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Title: One Good Ride (Sequel to Long Neck Bottle/Straight Tequila Night) Author:  Tesla Pairing:  DB/CK Rating:   NC-17 I need one good ride I'll be satisfied Come on Oklahoma borderline Lindsey the lawyer, and Lindsey's clothes;much as he was tired of them, Chris agreed to re-up for another year, if the show got another year. Dave was philosophical, as they were counting down to filming the last two episodes of the year. "If it works, it works," he said. "If it doesn't, then we start auditioning again." Fuckin' zen master.  That's what Chris called him, but it fit in a weird way. Dave was pretty mellow about stuff. He needed to be, because the show kept him from getting the really good parts in the hiatus. Not that it's what Dave said. He just shrugged, but others on the set said having to go promote the show this summer---if they were picked up---killed his shot in a big movie. Not Chris' shot, though. Chris had a western. Made for television, but a fuckin' western with Tom Selleck, who was as big as Dave.  Chris could hardly wait to wear cowboy clothes and ride a horse and not have to worry about Wardrobe screaming at him for dripping coffee on the silk tie or the frickin' handmade Italian silk suit. It made him giggly and he kept cracking Dave up when Dave was supposed to be threatening him in the show about the blind girl. Then, in the middle of Lindsey's sob story, Dave pretended to nod off and gave Chris such a look of sloe-eyed snottiness that Chris cracked up.  Fortunately, the director was laughing, too.  Everyone was in a pretty good mood, because they had reason to believe that they'd been picked up again. It was good fun being on set with Charisma and Alexis, too, because they enjoyed working on this set. "Between you and me, " Charisma said to Chris, as they were waiting for the set-up to change, "I'm so glad to get away from the other show. IF you know what I mean and I think you do."  Chris submitted to having the shine on his face patted by the make-up artist. "Well, a show takes its tone from the lead, and Big D is a professional." Charisma gave him a patient look. "He's a total goofball, but I'd rather have that than people who take everything deadly seriously, and he's always ready. You gotta love him." "Yeah," Chris said. He took a drink of his bottled water. Sometimes all the warring impulses in his head and in his chest stopped. Sometimes, Chris could see his path, plain as the center line on the road to Tulsa.  They were blocking the last scenes to be shot, the scene in the vault with Julie in the box.  The wrap party was to be held right afterward, and Julie had joked that she'd just wear her robe. Dave was standing behind the director, arms folded, watching the playback with as much interest as if it was his own scene. He was wearing his glasses and looked pretty professorial, for a guy who, to Chris' certain knowledge, had been drinking all last weekend at the SkyBar. (Chris hadn't gone up to talk to Dave at the bar; he'd let Dave get led off some where by two blonde girls, and when he thought better of it, Dave had been long gone.   One of those nights, as the Eagles said, one of those crazy nights. When Chris let his impulses cancel each other out until nothing at all happened and all Chris could do was keep on running a tab.) Chris had his right arm bandaged up and in a sling to simulate amputation. After he hit his mark, and the camera went to the view of Stephanie from Julie's POV, Chris looked up and met Dave's eyes.   After a moment, Chris, who was only visible from the waist down, winked at Dave.  Dave blinked, then gave Chris his sudden, radiant smile. Something smoothed out in Chris. Things wrapped up then; Chris turned in his Italian suit for a few months, and came back wearing his ripped jeans, layered tee-shirts, go-to-hell hat, and his shitkicking boots, and followed the rest of them to bar and grill just off Santa Monica, for the wrap party. The bosses were there, of course, and their wives, and Charisma and her boyfriend and Alexis and Alyson and crew members.  "I bet you and the big guy are going to go picking up women later, huh?" someone asked Chris, and he just nodded, Yeah, that's right. Because some California nights were soft, and the air was clear, and the beer was cold and the spicy wings really hot, and the young women who came up to see you had soft lips and soft breasts they brushed against your arm as the set the beer down.  And there was your friend beside you, hand on your shoulder every time he stood up to speak to someone, like you were the star and he was interrupting your beer. They had pretty much taken over the restaurant, but the manager didn't mind or didn't care, because they were tipping and they weren't rowdy.  Alexis---or someone--- brought a guitar in, and strummed a little. Dave said, "Let's hear Chris play," and the others murmured agreement. Chris gave him a pained look, but took the guitar and listened to the tuning. "Shit," he said. "What d'you want to hear?" "Jimmy Buffett," Charisma said. "Eagles," Dave said. Chris sang "Desperado," not looking at David, or anyone.  The silence when he finished was applause enough. Then, to liven them up and to finish, he played "Let's All Get Drunk and Screw," and everyone sang along and laughed. Chris was about to hand the guitar back when Dave said, "Play the Perfect Country Western Song." It was halfway through that, Dave leading the chorus, that Chris looked up and saw Tim and David G. looking at him, with sudden, interested faces. And he suddenly realized why Dave had kept him singing. ****** David was leaned back against the doorjamb of his den, in the house he'd just bought.  His shirt was unbuttoned and hanging off his arms, as Chris kissed his way across his chest, his hands light on Chris' shoulders, his head thrown back.  They had barely made the taxi ride home without touching each other, Chris in a long rant against all Philadelphia teams, and Dave not answering until Chris said, "And fuck the pansy-assed Flyers," which got Dave completely out of his happy place. Chris knew how to get him back there, and he was kissing Dave, scraping his mouth on Dave's beard stubble, running his hands all over Dave's shoulders and chest and back.  Buttons to the stupid purple shirt all over the hallway, Chris thought one had gone down his own shirt. Dave was so fucking big; aside from the height, his arms were longer, his shoulders broader, his hands bigger, his damned dick bigger than Chris'. Not that Chris minded this last, as he unbuckled Dave's belt and dropped slowly to his knees and took it in his mouth.  He looked up at Dave's wide, dark eyes, and took his balls in the other hand and Dave was already shaking. He was like some tree that was about to fall, and his hands were shaking on Chris' shoulders, even as he gripped bruise-deep.  Chris was harder than he'd been in a while, and he nearly lost it when Dave's eyes closed and he shot down Chris' throat, each pulse across Chris' tongue repeated in the throb of Chris' dick. When Dave finished, Chris just rested his head on Dave's stomach, and Dave held him, his fingers stroking Chris' nape. Chris stood up, within Dave's embrace, and they kissed again, and it was like....home. It was like the first time, and Chris waited for the fear, the contradictory impulses, but all the voices in his head were silent. He took Dave by the hand and they went into the half-decorated bedroom. They stripped and got on the clean sheets, and Dave got the lube, but Chris stopped him and Chris began tongue-fucking him, and he'd never done that to Dave before, and Dave was almost sobbing before Chris coated himself with slick and God, Dave was tight, and Chris pulled those long strong legs around him and entered that tight hotness, and Dave was hard again, his dick hard against Chris' stomach, and Chris discovered that his breaths were coming short and fast and he couldn't stop staring into Dave's eyes.  He was falling into Dave's eyes. "Chris," Dave groaned, and came all over both of them, and Chris felt like he was shaking to a million pieces and came. They lay together for a long time, still holding each other, not caring that they were a sticky mess. Chris felt a wild, strange feeling in his chest. It wasn't fear, he thought. He kept waiting for the fear to kick in.  It didn't. "Stop thinking," Dave whispered. "You're always thinking." Chris was lying with his face in Dave's back, which smelled of some fancy bodywash, still, under the sweat. "One of us should," he started to say, but he didn't feel like talking. He raised his head as Dave turned over, and kissed him, instead. He could go back to being a bastard tomorrow. Tonight he wasn't afraid of losing himself or who was winning or on top or bottom or the badass or the star. Tonight he just wanted this man, this night. Chris was on location when he heard that the network officially put the show on the fall schedule.  He managed to get to his trailer and call Dave on his cell. He got voice mail, and said, "Uh, heard that we're coming back next year. Just when you thought I was out of your hair." He paused. "Miss you, man. Call me." And he went back and got back on his horse. -End