and sugar into his system any quicker.
He'd sat for a long time — long enough to order a third double espresso and a second piece of pie, this time the joint's famous peach cobbler, which somehow managed to be both sweet and tart at the same time. At first he was able to focus on shoveling the dessert into his mouth, but soon his thoughts wandered back to Chris.
Oh, when had it happened? When had he fallen for this guy? This straight guy? And then allowed himself to believe there could ever be anything between them?
Maybe it was that day he had that cold. Nothing so bad as to waylay him for long, nothing that would have kept him from work, if it hadn't been the weekend. He couldn't even remember why Chris had called, but they'd ended up bull-shitting about stuff and by the time Vin had hung up the phone he was feeling a whole lot better, despite his stuffy nose and body aches.
Or maybe it was the afternoon Chris had invited him out to the country club. It was the first social thing he ever remembered just the two of them doing together — without the other guys around. Chris had introduced him around: "This is my friend Vin." His friend. Not his co-worker, not even just plain ol' Vin, but his friend Vin. And the people at the club had been nice to him, not merely tolerant like he'd expected.
Or maybe it was the time that Chris asked for his help repairing his truck. Or that other time out at the ranch with the horses....
Vin wished he knew when it had happened, the exact moment, because he now wanted to go back to that moment: to analyze it, to reexamine it, to tear it apart until he found the flaw which cause the fission between reality and fantasy — the one little thing which had made queer Vin Tanner fall in love with straight Chris Larabee — and then he'd annihilate it, wipe it from his mind, from history.
Vin glanced out the window at all the people wandering by. There was a disproportionate number of gay couples, but it wasn't surprising — this bakery wasn't far from Capital Hill and the downtown club scene. Then a man walked passed the window — tall, lean with dirty blonde hair, just like Chris's. He was even wearing black jeans like Chris did. Hell, it could BE Chris, Vin thought for a moment, his heart suddenly thundering in his chest. But then the man turned and Vin saw clearly that it wasn't.
Dammit, Chris! Vin's mind screamed. I didn't wanna love you!
Vin threw a twenty down on the table — far more than necessary to pay his bill — but didn't wait for the waitress to bring him change.
He headed right back to his Jeep, then home. He didn't want to be here anymore, outside, around all these people, when he was so alone.
Inside the car, he nervously fiddled with the radio dial. Again, he couldn't find a song he wanted to listen to. Even the hard rock station was playing sappy ballads, when all he needed was a good, angry, heavy-metal, head-banger. Something with a beat so strong, he could crank up the bass as a substitute for his own painful heartbeat.
It wasn't long before he was home, the Friday night traffic finally having thinned.
Upstairs, he threw his keys on the counter and, out of habit rather than curiosity, he pressed the flashing replay button on his answering machine. He then paced as he listened to the single message: "Hi, Vin. It's Chris. I just wanted to make sure you got home okay. Call me, would you?"
"Yeah, right," Vin scoffed at the machine.
It was supposed to have been such a fucking perfect evening!
Vin kicked off his patent leathers, then slipped out of his jacket, dropping it, uncaring, onto the floor. It was so hot in the damn apartment — or was it just him? He wasn't sure. All that sugar and caffeine now racing through his system made it hard to decide. Made it hard to focus his thoughts. He didn't know what the hell he was going to do — either tonight or with the rest of his life.
He then sank down into the chair in front of the television set, digging the remote out from under himself, where it was jabbing him in the thigh. He thought for a moment about turning on the TV, but instead he tossed — though it was closer to threw — the remote onto the couch. It bounced off the cushion and pitched over the edge onto the floor.
Vin just glared at it, as if it had done that on purpose.
He then yanked on the tie around his neck, but only managed to tighten the offending material. He struggled with it for a moment, trying to loosen it as it continued to cut into his neck, restricting some of the blood flow to his brain.
"Yeah, fucking brilliant invention," Vin cursed. And the more his caffeine-addled fingers fidgeted with the tie, the more light-headed he became. Images of Chris began to dance before his eyes like little stars as his heart pumped harder inside his chest.
Then he became aware that his heart wasn't the only thing pumping hard; he quickly realized that his engorged cock was aching inside his trousers, straining for release. With the tie now forgotten, he moved his shaky fingers to his fly, quickly undoing the material, then pulling his warm shaft free.
He stilled his breathing for a moment and allowed a bit of saliva to collect inside his mouth. He then slathered his tongue over his palm before allowing himself a gasping breath.
He immediately plied his slickened hand to his cock, which throbbed and enlarged within his grasp. He began to stroke himself, in time with his breathing, which was slow at first, but soon quickened with his efforts. Images of Chris continued to dart in and out of his mind, to blur then sharpen before his eyes, only to blur and fade again.
Chris behind his desk at work. Chris yelling at the group about something. Chris in that cowboy hat as he rode his horse. Chris in a suit. Chris in jeans. Chris leaning over Vin's desk, smiling, asking him to dinner. Chris with Mary.
"Damn you," Vin groaned between clenched teeth.
Vin wanted Chris doing to him what he was doing to himself. He wanted to feel Chris's hands on him, touching him, stroking him. But his racing mind just wanted the come, wanted the release, to be lost in the encompassing waves of sensation and nothing more.
"Come on!" Vin ordered his cock as he stroked it harder.
Another picture of Chris flashed into his head: that face, looking down at him, with those fiery green eyes. "Damn you, Chris. Come on. Come on and fuck me!" he demanded of the image. "Do it," he shouted as he continued to stroke himself, imagining it was Chris's hand on his cock, rubbing up and down the hard, thick shaft.
"Do it, you bastard. Fuck me!" he continued, gasping when his nerves jumped in response, with the first signs of imminent release. "Chris!" he pleaded. "Please! Damn it!"
His strokes became longer, faster, even as the muscles in his arm began to burn. He yearned to feel Chris's heat surrounding him, taking him inside his mouth or up his ass. He wanted to pound into Chris until the man was screaming, begging, like Vin was now. "Damn you, Larabee! Fuck— me! Come— ON! FUCK— ME—"
Chris's name was then torn from Vin's lungs as he erupted into his hand. He threw his head back, again and again, banging it against the cushioned headrest, as the intense waves continued to explode over him.
His breathing had now gone ragged as the tie around his neck continued to restrict some of the blood flow to his brain. His vision was hazy white around the edges. But he continued to ignore his tie and instead put all his remaining energy into milking the last of the jizz from his now overly sensitive cock. Each stroke, each clench of his fist, sent a sharp stab of pain right into him, but he continued anyway, until the intensity of his orgasm was long gone and all that remained was the pain he was inflicting on his own tender cock.
And even that faded after a while, until Vin was feeling nothing at all.
It was then that the phone rang. Vin wouldn't have picked it up, even if he could stand. The machine answered after two rings.
"It's Chris again. I, ah, just wanted to say that you missed a great meal. Remember I told you I ran into Mary? Well, I ended up having dinner with her and Nancy Farmer — do you know, Jack's wife? Anyway, I cut out early. Hoped maybe you'd be home already. Since you're not, I'm gonna head back out to the ranch. Guess next time we do this I'll drive — can't trust that Jeep of yours further than I can throw it! So, give me a call—"
The answering machine cut off before Chris finished. Still breathing hard from his exertions, Vin waited for the phone to ring again. He thought maybe he'd find the energy to pick it up this time, but Chris never called back.
"Guess he said all he wanted to say to you, pard," Vin sighed to himself.
He couldn't believe how badly he'd fucked up! Chris had wanted to have dinner with him. Just him. It hadn't been a set-up. There was no blind date. That was assuming Chris was telling him the truth and not just stringing him along until next time. Until he and Mary could finally corner him into the blind date. Had that really been Jack's wife at the restaurant? He didn't know. He'd never met her.
God-damn-son-of-a-fucking-bitch!!
Vin nearly screamed the string of curses as he pushed himself out of the chair. Then he nearly toppled forward as his light head swam. He clawed at the necktie again, finally loosening it enough to pull over his head. It went the way of the remote. He gripped the back of the chair for a moment until his vision cleared, and then he made his way into the kitchen. There wasn't anything to eat in the place — he knew that without looking. But there was alcohol: beer and whiskey. He chose the whiskey, and then returned to the chair.
He removed the cap, eyeing the level of the contents. He wondered if he could polish off the remaining third before he passed out.
Hell, it was worth a try, he reasoned. If he failed, well, that would be just one more thing to add to the long list of Vin Tanner screw-ups.
~ fade ~
April 2001Please do NOT repost this story anywhere outside of the Blackraptor Fiction Website.
Characters from "The Magnificent Seven," were used without permission and this story in no way signifies support of, or affiliation with, The Mirisch Group, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment, or CBS Worldwide, Inc. The M7-ATF universe was created by Mog, and extra thanks go to her for allowing other people to play within it. The story itself and any non-Magnificent Seven characters belong to the author. This story will not be sold for any reason.
Thanks to my beta reader for all of her help and encouragement!