Fic: Derailed
Title: Derailed
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries - bookverse
Word Count and Rating Not very many and not very naughty but kind of.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Richard Stevenson
Notes: Written for the Year's Worth of Cocktails story on AO3
I hated it when Mike Truckman hired a new DJ. I also hated it when he hired a new bartender.
Tonight he had both and I almost walked out of the place. Instead, I lifted my chin, threw out my chest, and closed my ears to the sounds of Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love.” Apparently, disco was dead everywhere but in Trucky’s.
I took a seat at the bar. Mike, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, was rearranging various brands of cheap vodka, trying to make them look expensive.
It didn’t work. Popov and Smirnoff have trouble looking expensive.
Mike nodded when he saw me. “How’s it goin’, Don?”
I put my hands over my ears. “I’m not feeling the love, Mike.”
Mike pointed his cigarette at the dance floor. “Me, neither, but people are dancing. Benny can play as much of that shit as he wants as long as people are dancing.”
I watched six or seven drunken couples pawing each other as they staggered to the music. “If that’s dancing, then I’m Leslie Caron.”
A one-inch ash fell off Mike’s cigarette. “You ain’t got the legs for it.”
“You’re right. I’m more of a Ginger Rogers.”
Mike chuckled. “You want a drink, Don? I got a new bartender. Name's Chucky. You’ll like him. He’s cuter than a bug’s ass.”
It was my turn to chuckle. “You mean, a bug’s ear.”
“Bugs ain’t got ears.” He waved at Chucky. “Get down here and get Don a drink.”
Mike left me to go do whatever he did in his office as Chucky soft-shoed his way to stand before me, practically hopping with excitement. He was young and blond and clad in leather pants that fit the way leather pants should fit. Mike was right. Chucky was cuter than a bug’s ass.
He held out his hand. I shook it, letting myself linger over it for an extra second or two.
“I’m Chucky.”
“Don. I’d like a-”
“I know what you want. You want a Derailer.”
“No, I don’t, and what’s a Derailer?”
Chucky ignored me. He filled a highball glass with ice and grabbed a bottle of Mike’s better vodkas, pouring a shot carefully over the ice. Then, he chose a bottle of gold tequila and layered a shot of that over the vodka.
It was interesting, I had to admit. Chucky took bartending very seriously, and I appreciated a man who could build a good drink.
“What’s next?” I asked as he carefully remanded the tequila to its place of honor behind the bar.
“You’ll see.”
Chucky selected a bottle of Kahlua, holding the bottle in both hands as he gazed reverently at the label. “You’re gonna love this, Don.”
His tone told me that I was going to love him once I tasted that drink. Chucky layered a shot of kahlua on top of the tequila, then slipped in a straw, taking care not to disturb the layers of liquor.
Chucky blinked his green eyes at me. “Enjoy.”
I was about to do just that when a hand clamped on my shoulder and pair of lips pressed against my cheek. A voice I knew well whispered in my ear.
“I hope you’re not going to make me wear leather pants.”
I envisioned Timmy in leather pants and liked what I saw. “Only on my birthday.”
“It’s a deal.” He took a seat beside me and pointed at my drink. “What’s that?”
“It’s a Derailer.” Chucky held out his hand. “I’m Chucky.”
The corners of Timmy’s mouth quivered, but ever the diplomat, he shook the hand and formally introduced himself. “I’m Tim Callahan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Chucky’s young, pink cheeks got even pinker. He was happy to meet Timmy, too, judging by the bulge in his leather pants.
He batted his eyelashes at Timmy. “What can I get for you? Anything you want.”
Timmy gave me a sideways glance. “An extra straw.”
Another straw was eased into the Derailer.
“Gee whiz, Archie, this is just like being at the Chok’lit Shop,” I said.
Timmy grinned and indicated our cocktail. “Drink up, Jughead.”
We sipped the drink, layer by layer, and as each flavor floated over my tongue, I had to admit that Chucky knew his business. I decided Mike could keep him.
We drained the glass. I fed Timmy a liquor-infused ice cube which he passed back to me by way of a kiss. He smooched my ear, then licked it with his ice-cold tongue.
“Let’s go home so I can derail you,” he whispered.
“You haven’t got the boxcars for it.” I tossed a five on the bar.
“Maybe not, but you have to agree that I have an excellent caboose.”
“You sure do.” I patted his butt. “Choo, choo.”
*Crossposted from Dreamwidth*
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries - bookverse
Word Count and Rating Not very many and not very naughty but kind of.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Richard Stevenson
Notes: Written for the Year's Worth of Cocktails story on AO3
I hated it when Mike Truckman hired a new DJ. I also hated it when he hired a new bartender.
Tonight he had both and I almost walked out of the place. Instead, I lifted my chin, threw out my chest, and closed my ears to the sounds of Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love.” Apparently, disco was dead everywhere but in Trucky’s.
I took a seat at the bar. Mike, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, was rearranging various brands of cheap vodka, trying to make them look expensive.
It didn’t work. Popov and Smirnoff have trouble looking expensive.
Mike nodded when he saw me. “How’s it goin’, Don?”
I put my hands over my ears. “I’m not feeling the love, Mike.”
Mike pointed his cigarette at the dance floor. “Me, neither, but people are dancing. Benny can play as much of that shit as he wants as long as people are dancing.”
I watched six or seven drunken couples pawing each other as they staggered to the music. “If that’s dancing, then I’m Leslie Caron.”
A one-inch ash fell off Mike’s cigarette. “You ain’t got the legs for it.”
“You’re right. I’m more of a Ginger Rogers.”
Mike chuckled. “You want a drink, Don? I got a new bartender. Name's Chucky. You’ll like him. He’s cuter than a bug’s ass.”
It was my turn to chuckle. “You mean, a bug’s ear.”
“Bugs ain’t got ears.” He waved at Chucky. “Get down here and get Don a drink.”
Mike left me to go do whatever he did in his office as Chucky soft-shoed his way to stand before me, practically hopping with excitement. He was young and blond and clad in leather pants that fit the way leather pants should fit. Mike was right. Chucky was cuter than a bug’s ass.
He held out his hand. I shook it, letting myself linger over it for an extra second or two.
“I’m Chucky.”
“Don. I’d like a-”
“I know what you want. You want a Derailer.”
“No, I don’t, and what’s a Derailer?”
Chucky ignored me. He filled a highball glass with ice and grabbed a bottle of Mike’s better vodkas, pouring a shot carefully over the ice. Then, he chose a bottle of gold tequila and layered a shot of that over the vodka.
It was interesting, I had to admit. Chucky took bartending very seriously, and I appreciated a man who could build a good drink.
“What’s next?” I asked as he carefully remanded the tequila to its place of honor behind the bar.
“You’ll see.”
Chucky selected a bottle of Kahlua, holding the bottle in both hands as he gazed reverently at the label. “You’re gonna love this, Don.”
His tone told me that I was going to love him once I tasted that drink. Chucky layered a shot of kahlua on top of the tequila, then slipped in a straw, taking care not to disturb the layers of liquor.
Chucky blinked his green eyes at me. “Enjoy.”
I was about to do just that when a hand clamped on my shoulder and pair of lips pressed against my cheek. A voice I knew well whispered in my ear.
“I hope you’re not going to make me wear leather pants.”
I envisioned Timmy in leather pants and liked what I saw. “Only on my birthday.”
“It’s a deal.” He took a seat beside me and pointed at my drink. “What’s that?”
“It’s a Derailer.” Chucky held out his hand. “I’m Chucky.”
The corners of Timmy’s mouth quivered, but ever the diplomat, he shook the hand and formally introduced himself. “I’m Tim Callahan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Chucky’s young, pink cheeks got even pinker. He was happy to meet Timmy, too, judging by the bulge in his leather pants.
He batted his eyelashes at Timmy. “What can I get for you? Anything you want.”
Timmy gave me a sideways glance. “An extra straw.”
Another straw was eased into the Derailer.
“Gee whiz, Archie, this is just like being at the Chok’lit Shop,” I said.
Timmy grinned and indicated our cocktail. “Drink up, Jughead.”
We sipped the drink, layer by layer, and as each flavor floated over my tongue, I had to admit that Chucky knew his business. I decided Mike could keep him.
We drained the glass. I fed Timmy a liquor-infused ice cube which he passed back to me by way of a kiss. He smooched my ear, then licked it with his ice-cold tongue.
“Let’s go home so I can derail you,” he whispered.
“You haven’t got the boxcars for it.” I tossed a five on the bar.
“Maybe not, but you have to agree that I have an excellent caboose.”
“You sure do.” I patted his butt. “Choo, choo.”
*Crossposted from Dreamwidth*