December 28th, 2007
Written for cynical_terror and undrockroll, as part of the vo_xmas fic exchange.
Title: Hotel California
Written for: undrockroll and cynical_terror
Notes: Big Viggo is used with permission from jeyhawk
Thanks to crimson_bride for the beta!
It was another morning in paradise. I had (in ascending order of importance) coffee, smokes, my iPod earbuds in with nothing playing, the Washington Post, the answer to 1 Across in the Washington Post cryptic crossword, more coffee, and a stunning view of my lover crawling around our kitchen on all fours, dressed only in an inadequate bathrobe.
Paramount, that was the answer to 1 Across. Average quantity, of primary importance.
I contemplated the fact, given the view, that Orlando was what Sean refers to as ‘a stunning bit of totty.’
Note to self: send Sean another anonymous letter seeking financial support for an illegitimate child.
Orlando knelt back up, scraps of fabric in his hands, and I lost the view.
“What do you think?” he asked me.
“Sean Bean is a lecherous trouble-maker,” I said.
Orlando glared and waggled the pieces of fabric at me.
Note to self: engage filter between brain and mouth.
“No, about the upholstery for the headboard. Have you not been listening to what I’ve been saying?”
I yanked the iPod earbuds out discreetly. “Of course.”
The swatches… Ah yes, fluorescent orange and parrot green. That would be the delicious color sense of my darling Orlando.
“Can we have something that won’t show the handprints of lube?” I asked.
Orlando’s frown softened, and he lowered his eyelids coquettishly.
Oh yes, we had some early morning action happening here. Under my robe, Big Viggo was standing up and having a good look around, and it liked what it saw.
“If you want,” said Orlando.
I crooked a finger at him, pushing my chair away from the kitchen table, chair feet scraping across the chipped floor tiles.
He crawled over, then draped himself across my knees, the tip of his tongue poking across his bottom lip.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, and I must admit, my attention drifted, because ‘I’ve been thinking’ meant he was about to ask me whether he could install a Jacuzzi in our bedroom (‘absofuckinglutely’), go to London to buy some clothes (‘as long as I don’t have to go with you’) or book a stripper for Henry’s birthday (‘use the usual company, and make sure you get the gender of the stripper right this time’).
I touched his cheek, cradling my hand against his face, and I must admit I got a bit misty, because we’d moved into our new house, on the beach, and he was with me all the time, and he wasn’t ever going away again…
“Viggo!” Orlando said sharply.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was just being amazed that we are going to be together all the time.”
“Good answer,” he said. “Nice save. Now, pay attention. What are your plans?”
“Thought I’d fuck you. Then finish the crossword, if I’ve got the strength to lift a pencil.”
“What about longer term?”
He pushed my robe open, so either he wanted some kind of huge favor from me, or he was horny too.
“Longer term? Mmm…”
It wasn’t easy to formulate words, not with what he was doing to Big Viggo with his tongue, but if I didn’t work out what my own personal cryptic crossword clue generator had going on in his head, he might stop.
He hummed, and I was, yet again, weak when confronted with his particular skill set.
“Thought I’d sit around in the sunshine, work on some middle age spread, write poetry and take photographs of you,” I said.
Orlando slid Big Viggo out of his mouth slowly, letting his teeth drag carefully up the skin, making me gasp and jump, tipping my coffee across the Washington Post.
“Still good,” he said. “Though not what I had in mind.”
A strand of saliva stretched from his lip to Big Viggo, and I could see the strand vibrating slightly, in time with my pulse.
“What did you want to do?” I asked. “Because you can have anything you want, as long as you go back to sucking me.”
The strand of saliva broke when he licked his lip. “Anything?” he asked, and I nodded.
“Excellent!” he said, grinning at me as he leaned forward, his lips brushing against the head of Big Viggo.
I hoped I’d just agreed to have the flooring in the kitchen replaced, rather than some of the other options that occurred to me belatedly, like Orlando’s scheme for us both to become Las Vegas stage magicians.
Note to self: don’t shout ‘abracadabra’ while ejaculating.
* * *
The house we’d bought, and that Orlando was renovating, was a crumbling mansion: two floors of bedrooms with rotten floorboards and moldy wallpaper, another floor of living space, a kitchen that had once catered for meals for twenty people, and even rat-infested servants’ quarters. I would have bought any house Orlando wanted, and he’d chosen this one.
The patio, thick with weeds, opened off the living rooms, looking out over the ocean to the horizon. I was ensconced there, eyes closed behind dark sunglasses, beer in one hand, pretending to work, when the first indication of trouble disturbed my
nap meditation concentration.
Large men who hefted even larger items of furniture appeared often enough that I didn’t pay them any attention, apart from a vague hope that Orlando wasn’t sunbathing nude on the balcony above me this time.
I heard murmuring voices, and Orlando appeared, wearing bitten-off denim shorts and a great deal of baby oil.
Note to self: buy more baby oil.
He looked so damned hot, and I was certain he had nothing on under his shorts; and that’s the only reason I can think of that I didn’t initially identify the item of furniture being carted into our house.
“To the right, at the top of the stairs,” Orlando told the men. “In the beauty salon.”
Beauty salon? We had a fucking beauty salon?
It was enough to make me put down my beer and prize myself off the sun lounger, then follow the delivery men indoors.
They were manhandling a large leather chair up the stairs. A large black leather chair, with built in arm rests and an adjustable neck rest, just like any one of the many makeup chairs I had sat in over the years.
Orlando, cooing over the guys’ manly strength, jumped when I draped an arm over his shoulders.
“What the fuck is that?” I asked. “Are we going to be role-playing ‘first time in the Cuntebago’ again?”
“I love you when you’re being obtuse,” Orlando said, hugging me, then sliding out from under my arm. “No, boys, over there,” he directed. “Beside the massage table and waxing machine.”
Massage table? Waxing machine? This role-play was getting pretty funky, and I had to admit I approved of the lengths Orlando was going to.
Note to self: buy Orlando another diamond ear stud.
“Careful, boys,” Orlando said. “Don’t chip the manicurist’s work table.”
I shoved myself past Orlando, into the bedroom the delivery men were settling the makeup chair in.
The walls were tiled and mirrored above shiny sinks and cabinets, new floor tiles glistened, and beauty salon equipment filled the room.
Orlando slid his hand under my arm, his sun-warmed skin delicious against mine, but no oiled-up toy boy was going to distract me from the fact there was a fucking beauty salon in my house!
“Lovely, boys,” he said to the delivery men, who hovered in the room, looking purposeful.
“They want a tip,” I said.
“Work hard, and treat your mothers well,” Orlando said. “Don’t park illegally. Save ten percent of your annual income to provide for your retirement.”
I took my wallet out, and handed the bewildered men a bill each.
When they’d stomped back down the stairs, I turned and glared at Orlando, who was draped across the new chair, giggling and poking at the remote control in his hands.
“It vibrates!” he squealed. “Come on, let’s take Big Viggo for a ride on it.”
I looked away from the sight of Orlando wriggling out of his cut-offs, just to stop myself from getting distracted. “Why do we have a beauty salon in our house?”
Note to self: mirrors provide reflected images.
Damn, Orlando was hot.
“For the guests,” he said. “But I’m sure the beauty therapist and masseuse will pamper you too.”
I had to close my eyes, because what Orlando was doing to himself was both illegal and irresistible.
“Guests,” Orlando said, and I could hear that he was trying to be patient. It was comforting to know that I drove him to distraction too. “You know, the people that are coming to stay at our Bed and Breakfast. Why else would I have decorated all the spare rooms?”
I left Orlando in the beauty salon, and stalked down the hall, pushing the doors open. Fresh paint, new carpet, huge beds, velvet drapes.
I stomped back into the beauty salon, and forgot to close my eyes.
Orlando had his legs hooked over the arm rests of the new chair, rocking two fingers into his ass, eyes closed, bliss on his face, and I could hear the thrum of the chair vibrating.
“Looks wonderful,” I said, temporarily distracted from the whole B and B scheme.
Orlando’s eyes opened, and he beamed at me. “I knew you’d love my decorating.”
Note to self: it’s best just to surrender, especially when Orlando has both a vibrating chair and Big Viggo on his side.
* * *
Self-defense? Extreme emotional distress?
I racked my brain, trying to remember what other defenses for murder there were. Serves me right for refusing to watch Law and Order, but how could I have suspected that I’d be in the situation where I’d be seriously considering disposing of a corpse?
The patio, de-weeded and furnished with many sun loungers, sported giggling women posing in micro-bikinis, and in one case, absolutely nothing. Suntanned skeletons, rearranging their girlie bits in the sunshine…
Orlando knocked on the bathroom door again, and said, “I know you’re in there. I hope you’re not using it all up.”
The doorknob rattled insistently, so I made the effort and got off the easy chair I’d dragged into our bathroom and unlocked the door.
Orlando was standing beside the door, hands on his hips and his lips pursed.
“Sorry,” I said. “I just wanted to get away from the crazy women downstairs.”
A dog barked persistently, yapyapyapyap, and I winced at the noise.
“Damn,” Orlando said. “Do you think if we replaced it with a stuffed toy, Paris would notice?”
“Doubt it,” I said. “Depends how coked up she is.”
Orlando looked tired and frazzled, as well as gorgeous, so I pulled him into the bathroom and locked the door. The bathroom really was the only haven, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t share it with him.
“That chair doesn’t match the towels,” Orlando said. “You’re disrupting the seaside theme.”
Shrieking filtered up, high-pitched squealing, and someone shouted, “Bitch fight!”
Orlando and I peered out of the bathroom window, to where two, or possibly three, of the suntanned skeletons were rolling across the lawn beside the patio.
“Oh God,” Orlando groaned. “Now I’ll have to call the police again.”
I hugged Orlando closer, kissing his forehead, breathing in the smell of his coconut oil suntan lotion. “Let them sort it out themselves,” I murmured. “I doubt they’ll fight to the death.”
Orlando sighed, lifting his face so I could kiss his lips. He tasted of coconut too, sweet and delicious.
The shrieking from outside escalated in pitch, making it sound like there were giant cats fucking on the beach, and Orlando groaned.
“I should go break it up,” he said.
The armchair, while offending Orlando’s dubious aesthetic sense, was still damned useful for us to collapse into.
“Later,” I said, managing to get one hand between our bodies, to the fly of my jeans. “Fuck me first?”
“You want me to?” Orlando asked while I fumbled around with my other hand, looking for something oil-based among the clutter of skin products on the counter behind us.
“Best cure for a bad day ever,” I said. “And today is a bad day.”
He touched my face, fingers against my cheek. “No wonder I love you,” he murmured. “Now, where’s the oil?”
I handed him a bottle of baby oil.
“I thought we’d run out,” he said, pulling the cap open with his teeth and slopping oil over both of us and the chair.
“I bought more.”
“The upholstery?” Orlando murmured, squeezing the bottle, basting both of us in oil.
“Fuck the upholstery.”
Orlando grinned, the smile that lit my world, that made putting up with everything worthwhile, the one that said he was about to give Big Viggo a dancing lesson it’d never forget.
“Rather fuck you,” he said.
Note to self: even when the chair doesn’t vibrate, it’s still good.
Note to self: buy more baby oil.
* * *
I suppose the detox centre was a logical development of the Bed and Breakfast, and it certainly seemed calmer when the guests were paying to be starved of all the good things in life, like coffee and cigarettes. Orlando reached across the table and tried to take the pouch of tobacco out of my hands.
“No,” he said. “Remember what happened last time?”
“Damn.” It didn’t seem possible, in retrospect, to forget the sight of Sienna clambering up the trellised ivy in a desperate attempt to reach the source of the cigarette smoke wafting over our private balcony. Who would ever have thought that the ivy trellis would have been so inadequately attached?
I closed the pouch back up, and tried not to be resentful. I didn’t mind living solely on raw vegetables, and I had a bottle of Jameson stashed under my pillow, but not being able to smoke was a strain on my nerves.
Orlando patted my hand, and deftly removed the tobacco pouch.
“You can have it back later,” he said. “When everyone is doing tantric yoga before afternoon siesta.”
I pouted. It’s regrettably true, but I pouted.
Orlando slid forward on his chair and pressed his lips against mine. “Never mind,” he said. “Why don’t you do tantric yoga too? Then we’ll both be all worked up, ready for afternoon shagging.”
I thought about it, picturing a room full of sun-tanned skeletons and drug-fucked rock stars in thousand-dollar yoga outfits, posing and breathing.
I stopped thinking about it when I pictured Orlando in a thousand-dollar yoga outfit, bending and stretching, right in front of me.
“Can you touch your toes?” I asked.
Orlando stood up and tightened the belt of his robe. He turned around, and gracefully leaned forward, bending right over and winding his hands around his ankles.
“Fucking hell,” I said. “I’d quit smoking for that.”
Orlando straightened back up, smiling smugly, then snatched the pouch of tobacco off the table and lobbed it over the balcony.
I stood up, my mouth shaping, “No!” and watched the pouch sail through the air, to land on the patio below. The rehabbers, sitting on the patio and enjoying their breakfasts of lemon juice and spring water, immediately scrummed for the pouch.
“Deal,” Orlando said, and he looked far too triumphant for my liking.
Note to self: no man should ever have to choose between baby oil and nicotine.
* * *
“It makes sense,” Orlando said, and it was an outright lie.
“A dog resort?” I repeated. “A fucking dog resort?”
“Oh, I don’t think their owners will want that kind of service provided,” Orlando said. “Think about it for a moment. You like dogs.”
“I like dogs that are big enough to not get caught in rat traps,” I clarified.
“You like dogs of a certain size,” Orlando continued. “And there’d be no pesky owners around.”
“What about the work?” I asked.
“Work?” Orlando said, frowning, and I leaned across the table to kiss his brow.
“Walking, bathing, cleaning up after the mutts,” I said. “Veterinary care, grooming, breaking up fights. It’ll be just like the B and B, but hopefully without the drug raids.”
Orlando smiled, his sunshine smile. “If I can cope with you, I can cope with a whole lot of puppies. I’ll go make some phone calls.”
He stood up from the table on our private balcony, shorts riding low on his hips, suntanned back glistening in the early morning sunshine.
“No rehab for dogs, okay?” I called out to his retreating back, and he waved a hand vaguely in acknowledgment.
* * *
The dogs, several rat-sized monsters and a Great Dane that needed to be neutered before it broke someone’s leg, frolicked on the sand, under the watchful eyes of two handlers armed with cattle prods.
Orlando sat beside me on the patio, on a sun lounger formerly occupied by an anorexic with coke issues, calling out instructions to the handlers.
“Watch out for Mighty Mouse,” he shouted. “She’s scared of seaweed.”
I leaned back on my lounger, today’s Washington Post open to the crossword. “What’s a five letter word for a willow?” I asked. “Something to do with flowers?”
“Osier,” Orlando said, shading his eyes to watch the dogs more carefully. I liked the dogs, despite the dog shit tracked through the house. It felt like, if it all became too much, I could dispose of one of the dogs if necessary.
“I’ve been thinking,” Orlando said, and that time I sat up and paid attention. “I could design a range of glamorous beachwear for dogs. What do you think?”
“Fabulous idea,” I said. “Best one you’ve ever had.”
Orlando beamed at me. “I knew you’d approve. You’re so supportive of me.”
“That’s because I love you,” I said.
“I think I’ll call the label Hotel California,” Orlando said.
Note to self: make that a fucking huge diamond earring.