31 - Rub Me the Wrong Way

I realize I originally said posts would be Tuesday/Thursday, but I really meant Monday/Thursday.  Sorry I'm a confused mess!! ~♥blush

“Mmm… Where ya goin’?” Jon mumbled, flopping onto his back and rubbing his face sleepily.  She had unintentionally awakened him by easing out from under the heavy arm he had draped over her waist. 

With an affectionate smile at his sleepy little boy look, Sheridan tied her robe and bent to plant a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth.  “Go back to sleep.  I’m just going down to the kitchen for a glass of water.”

The corner she kissed curled up adorably.  “All that salt too much for you, huh?”

“Watch it, or you won’t put your salt in my mouth next time, smartass.”  Laughing quietly to herself, she left him to burrow under the sheet and slipped quietly from the room.

She was extra-careful to steal silently down the wide tile staircase, unsure as to which direction Richie’s room was.  Waking your host up at two in the morning wasn’t exactly in Miss Manners’s book of proper guest etiquette.

As she got closer to the kitchen, she could hear soft music coming from the built-in sound system.  Classic rock wasn’t her strongest subject, but it might have been Led Zeppelin.  Stoner music of some kind is how she would classify it.  Very transcendental.

She paused at the kitchen threshold, spotting Richie perched on a kitchen stool.  He was draped over the counter with his long fingers curled around a drink glass.  A drink glass empty of everything but amber-hued ice.  It was flanked by a half-empty liquor bottle.  She didn’t recognize the shape or label, but it was a grain whiskey, judging by the color.

Naked under her short, thin robe, Sheridan backed up without a peep. 

Stumbling into an inebriated host while half-naked is definitely not on Miss Manners’s list.

 “Well, if it isshn’t Sshtormy Rain.  Come ‘n’ have a drihnk, Dahrlin’…” he slurred, but not to the point that she didn’t easily understand him.  To add enticement to the offer, he patted the stool next to him and grinned like a happy, overgrown puppy. 

She was torn between being uncomfortable and being rude.  Half-naked with a half-drunk man…  Well it was one time when two halves didn’t make a whole lot of sense. 

Troubled, Sheridan went with the uncomfortable option.  This was Jon’s best friend.  She had no interest in offending him and there was no doubt that he was harmless.  Again, he was Jon’s best friend.  He wouldn’t do anything inappropriate with Jon’s… girlfriend. 

“Why do you call me that?”  She summoned her friendliest neutral smile and made sure to keep her robe down over her thighs, where it belonged. 

“’Cuz it’s shorter than Trop-cal Sshtorm Sheridan,” he explained logically, with a flourishing sweep of his hand.   “Lemme get ya a glahsss…”  When he tried to stand, his feet got tangled in the rungs of the stool, and it rocked precariously beneath him.  Richie toppled so sharply that Sheridan scurried to his side, grabbing his shoulders.

“That’s okay.  I can get my own glass.”  Her laugh was much lighter than she was feeling.  The man had a problem if he was spending the wee hours of the morning alone, drinking in his kitchen.  “Just point me in the right direction.”

The big, goofy puppy dog smile came out again, and he waved a vague arm in that direction.  “Nexta th’ sihnk.”

Coaxing her face into a relaxed pose, she nodded and turned to choose a cabinet.  Spying the most likely candidate to the right of the sink, she subtly tugged the silk firmly down over her hips as she walked toward it.  Self-consciously she carefully lifted her arm to grasp the cabinet pull and select a juice glass to fill with water.

“I thought he wahss fulla shit, yanno.”

Slowly twirling toward the sound of his voice, she found Richie had managed to untangle himself to spin around and watch her.  Taking a deep breath, she rested her backside casually against the sink.

“About what?”

“About…  you.”  Richie tipped his full-again glass in her direction.  “You act more like a PTA mom than a…  trop-cal sshtorm.” 

“Do I?” 

Taking a healthy swallow of her water, she sought to make this encounter as short as it could possibly be.  She didn’t know him well enough to filter through his commentary and know what was normal behavior and what had become alcohol un-censored.

The ice tinkled in the glass after he drank along with her.  “But then I sahhw…  You gotta little hottie hidden in yah.  I betcha were prob’ly upstaihrs doin’ the wild thang in mah gues’ room.  Weren’t ‘cha?”

Yeah.  This was not going anyplace she wanted to be.  Sheridan gulped the last of her water and spun to set the empty glass in the sink before whipping back around.

Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

Richie sniffed the air and grinned triumphantly.  “Hell yeah, you were doin’ the wild thang!  You even shmell like sehx.”

Biting her tongue was the only thing that kept her from blasting his semi-soused ass for that gross comment.  Yes, he was probably the nicest guy ever.  Whatever.  That was still a disgusting guy-thing to say.

She patted herself on the back when she managed to hold it to a firm, “I’m going back to bed.  Goodnight, Richie.”    Maybe he got an angry scowl with it, but that was better than calling him a crude pig.  Besides, the man clearly had issues.  It was the only reason he got a pass, and it wouldn’t get him more than a couple of those.

“Hey, hey, hey!”  He struggled to get up, but he’d managed to get his long legs tangled in the stool rungs again.

This time, Sheridan didn’t make it to him fast enough.  She could do nothing but watch in horror as he twisted his body at a crazy angle, trying to grab onto the countertop while his legs went the opposite direction, hopelessly knotted in the stool that crashed to the floor.

“Fuck!” Richie’s pain-filled bellow drowned out the pot smoking tune of the moment.  The bellow was quickly followed by a series of agonized yowls as he extracted his feet from the stool and the top half of his body hit the floor. 

Once he had landed at an awkward angle – kind of on his side, but kind of on his back – a swift kick of his heel sent the heavy wooden stool careening into the cabinets.  The ensuing crash had Sheridan cringing, but what really got her was the way he was writhing with pain on the earthen tile, clutching at his lower back.

She fell to her knees beside him and curled insistent fingers around his shoulder.  “Lie still!  You’re only making it worse.”

Remarkably enough, he obeyed.  Richie rolled onto his side and stayed there, but never even slowed the blue streak of curse words rushing out of his mouth.  The man had learned a lot of creative cursing in his life.

She rose to her feet, leaving him to swear loudly at the cabinet in front of him while she rummaged in the freezer.  A quick survey of the contents found no ice pack, but several bags of vegetables.  Plucking out an oversized package of mixed vegetables, she returned to his side and tossed the makeshift icepack to the floor in front of him. 

“Put this where it hurts and hold it there.  I’ll be right back.”

Leaving him to cuss in nonsensical phrases that highlighted his writing creativity, Sheridan doubted that he even knew that she left the room.  She hastened up the stairs, wondering how Jon was going to feel about this.  From their brief conversation earlier, she could tell he was already worried about his friend.  Richie’s situation tonight meant that Jon no longer had the luxury of hiding from the problem.

“Jon.”  Putting one knee on the mattress, she shook his shoulder, speaking louder.  “Jon.”

His head snapped up, crystalline blue eyes dull and bleary with sleep.  Seeing that it was Sheridan, he fell back into the pillow with a groan.  “I’m an old man, Baby.  I need more recovery time.”

“Get up!” she commanded, bumping him on the shoulder with the heel of her palm.  “Richie fell and hurt his back.”

In the next breath, his eyes were wide open, feet were swinging to the floor and he was searching for his shorts.  She matched him step for step on her side of the bed, pulling on pajama pants and a t-shirt so as not to accidentally flash Richie while getting him out of the floor. 

“What the hell happened?”

“I…”  Did she tell Jon about the abbreviated chat that had Richie trying to keep her from leaving, or did she let it go?  “I think he’s been drinking.”  She could always tell him later, after they got Richie to bed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jon sighed gustily, ruffling the back of his hair with an agitated hand and blowing out the door for the stairs.  “Is he okay?” 

“The way he was holding his lower back, I’d say he’s twisted it.”

By the time they trotted down the steps and got to the kitchen, Richie had run out of swear words.  He was still in the floor, quietly staring at the ceiling – mixed vegetables under his back and the bottle of booze in his right hand.

“Goddammit Sambora…”

Richie’s messy dark head turned on the terra cotta tile, toward his friend’s voice.  The big puppy dog smile was there, but the vacant glassiness in his eyes made it brittle. Despite his outward happiness, Sheridan thought there was something sad about him. 

“Jahnny Boy…  Pull up a piecesh a floor ‘n’ have a drihnk.”

“No, you big, dumb Polack.  I don’t fucking want a drink, and you shouldn’t have one either.”

Richie’s tipped his head as though to shrug.  “Mah back huhrts.  Makes ‘zit feel better.”

“Your back wouldn’t hurt if you weren’t drunk enough to fall on your ass.  Gimme the bottle.”

There was a brief struggle before Jon gained a dominant hold on the glass neck.  It hit the counter’s surface  hard enough to splash a bit of the contents out of the bottle, and a Rorschach pattern of whiskey formed on the smooth marble.

“Can you get up?”

Jon had no patience with this Richie.  Frustration and helplessness radiated from him in crushing waves.

“I thihnk sho.  Ahhh fuck!”  The change in position was enough to flip the curse switch again and the colorful and creative string of profanity colored the air around them a distinct shade of blue.

Putting his hand out, Jon furrowed his forehead in seriousness and extended his hand to Richie.  “Suck it up and gimme your hand.  We’ll get your ass in bed.  Sheridan does massage.  Maybe she can do something to help your back.”

Turning an inquiring gaze her way, Jon silently asked for acquiescence to use her expertise.  Sheridan couldn’t help but flick a look toward Richie’s face.  When she did, she found him staring back at her.  He wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t realize that she might still be a little tweaked at him. 

Was this going to be awkward?  Would he make more explicit commentary on her relationship with Jon?   Yes or no, she supposed it didn’t matter.  If it was in her power to ease his pain, she would tune out his talking.  It wasn’t inappropriate, per se, just unintentionally offensive.

“Uh….”  Her eyes turned back to Jon, who had curled his arm around Richie’s waist to support him as they both waited for her to answer.  “S-sure.  I’ve got some lotion in my bag that might be useful.”