FIC: "Right Place, Wrong Time" by Regann - PG-13/R - Shawn/Lassiter (1/??)
Title: Right Place, Wrong Time (1/??)
Author: Regann
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Rating: PG-13/R
Disclaimer: I don't own anything; I just play with them.
Notes: This is a long multipart fic that I had to be insane to even start. But I love the boys so much, I just had to! Oh, and this is dedicated to pookaseraph.
Summary: 17-year-old Shawn has a fake ID burning a hole in his pocket, a college party to crash, and a mission to stop being the only virgin in his senior class. Unfortunately, there's this big-earred, good-doing grad student by the name of Carlton who catches him in the act. The unfair nature of cosmic humor being what it is, thus begins something that'll come back to haunt them both ten years later -- when an adult Shawn Spencer decides to give psychic investigation a try.
Right Place, Wrong Time (Part 1)
Shawn Spencer had a plan.
Of course, his best friend Gus didn't think it was a very good one but Shawn knew that his friend was wrong. Not only was his plan a good one, it was better than good -- it was cosmic, smiled upon by something like fate or destiny. With minimal effort on his part, everything had fell into place with the kind of precision and perfection that told him that someone up there liked him -- and wanted him to have a chance to party like it was 1999, even if he was five or so years early.
"I still can't believe I let you talk me into this," Gus grumbled for the umpteenth time, knuckles white from his death grip on the car's huge, oversized steering wheel. It was an old 70s Ford LTD that had once been "Champagne" in color but had oxidized to a muddy brown; it was as big as a tank but Shawn loved it because its backseat was the perfect place to catch a quick nap during sixth period English.
"Gus, please, it's not a big deal," Shawn said, currently lounging in the passenger seat. He had his sunglasses pushed up on his face, filtering the last rays of the California sun on that warm Friday afternoon. "Everything will go off without a hitch!"
Gus tore his eyes away from the road long enough to glare at him. "That's what you always say."
"I'm an optimist like that," he admitted, tilting his head toward the warmth of the sunlight as he closed his eyes. His window was down, and the wind was rushing against his face, mangling his hair and almost stealing his breath from its strength. He loved it.
"Well, you also said it about Winter Social and look how good that turned out," Gus snorted. "Your dad grounded you for three months, your mom refused to bail you out and then when your dad caught you trying to sneak out of the house, he made you help him with his gun collection, so you spent the whole break up to your elbows in walnut shells."
Shawn shuddered at the memory of helping Henry tumble brass and dump powder into over a thousand spent shells, his dad being the only cop he knew who was cheap enough to reload the bullets he used for range practice. "This isn't remotely similar."
"Uh huh."
"God is on my side, Gus!"
"How do you figure that? I doubt God wants you to crash a bunch of frat parties!"
Shawn set up and wriggled around until he could pull his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. "Number one, my fake ID arrived when? Just this Monday." Shawn pulled it out and admired it; according to the piece of plastic that had cost him a whole summer's worth of salary from odd jobs, he was 21 years old, named Shawn Steele, and a resident of 447 Rococo Ln in Anaheim, California.
"So?"
"So? So?" Shawn sputtered dramatically. "So what happens this weekend? It's my parents' wedding anniversary and they decide to take a romantic weekend trip out of town -- thus giving me the perfect chance to test out said ID."
"Okay, so you're parent-free this weekend," Gus conceded. "If that's all you needed, how did I end up as part of your plan? You could've crashed a local college party."
"Poor, misguided, naive little Burton," Shawn was shaking his head and making cluckety-noises with his tongue. "No way, man. If I got busted in Santa Barbara, Henry would know before the ink was dry on my fingerprints! I could never try this in town. That's why I know this is cosmically fated, Gus. The fact that you happen to be going to visit your aunt in Laguna Beach and you just happen to be going right past UC Irvine where I happen to know there's going to be a big Greek blowout this weekend...god, I love it when a plan comes together!"
Shawn sat back in his seat with a sigh of absolute contentment, a smug little smile on his face. This weekend was going to be the best, totally bitchin' and he wouldn't even have to suffer for it. Henry would be none the wiser and he, Shawn Spencer, was going to finally do it, finally take the plunge, the leap, whatever, and stop being the only damn virgin in their senior class.
Yes, Shawn Spencer had a plan: he was going to get laid. Hopefully by a hot, blonde coed of very loose morals.
"Whatever you say, Hannibal," Gus muttered, pulling Shawn out of his torrid little thoughts. "I think you're crazy and I just hope to god that you don't get killed or something -- I don't want to be the one who has to explain this to your folks."
"Gus, I'm hurt," Shawn pouted, even as he leaned up to jiggle the radio tuner. The LTD was so old it had an 8-track player and he was tempted to pop in one of Gus's dad's Meatloaf tapes just to escape the talk. "You won't miss me? I'm your best friend!"
"Well, I might miss the company," Gus admitted. "But, on the other hand, I wouldn't have anyone dragging me into stuff like this or phoning in fake messages from my mom to the school nurse so I can be excused from sixth period PE or telling Patrice Taylor that I'm the one who stole her underwear from her locker, so -- I think it all balances out."
Shawn finally hit a station playing music and settled back in his seat. "You worry too much, Gus," he admonished his friend. "Nothing's gonna go wrong, I promise."
Gus chose not to reply and Shawn turned his head back toward the open window, head toward the sun once again as the strains of the Gin Blossoms' Hey Jealousy reached his ears over the drumming rush of the ocean-tinted wind.
Shawn was certain, though, that it was going to be the perfect weekend.
When they finally reached the university, Gus dropped him off in one of the busier campus parking lots, just as the sun was starting dip below the water in the western horizon.
"You've got my aunt Eileen's number, right?" Gus asked through the open car window, as he drove slowly to keep steady with Shawn's leisurely walking pace.
"Yes, Gus, I do," Shawn told him impatiently, patting his back pocket where he kept his wallet. Along with the scrap of paper with Aunt Eileen's number, Shawn also had other essentials: his fake ID, all the cash he had, and the four condoms he'd managed to steal from the public health nurse back home.
"You'll call if anything happens, right?" Gus was actually starting to sound worried as opposed to pissed. "I'll come get you, no matter what stupid trouble you're in."
"I love you, too, Gus," Shawn told him, patting the dark arm resting on the window sill. "But everything's going to be fine. Go visit your aunt, have fun eating her delicious pineapple upside-down cake and don't worry about me!"
"I'll meet you here tomorrow, about 1PM," Gus promised.
"And I'll be here," Shawn swore, making the junior Bobcat sign for scout's honor. "Don't worry! Everything's gonna be perfect-o!"
Gus gave him another stern look. "You keep saying that..." With one last quick wave, Gus sped up and headed out of the crowded lot.
Shawn watched until he could no longer see Gus's tank of a car and then he grinned, jauntily stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets as he strolled onto the campus proper. Even though classes had probably long since ended, the campus green was still buzzing with activity and Shawn mingled, trying his best to look like he was just another college student heading out late on a Friday afternoon.
He knew that was going to be half the battle -- blending. The last thing he wanted was to be pegged for a high school kid before he even got a chance use his ID card. He'd even dressed specifically for the occasion: faded jeans, Whitesnake T-shirt, flannel and his best pair of black Converse. Though close to his usual fare, Shawn figured the Whitesnake shirt added a few years in musical taste, and he felt like there was something about classic Chucks that said "I think deep thoughts but I'm still cool."
Now that he was actually here, Shawn had one last mini-directive before he could sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labor and that was actually locate a totally bitchin' party to crash. Though he would've never mentioned it to Gus, Shawn's knowledge of the parties at UC Irvine were only theoretical; he'd figured, however, that he could easily locate one once he was at the school.
It wasn't like it could be too difficult to find a frat party on a Friday night.
Still trying to look college-y, Shawn rambled around the campus until he found one of the many school notice boards, right outside the student union building. Sifting through countless flyers of students trying to find roommates, sell guitars, or offer their services as Spanish-language tutors, he finally found what he was looking for -- a piece of paper announcing just such a party at one of the local houses. There was a five dollar cover charge -- supposedly for charity -- but it was starting in a few hours, just about three blocks from the main campus.
If he'd looked into a mirror, Shawn would've seen that his grin was so wide it was starting to eclipse the rest of his face in strange, contorted ways but he probably wouldn't have cared. After glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he cheerfully yanked the flyer from the board and shoved it into his pocket, just in case; he might need it for something later.
He might have had to kill a few hours, but the last piece of his plan had just fallen into place and Shawn couldn't help but be smug about it. It had to be destiny working in his favor, he decided; nothing else could explain it.
Secure in the knowledge that the universe wanted him to get laid that evening, Shawn went off in search of snacks and hopefully something cold and fruity like a smoothie with which to fortify himself for the night's upcoming festivities.
**
Carlton Lassiter approached the loud, crowded fraternity house with something so close to dread that it was nearly indistinguishable. He hated big crowds, especially when they were made of drunk undergrads and he had never really enjoyed the frat party scene, not during any of his years at school. So he couldn't help but wonder why he was even bothering to subject himself to it when he had so many other things he could be doing with his time.
Actually, he did know why -- and that was his roommate. Rodney, a loud-mouthed but certifiable genius working out of the School of Engineering, had all but shoved him out of their on-campus apartment.
"You've been working entirely too hard, Carlton," Rodney had stated. "You need to relax, have some fun, go out."
"I am relaxing," Carlton had argued. "Right here, in my room."
"No, no, you're not," Rodney had argued. "What you're doing is ruining my concentration and I cannot work under these conditions! I need some alone time if I'm ever going to finish this!"
Loud-mouthed, Canadian and neurotic -- a lethal combination in a roommate, Carlton thought unfairly. It wasn't that he didn't like Rodney; actually, they got along well. The problem was that sometimes they were simply too much alike.
In the end, though, Rodney had persuaded him to vacate their small apartment for a few hours, arguing that it was probably the last chance he'd have to enjoy himself at a rollicking campus shindig. After all, it was almost summer vacation and Carlton would be headed back home to Santa Barbara where he'd spend his time shadowing a detective on an observer's pass. Whatever information he garnered from those ninety days would finish up the research for his thesis and he'd spend all of fall semester getting ready for his comps and thesis defense. Then he'd have his MAS in Criminology and he could pursue his ultimate goal of a becoming a police detective.
It was the glaring reality of that future swiftly coming upon him that had pushed Carlton out the door --until he'd actually reached the frat house and remembered all the reasons he hated college parties. What had be been thinking?
Still, he was there and he might as well make the best of it and give Rodney his few hours of peace, he decided. It was with that attitude that Carlton paid his five bucks to get in, flashed his license to prove his age and, once he'd gotten his blue wrist band to show the bartender, headed into the chaos that was the "charity celebration."
As soon as he stepped inside, he wanted to turn around and leave. It was everything he hated about frat parties -- too loud, too smoky, too crowded with too many slovenly drunken kids. At twenty-five, Carlton couldn't help but think of the undergrads as kids even though he was still a student himself. They were so young and stupid and irresponsible, on the average, that he was surprised that'd even made it into a university at all.
He didn't ever remember being that young.
Carlton pushed his way through the crowds, wading through bodies in order to reach the bar tucked back near the house's kitchen. Although he wasn't a big drinker, he figured a little Dutch courage would be about the only thing that could keep him there for longer than a few minutes. And since he paid his cover, he might as well drink its price in alcohol.
"Hey," he called out as he reached the counter acting as the makeshift bar. The frat brother tending looked up from his flirty conversation with a pretty dark-haired girl. "What are you serving?"
"What do you want?"
"A shot of something hard," Carlton replied. "And a beer chaser."
"You got it, man," the frat brother nodded, quickly producing a shot glass of Tequila and a plastic cup of light beer. Carlton nodded in thanks and quickly downed the shot.
He'd only taken a few sips of his beer when someone sidled up beside him, obviously trying to reach the bar as well. Unfortunately, space at the bar was premium and the someone jostled his arm. Carlton just had enough time to step back to keep his beer from sloshing down the front of his shirt.
"Hey, watch it!" he advised the guy, shooting him a glare.
The guy was all polite remorse. "Oh, man, I'm totally sorry!" He grabbed a napkin from the counter and started dabbing at the drops of beer that had hit Carlton's shirt. "Here, let me get this for you."
Carlton brushed the hand away. "I got it," he told him, grabbing the napkin from him and wiping at his shirt. "It wasn't that much."
"Yeah but still, I am totally sorry," the guy said again.
Carlton nodded to illustrate his acceptance of the apology but found himself staring at the kid. And "kid" really was the right word for him, he noted. He was short, especially compared to Carlton, and scrawny with wild brown hair and faded, baggy clothes. The only thing he had going for him that Carlton could see was his apologetic smile which was nice and sincere-looking.
Then Carlton noticed the blue band on the kid's wrist and his eyebrows rose.
"You drinking?" he asked dubiously.
The nice smile got bigger. "Well, duh," he laughed, waving his banded wrist. "That's what I'm here for!"
"You ordering?" the frat brother asked as the new guy shimmied closer to the bar -- and closer to Carlton, who was now wedged between a wall, the counter, and the kid.
"Yeah, beer," the kid said and the frat brother mumbled something about getting another keg before he disappeared.
"You actually expect me to believe you're 21?" Carlton snorted.
The kid looked at him with surprise, although there was a jumpy tick to one eyelid that made Carlton even more suspicious. "I got the blue band, don't I? I showed the nice man at the door my ID and everything."
"Uh huh."
The kid grinned at him again and leaned over the counter, so far that his feet came off the ground as he looked down into the kitchen. "Where did that bartender go anyway?"
Carlton eyed the guy laying across the counter, ass in the air, and shook his head. If this kid was 21, then Carlton was a border collie.
"Why don't you show me that ID, slick?" he challenged.
The kid glanced back at him from over his shoulder, again surprised. "Yeah, sure, alright," he consented, straightening up and reaching into his back pocket. "What are you, the morality police?"
"Something like that," he deadpanned. Carlton wasn't sure why he cared if the kid was actually old enough to drink other than the fact that he would've been witnessing it and that left him feeling uncomfortable. He supposed it was due to the strong moral center he'd gained through years of what Rodney called "wholesale indoctrination and religious brainwashing" and what he called "parochial school." It was probably that same thing that made him want to be a cop.
The kid handed over the ID with a flourish and it took Carlton about three seconds to know that it was fake. "Shawn Steele of Anaheim, huh?"
"That's me," the kid -- Shawn, apparently -- said.
Carlton shook his head. "So how much did you pay for this low-quality fake?"
Finally, Shawn looked well and truly shocked. He was also turning a bit green around the gills which Carlton attributed to the sickening realization that he'd been caught. "Fake?" he laughed nervously. "What do you mean, fake? It's real, seriously."
Carlton rolled his eyes. "There are at least six mistakes on this. It's laughable how bad of a fake this is!"
Shawn's eyes widened. "Really?" He reached for the ID as if to inspect it for mistakes.
Carlton cut him off my grabbing the kid's blue-banded wrist. "I don't think so," he told him coolly, pocketing the piece of plastic.
"Come on, man!" the kid protested.
Instead of answering, Carlton reached across the counter and grabbed the knife that the frat brother had been using to cut limes. Handling the citrus-smelling knife deftly, he sliced the blue band from the kid's arm with a quick flick of his wrist.
"Hey!"
Carlton sighed and damned his moral center. He dropped the knife and took the kid by the arm, tugging him through the crowd toward the front door. "Let's go."
"Hey, hey, hey, where are you taking me?" Shawn protested, struggling to break the grip on his arm. Unfortunately for the kid, he was scrawny and Carlton had height, weight and strength on his side.
When they reached the front door where two other brothers were checking IDs and taking money, Carlton stopped and drew the struggling kid up beside him. "You see this kid?"
He vaguely recognized them from a mid-level seminar he once covered during his semester as a TA; he assumed that they recognized him by the way they nodded warily.
"He is not 21 years old," he explained, tugging on Shawn's arm for emphasis. At his side, the kid looked torn between anger and contrition. "If he tries to come back tonight, do not let him in. Understood?"
They nodded again.
"Good, glad you do." He waved goodbye with his free hand and dragged Shawn along with the other. "Come on, you."
"My name isn't "You," ya know." the kid muttered as Carlton led him down the steps, onto the sidewalk and then down the street.
"No, according to your fake ID, it's Shawn Steele," he returned dryly.
"Just because my birthday was fake, doesn't mean my name is," the kid explained. "My name's really Shawn."
"So, you admit it was fake?" Now that they were several blocks from the party, the street around them was quiet.
"I didn't say that either!" With a tremendous burst of strength, he broke Carlton's hold on his arm.
Carlton stopped and turned to look at him: Shawn was wincing and rubbing his arm where Carlton had held onto him.
"Ow, ow, ow, ow!" he complained -- overdramatically, Carlton thought. "What's your name, anyway? I think you owe me that much since you just ruined my night!"
"Well, this wasn't exactly what I had planned, either," he snapped back. "And not that it's any of your business but -- Carlton."
"So, Carlton," Shawn said, lingering over the name. "Like, what are you, a cop or something? I feel like I walked into an episode of 21 Jump Street."
"No, I'm not a cop," he said. "Luckily for you."
"Yeah, no joke," he laughed.
As Shawn's laughter faded, Carlton noticed that the kid was watching him with a strange look on his face. "What?"
"Nothing, man!" he promised. "Just...were you taking me somewhere a minute ago or were you going where the mood struck you?"
Carlton was brought up short because he didn't know what he'd planned to do with kid; he'd only known that he'd decided to get him away from the party. "I'm tempted to drag you over to the security office and report you," he finally said.
Suddenly Carlton had Shawn all in his personal space, thin hands patting him on the arms. "Now, now, Carlton, that's not necessary," he was saying, words in time with the patting. "You did your good deed already, you took away my ID and even my little blue band. I think that's enough, don't you?"
He gave the kid a dark look but decided that he was right. He'd keep Shawn's ID and send him on his way and then try to find another way to kill a few hours. It wasn't like he'd planned to enjoy himself at the party anyway. "Yeah, sure, I'll call it even. But if I talk to either of those guys from the fraternity and find out you tried to get back in? I'll track you down and make sure your RA knows about this."
"Threat communicated and received, Carlton! I'll be a complete angel for the rest of the night," Shawn nodded, still in his space but no longer touching him.
"Sounds like a good idea," he told him.
"So, change of plans, no frat party." Shawn smiled again and rubbed his hands together as if getting ready to get down to business. "What are we gonna do now?"
Carlton stopped short. "We?"
Shawn was giving him another odd look, like he thought he was speaking to a child. "Well, you're the one who ruined my evening of fun and excitement. Therefore you -- yes you, Carlton -- must now entertain for the rest of the evening."
"No, I don't!"
"Yes, you do," Shawn argued. "Clearly, your mama didn't raise a very well-mannered boy because my mom taught me all there was to know about good manners and it's right there in good manners handbook."
"Do you want to go the security office, after all?" Carlton asked. "You're pushing your luck."
Shawn waved his threat away. "I haven't begun to push, Carly," he told him. "Of course, you could just give me back my ID and I'll leave you alone."
"Not happening, kid."
"Well, then..." Shawn drew up beside him, until his shoulder was brushing Carlton's arm. He wasn't quite tall enough for them to brush shoulders. "Your mission, which you have already accepted, is to en-ter-tain me for the evening. Feel free to start any time now."
"Have it your way," Carlton told him, grabbing him by the arm once again. "We'll start with a nice visit to the security office."
"Aw, don't be like that," Shawn protested even as he let himself be pulled along. "Just think of the fun we could have! I'm smart, witty, charming -- and I have it on very good authority that I'm adorable. You could do a lot worse than me, you know!"
Carlton stopped again and glared down at his companion. Shawn was grinning at him and his eyes were half-lidded -- a devious look on his youthful face. "Are you coming on to me?"
The grin brightened and the eyes turned smoky. "Do you want me to be?"
For a moment, he didn't know how to respond; then he rolled his eyes. "Just what I needed -- a smart-assed kid. That's it, you're going to Security."
"Okay, fine," Shawn said. "Take me to the security office. And when they ask me where I got my fake ID, I'm going to tell them that it was a guy named Carlton who gave it to me, and he's also the one who took me to the frat party where I was drinking. I think that's called "contributing to the delinquency of a minor," right?"
"Are you threatening me?" Carlton asked incredulously, stopping again to stare at Shawn.
"Nope, not at all," he assured him. "Just letting you make an informed decision."
Standing there on the quiet street, Carlton weighed his options. It wasn't as if he was worried about anyone actually believing the kid's story; he was too well-known with the administration and the security departments for it to be a problem for him. On the other hand, as much as he was loathed to admit it, the kid was right about one thing: their plans for the evening had changed and -- well, the kid was entertaining, if nothing else.
And he still needed to kill a few hours before he went home to kill Rodney for getting him into this mess in the first place.
"Don't you have any friends?" he asked Shawn, a little harsher than he intended.
Shawn's face dropped a little and Carlton suddenly felt bad as the young man bowed his head and looked at his feet like they were the most fascinating thing in the world. "Well, yeah, of course, I do, I just..." He trailed off and looked back up at Carlton with sad, pleading eyes that put many pouting women to shame.
Carlton couldn't believe the words even as he said them. "Fine, I'll do it."
"Fine?" Shawn repeated, suddenly chipper again. "You'll do it?"
"Yes, fine," he repeated. "I'll...entertain you. But just for a few hours, mind! Just until I head back to my place."
"Sounds great, good, fine even," Shawn told him, gesturing with his hands to illustrate his approval.
"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this, Carlton muttered under his breath.
Still, Shawn heard him. "Don't worry, Carly. I promise we're gonna have the time of our lives."
**
To Be Continued...
Author: Regann
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Rating: PG-13/R
Disclaimer: I don't own anything; I just play with them.
Notes: This is a long multipart fic that I had to be insane to even start. But I love the boys so much, I just had to! Oh, and this is dedicated to pookaseraph.
Summary: 17-year-old Shawn has a fake ID burning a hole in his pocket, a college party to crash, and a mission to stop being the only virgin in his senior class. Unfortunately, there's this big-earred, good-doing grad student by the name of Carlton who catches him in the act. The unfair nature of cosmic humor being what it is, thus begins something that'll come back to haunt them both ten years later -- when an adult Shawn Spencer decides to give psychic investigation a try.
Right Place, Wrong Time (Part 1)
Shawn Spencer had a plan.
Of course, his best friend Gus didn't think it was a very good one but Shawn knew that his friend was wrong. Not only was his plan a good one, it was better than good -- it was cosmic, smiled upon by something like fate or destiny. With minimal effort on his part, everything had fell into place with the kind of precision and perfection that told him that someone up there liked him -- and wanted him to have a chance to party like it was 1999, even if he was five or so years early.
"I still can't believe I let you talk me into this," Gus grumbled for the umpteenth time, knuckles white from his death grip on the car's huge, oversized steering wheel. It was an old 70s Ford LTD that had once been "Champagne" in color but had oxidized to a muddy brown; it was as big as a tank but Shawn loved it because its backseat was the perfect place to catch a quick nap during sixth period English.
"Gus, please, it's not a big deal," Shawn said, currently lounging in the passenger seat. He had his sunglasses pushed up on his face, filtering the last rays of the California sun on that warm Friday afternoon. "Everything will go off without a hitch!"
Gus tore his eyes away from the road long enough to glare at him. "That's what you always say."
"I'm an optimist like that," he admitted, tilting his head toward the warmth of the sunlight as he closed his eyes. His window was down, and the wind was rushing against his face, mangling his hair and almost stealing his breath from its strength. He loved it.
"Well, you also said it about Winter Social and look how good that turned out," Gus snorted. "Your dad grounded you for three months, your mom refused to bail you out and then when your dad caught you trying to sneak out of the house, he made you help him with his gun collection, so you spent the whole break up to your elbows in walnut shells."
Shawn shuddered at the memory of helping Henry tumble brass and dump powder into over a thousand spent shells, his dad being the only cop he knew who was cheap enough to reload the bullets he used for range practice. "This isn't remotely similar."
"Uh huh."
"God is on my side, Gus!"
"How do you figure that? I doubt God wants you to crash a bunch of frat parties!"
Shawn set up and wriggled around until he could pull his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. "Number one, my fake ID arrived when? Just this Monday." Shawn pulled it out and admired it; according to the piece of plastic that had cost him a whole summer's worth of salary from odd jobs, he was 21 years old, named Shawn Steele, and a resident of 447 Rococo Ln in Anaheim, California.
"So?"
"So? So?" Shawn sputtered dramatically. "So what happens this weekend? It's my parents' wedding anniversary and they decide to take a romantic weekend trip out of town -- thus giving me the perfect chance to test out said ID."
"Okay, so you're parent-free this weekend," Gus conceded. "If that's all you needed, how did I end up as part of your plan? You could've crashed a local college party."
"Poor, misguided, naive little Burton," Shawn was shaking his head and making cluckety-noises with his tongue. "No way, man. If I got busted in Santa Barbara, Henry would know before the ink was dry on my fingerprints! I could never try this in town. That's why I know this is cosmically fated, Gus. The fact that you happen to be going to visit your aunt in Laguna Beach and you just happen to be going right past UC Irvine where I happen to know there's going to be a big Greek blowout this weekend...god, I love it when a plan comes together!"
Shawn sat back in his seat with a sigh of absolute contentment, a smug little smile on his face. This weekend was going to be the best, totally bitchin' and he wouldn't even have to suffer for it. Henry would be none the wiser and he, Shawn Spencer, was going to finally do it, finally take the plunge, the leap, whatever, and stop being the only damn virgin in their senior class.
Yes, Shawn Spencer had a plan: he was going to get laid. Hopefully by a hot, blonde coed of very loose morals.
"Whatever you say, Hannibal," Gus muttered, pulling Shawn out of his torrid little thoughts. "I think you're crazy and I just hope to god that you don't get killed or something -- I don't want to be the one who has to explain this to your folks."
"Gus, I'm hurt," Shawn pouted, even as he leaned up to jiggle the radio tuner. The LTD was so old it had an 8-track player and he was tempted to pop in one of Gus's dad's Meatloaf tapes just to escape the talk. "You won't miss me? I'm your best friend!"
"Well, I might miss the company," Gus admitted. "But, on the other hand, I wouldn't have anyone dragging me into stuff like this or phoning in fake messages from my mom to the school nurse so I can be excused from sixth period PE or telling Patrice Taylor that I'm the one who stole her underwear from her locker, so -- I think it all balances out."
Shawn finally hit a station playing music and settled back in his seat. "You worry too much, Gus," he admonished his friend. "Nothing's gonna go wrong, I promise."
Gus chose not to reply and Shawn turned his head back toward the open window, head toward the sun once again as the strains of the Gin Blossoms' Hey Jealousy reached his ears over the drumming rush of the ocean-tinted wind.
Shawn was certain, though, that it was going to be the perfect weekend.
When they finally reached the university, Gus dropped him off in one of the busier campus parking lots, just as the sun was starting dip below the water in the western horizon.
"You've got my aunt Eileen's number, right?" Gus asked through the open car window, as he drove slowly to keep steady with Shawn's leisurely walking pace.
"Yes, Gus, I do," Shawn told him impatiently, patting his back pocket where he kept his wallet. Along with the scrap of paper with Aunt Eileen's number, Shawn also had other essentials: his fake ID, all the cash he had, and the four condoms he'd managed to steal from the public health nurse back home.
"You'll call if anything happens, right?" Gus was actually starting to sound worried as opposed to pissed. "I'll come get you, no matter what stupid trouble you're in."
"I love you, too, Gus," Shawn told him, patting the dark arm resting on the window sill. "But everything's going to be fine. Go visit your aunt, have fun eating her delicious pineapple upside-down cake and don't worry about me!"
"I'll meet you here tomorrow, about 1PM," Gus promised.
"And I'll be here," Shawn swore, making the junior Bobcat sign for scout's honor. "Don't worry! Everything's gonna be perfect-o!"
Gus gave him another stern look. "You keep saying that..." With one last quick wave, Gus sped up and headed out of the crowded lot.
Shawn watched until he could no longer see Gus's tank of a car and then he grinned, jauntily stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets as he strolled onto the campus proper. Even though classes had probably long since ended, the campus green was still buzzing with activity and Shawn mingled, trying his best to look like he was just another college student heading out late on a Friday afternoon.
He knew that was going to be half the battle -- blending. The last thing he wanted was to be pegged for a high school kid before he even got a chance use his ID card. He'd even dressed specifically for the occasion: faded jeans, Whitesnake T-shirt, flannel and his best pair of black Converse. Though close to his usual fare, Shawn figured the Whitesnake shirt added a few years in musical taste, and he felt like there was something about classic Chucks that said "I think deep thoughts but I'm still cool."
Now that he was actually here, Shawn had one last mini-directive before he could sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labor and that was actually locate a totally bitchin' party to crash. Though he would've never mentioned it to Gus, Shawn's knowledge of the parties at UC Irvine were only theoretical; he'd figured, however, that he could easily locate one once he was at the school.
It wasn't like it could be too difficult to find a frat party on a Friday night.
Still trying to look college-y, Shawn rambled around the campus until he found one of the many school notice boards, right outside the student union building. Sifting through countless flyers of students trying to find roommates, sell guitars, or offer their services as Spanish-language tutors, he finally found what he was looking for -- a piece of paper announcing just such a party at one of the local houses. There was a five dollar cover charge -- supposedly for charity -- but it was starting in a few hours, just about three blocks from the main campus.
If he'd looked into a mirror, Shawn would've seen that his grin was so wide it was starting to eclipse the rest of his face in strange, contorted ways but he probably wouldn't have cared. After glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he cheerfully yanked the flyer from the board and shoved it into his pocket, just in case; he might need it for something later.
He might have had to kill a few hours, but the last piece of his plan had just fallen into place and Shawn couldn't help but be smug about it. It had to be destiny working in his favor, he decided; nothing else could explain it.
Secure in the knowledge that the universe wanted him to get laid that evening, Shawn went off in search of snacks and hopefully something cold and fruity like a smoothie with which to fortify himself for the night's upcoming festivities.
**
Carlton Lassiter approached the loud, crowded fraternity house with something so close to dread that it was nearly indistinguishable. He hated big crowds, especially when they were made of drunk undergrads and he had never really enjoyed the frat party scene, not during any of his years at school. So he couldn't help but wonder why he was even bothering to subject himself to it when he had so many other things he could be doing with his time.
Actually, he did know why -- and that was his roommate. Rodney, a loud-mouthed but certifiable genius working out of the School of Engineering, had all but shoved him out of their on-campus apartment.
"You've been working entirely too hard, Carlton," Rodney had stated. "You need to relax, have some fun, go out."
"I am relaxing," Carlton had argued. "Right here, in my room."
"No, no, you're not," Rodney had argued. "What you're doing is ruining my concentration and I cannot work under these conditions! I need some alone time if I'm ever going to finish this!"
Loud-mouthed, Canadian and neurotic -- a lethal combination in a roommate, Carlton thought unfairly. It wasn't that he didn't like Rodney; actually, they got along well. The problem was that sometimes they were simply too much alike.
In the end, though, Rodney had persuaded him to vacate their small apartment for a few hours, arguing that it was probably the last chance he'd have to enjoy himself at a rollicking campus shindig. After all, it was almost summer vacation and Carlton would be headed back home to Santa Barbara where he'd spend his time shadowing a detective on an observer's pass. Whatever information he garnered from those ninety days would finish up the research for his thesis and he'd spend all of fall semester getting ready for his comps and thesis defense. Then he'd have his MAS in Criminology and he could pursue his ultimate goal of a becoming a police detective.
It was the glaring reality of that future swiftly coming upon him that had pushed Carlton out the door --until he'd actually reached the frat house and remembered all the reasons he hated college parties. What had be been thinking?
Still, he was there and he might as well make the best of it and give Rodney his few hours of peace, he decided. It was with that attitude that Carlton paid his five bucks to get in, flashed his license to prove his age and, once he'd gotten his blue wrist band to show the bartender, headed into the chaos that was the "charity celebration."
As soon as he stepped inside, he wanted to turn around and leave. It was everything he hated about frat parties -- too loud, too smoky, too crowded with too many slovenly drunken kids. At twenty-five, Carlton couldn't help but think of the undergrads as kids even though he was still a student himself. They were so young and stupid and irresponsible, on the average, that he was surprised that'd even made it into a university at all.
He didn't ever remember being that young.
Carlton pushed his way through the crowds, wading through bodies in order to reach the bar tucked back near the house's kitchen. Although he wasn't a big drinker, he figured a little Dutch courage would be about the only thing that could keep him there for longer than a few minutes. And since he paid his cover, he might as well drink its price in alcohol.
"Hey," he called out as he reached the counter acting as the makeshift bar. The frat brother tending looked up from his flirty conversation with a pretty dark-haired girl. "What are you serving?"
"What do you want?"
"A shot of something hard," Carlton replied. "And a beer chaser."
"You got it, man," the frat brother nodded, quickly producing a shot glass of Tequila and a plastic cup of light beer. Carlton nodded in thanks and quickly downed the shot.
He'd only taken a few sips of his beer when someone sidled up beside him, obviously trying to reach the bar as well. Unfortunately, space at the bar was premium and the someone jostled his arm. Carlton just had enough time to step back to keep his beer from sloshing down the front of his shirt.
"Hey, watch it!" he advised the guy, shooting him a glare.
The guy was all polite remorse. "Oh, man, I'm totally sorry!" He grabbed a napkin from the counter and started dabbing at the drops of beer that had hit Carlton's shirt. "Here, let me get this for you."
Carlton brushed the hand away. "I got it," he told him, grabbing the napkin from him and wiping at his shirt. "It wasn't that much."
"Yeah but still, I am totally sorry," the guy said again.
Carlton nodded to illustrate his acceptance of the apology but found himself staring at the kid. And "kid" really was the right word for him, he noted. He was short, especially compared to Carlton, and scrawny with wild brown hair and faded, baggy clothes. The only thing he had going for him that Carlton could see was his apologetic smile which was nice and sincere-looking.
Then Carlton noticed the blue band on the kid's wrist and his eyebrows rose.
"You drinking?" he asked dubiously.
The nice smile got bigger. "Well, duh," he laughed, waving his banded wrist. "That's what I'm here for!"
"You ordering?" the frat brother asked as the new guy shimmied closer to the bar -- and closer to Carlton, who was now wedged between a wall, the counter, and the kid.
"Yeah, beer," the kid said and the frat brother mumbled something about getting another keg before he disappeared.
"You actually expect me to believe you're 21?" Carlton snorted.
The kid looked at him with surprise, although there was a jumpy tick to one eyelid that made Carlton even more suspicious. "I got the blue band, don't I? I showed the nice man at the door my ID and everything."
"Uh huh."
The kid grinned at him again and leaned over the counter, so far that his feet came off the ground as he looked down into the kitchen. "Where did that bartender go anyway?"
Carlton eyed the guy laying across the counter, ass in the air, and shook his head. If this kid was 21, then Carlton was a border collie.
"Why don't you show me that ID, slick?" he challenged.
The kid glanced back at him from over his shoulder, again surprised. "Yeah, sure, alright," he consented, straightening up and reaching into his back pocket. "What are you, the morality police?"
"Something like that," he deadpanned. Carlton wasn't sure why he cared if the kid was actually old enough to drink other than the fact that he would've been witnessing it and that left him feeling uncomfortable. He supposed it was due to the strong moral center he'd gained through years of what Rodney called "wholesale indoctrination and religious brainwashing" and what he called "parochial school." It was probably that same thing that made him want to be a cop.
The kid handed over the ID with a flourish and it took Carlton about three seconds to know that it was fake. "Shawn Steele of Anaheim, huh?"
"That's me," the kid -- Shawn, apparently -- said.
Carlton shook his head. "So how much did you pay for this low-quality fake?"
Finally, Shawn looked well and truly shocked. He was also turning a bit green around the gills which Carlton attributed to the sickening realization that he'd been caught. "Fake?" he laughed nervously. "What do you mean, fake? It's real, seriously."
Carlton rolled his eyes. "There are at least six mistakes on this. It's laughable how bad of a fake this is!"
Shawn's eyes widened. "Really?" He reached for the ID as if to inspect it for mistakes.
Carlton cut him off my grabbing the kid's blue-banded wrist. "I don't think so," he told him coolly, pocketing the piece of plastic.
"Come on, man!" the kid protested.
Instead of answering, Carlton reached across the counter and grabbed the knife that the frat brother had been using to cut limes. Handling the citrus-smelling knife deftly, he sliced the blue band from the kid's arm with a quick flick of his wrist.
"Hey!"
Carlton sighed and damned his moral center. He dropped the knife and took the kid by the arm, tugging him through the crowd toward the front door. "Let's go."
"Hey, hey, hey, where are you taking me?" Shawn protested, struggling to break the grip on his arm. Unfortunately for the kid, he was scrawny and Carlton had height, weight and strength on his side.
When they reached the front door where two other brothers were checking IDs and taking money, Carlton stopped and drew the struggling kid up beside him. "You see this kid?"
He vaguely recognized them from a mid-level seminar he once covered during his semester as a TA; he assumed that they recognized him by the way they nodded warily.
"He is not 21 years old," he explained, tugging on Shawn's arm for emphasis. At his side, the kid looked torn between anger and contrition. "If he tries to come back tonight, do not let him in. Understood?"
They nodded again.
"Good, glad you do." He waved goodbye with his free hand and dragged Shawn along with the other. "Come on, you."
"My name isn't "You," ya know." the kid muttered as Carlton led him down the steps, onto the sidewalk and then down the street.
"No, according to your fake ID, it's Shawn Steele," he returned dryly.
"Just because my birthday was fake, doesn't mean my name is," the kid explained. "My name's really Shawn."
"So, you admit it was fake?" Now that they were several blocks from the party, the street around them was quiet.
"I didn't say that either!" With a tremendous burst of strength, he broke Carlton's hold on his arm.
Carlton stopped and turned to look at him: Shawn was wincing and rubbing his arm where Carlton had held onto him.
"Ow, ow, ow, ow!" he complained -- overdramatically, Carlton thought. "What's your name, anyway? I think you owe me that much since you just ruined my night!"
"Well, this wasn't exactly what I had planned, either," he snapped back. "And not that it's any of your business but -- Carlton."
"So, Carlton," Shawn said, lingering over the name. "Like, what are you, a cop or something? I feel like I walked into an episode of 21 Jump Street."
"No, I'm not a cop," he said. "Luckily for you."
"Yeah, no joke," he laughed.
As Shawn's laughter faded, Carlton noticed that the kid was watching him with a strange look on his face. "What?"
"Nothing, man!" he promised. "Just...were you taking me somewhere a minute ago or were you going where the mood struck you?"
Carlton was brought up short because he didn't know what he'd planned to do with kid; he'd only known that he'd decided to get him away from the party. "I'm tempted to drag you over to the security office and report you," he finally said.
Suddenly Carlton had Shawn all in his personal space, thin hands patting him on the arms. "Now, now, Carlton, that's not necessary," he was saying, words in time with the patting. "You did your good deed already, you took away my ID and even my little blue band. I think that's enough, don't you?"
He gave the kid a dark look but decided that he was right. He'd keep Shawn's ID and send him on his way and then try to find another way to kill a few hours. It wasn't like he'd planned to enjoy himself at the party anyway. "Yeah, sure, I'll call it even. But if I talk to either of those guys from the fraternity and find out you tried to get back in? I'll track you down and make sure your RA knows about this."
"Threat communicated and received, Carlton! I'll be a complete angel for the rest of the night," Shawn nodded, still in his space but no longer touching him.
"Sounds like a good idea," he told him.
"So, change of plans, no frat party." Shawn smiled again and rubbed his hands together as if getting ready to get down to business. "What are we gonna do now?"
Carlton stopped short. "We?"
Shawn was giving him another odd look, like he thought he was speaking to a child. "Well, you're the one who ruined my evening of fun and excitement. Therefore you -- yes you, Carlton -- must now entertain for the rest of the evening."
"No, I don't!"
"Yes, you do," Shawn argued. "Clearly, your mama didn't raise a very well-mannered boy because my mom taught me all there was to know about good manners and it's right there in good manners handbook."
"Do you want to go the security office, after all?" Carlton asked. "You're pushing your luck."
Shawn waved his threat away. "I haven't begun to push, Carly," he told him. "Of course, you could just give me back my ID and I'll leave you alone."
"Not happening, kid."
"Well, then..." Shawn drew up beside him, until his shoulder was brushing Carlton's arm. He wasn't quite tall enough for them to brush shoulders. "Your mission, which you have already accepted, is to en-ter-tain me for the evening. Feel free to start any time now."
"Have it your way," Carlton told him, grabbing him by the arm once again. "We'll start with a nice visit to the security office."
"Aw, don't be like that," Shawn protested even as he let himself be pulled along. "Just think of the fun we could have! I'm smart, witty, charming -- and I have it on very good authority that I'm adorable. You could do a lot worse than me, you know!"
Carlton stopped again and glared down at his companion. Shawn was grinning at him and his eyes were half-lidded -- a devious look on his youthful face. "Are you coming on to me?"
The grin brightened and the eyes turned smoky. "Do you want me to be?"
For a moment, he didn't know how to respond; then he rolled his eyes. "Just what I needed -- a smart-assed kid. That's it, you're going to Security."
"Okay, fine," Shawn said. "Take me to the security office. And when they ask me where I got my fake ID, I'm going to tell them that it was a guy named Carlton who gave it to me, and he's also the one who took me to the frat party where I was drinking. I think that's called "contributing to the delinquency of a minor," right?"
"Are you threatening me?" Carlton asked incredulously, stopping again to stare at Shawn.
"Nope, not at all," he assured him. "Just letting you make an informed decision."
Standing there on the quiet street, Carlton weighed his options. It wasn't as if he was worried about anyone actually believing the kid's story; he was too well-known with the administration and the security departments for it to be a problem for him. On the other hand, as much as he was loathed to admit it, the kid was right about one thing: their plans for the evening had changed and -- well, the kid was entertaining, if nothing else.
And he still needed to kill a few hours before he went home to kill Rodney for getting him into this mess in the first place.
"Don't you have any friends?" he asked Shawn, a little harsher than he intended.
Shawn's face dropped a little and Carlton suddenly felt bad as the young man bowed his head and looked at his feet like they were the most fascinating thing in the world. "Well, yeah, of course, I do, I just..." He trailed off and looked back up at Carlton with sad, pleading eyes that put many pouting women to shame.
Carlton couldn't believe the words even as he said them. "Fine, I'll do it."
"Fine?" Shawn repeated, suddenly chipper again. "You'll do it?"
"Yes, fine," he repeated. "I'll...entertain you. But just for a few hours, mind! Just until I head back to my place."
"Sounds great, good, fine even," Shawn told him, gesturing with his hands to illustrate his approval.
"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this, Carlton muttered under his breath.
Still, Shawn heard him. "Don't worry, Carly. I promise we're gonna have the time of our lives."
**
To Be Continued...