Post by Johnny Reb on Oct 5, 2009 14:53:41 GMT -5
Sunlight fell through slatted blinds, casting broken lines of gold and grey across his sleeping form; obscure trigrams cast by some unseen I-Ching practitioner. He shifted under the white sheets, groping blindly for his lover, only to find her absent. That woke him fully, immediately. Johnny sat up, blinking against the light’s intrusion. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and caught the scent of strong coffee from the other room.
With a languorous stretch that tautened the muscles in his chest and arms, making them ripple beneath lightly-tanned skin, he got out of bed and pulled on a thick robe. The hotel suite was smaller than he was accustomed to: ever since losing his World Title to Torture, his celebrated status had been downgraded somewhat. It didn’t matter; he was still one of WCF’s top superstars, and he would get his shot again. Just not now. Not with Guilliano as number one contender.
That was something he could deal with later. Granted, he should’ve gotten a rematch; should’ve, perhaps, demanded one. It was always something, getting so busy with one thing that another, more important thing, got neglected. Reb opened the double French doors that separated the bedroom from the rest of the suite and stepped out into radiant sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything in the suite was pristine and white, save for accent pillows on the sofa and the impersonal artwork hanging on the walls. And shining resplendent in all that purity was a room service cart, laden with silver-domed serving trays and a steaming pot of coffee.
Dixie sat at a table nearby, reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee already beside her. But as soon as she spotted him, she put the paper down and smiled.
"Mornin’, sugar," she said sweetly.
Johnny’s response was an unintelligible grumble, a sure sign of too much undiluted blood in his caffeine stream. He poured himself a cup of coffee, lifted the covers on the serving trays curiously.
“They tell me it’s complimentary,” Dixie offered helpfully.
“Too early,” Reb told her.
“It’s nearly ten in the morning, Johnny.”
He shrugged, leaned over to kiss her cheek before sitting down beside her.
“Shouldn’ta kept me up so late last night, darlin’,” he said.
“Didn’t hear ya complainin’ then.”
She grinned at him, and he smiled back.
“Anyway,” Dixie continued, “you’ve never been in better shape. You’ll be fine tonight. Doc’s got your back, and between the two of you….”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Johnny said, taking a sip of his coffee. “But these guys aren’t pushovers. Not the brightest crayons in the box, but that don’t make a lotta difference in the ring.”
Dixie cocked her head to one side, looking at him contemplatively.
“They were operatin’ under the mistaken impression that Doc an’ I was still feudin’. He put it best, a misunderstandin’ between brothers. Me an’ him might not be blood related, but we make a damn good team.”
“Y’all sure do, Johnny. An’ y’all are gonna walk outta there tonight the new tag team champions,” Dixie told him. “Only, y’all ain’t exactly a tag team.”
Johnny shrugged again.
“I dunno. Me an’ Doc discussed the idea, bein’ an official tag team. Might do it, if we win them titles. But I gotta admit to bein’ a little disappointed.”
“About what?”
“Them Superfans don’t seem to think a couple of Confederate boys is worth one of their little…. impersonations.”
Dixie shook her head slowly, her hair playing across her shoulders in dark-hued waves.
“That ain’t what’s important, sugar. What’s important is that they wanna rely on what’s most familiar to them, in takin’ on you an’ Doc. They wanna use techniques they’ve practiced and practiced well, things they could do in their sleep. It’d be too risky, posin’ as anyone else, against the two of y’all.”
“Ya think so?” Johnny asked, smiling again.
Dixie nodded solemnly, and, that settled, both turned their attention to other things.
With a languorous stretch that tautened the muscles in his chest and arms, making them ripple beneath lightly-tanned skin, he got out of bed and pulled on a thick robe. The hotel suite was smaller than he was accustomed to: ever since losing his World Title to Torture, his celebrated status had been downgraded somewhat. It didn’t matter; he was still one of WCF’s top superstars, and he would get his shot again. Just not now. Not with Guilliano as number one contender.
That was something he could deal with later. Granted, he should’ve gotten a rematch; should’ve, perhaps, demanded one. It was always something, getting so busy with one thing that another, more important thing, got neglected. Reb opened the double French doors that separated the bedroom from the rest of the suite and stepped out into radiant sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything in the suite was pristine and white, save for accent pillows on the sofa and the impersonal artwork hanging on the walls. And shining resplendent in all that purity was a room service cart, laden with silver-domed serving trays and a steaming pot of coffee.
Dixie sat at a table nearby, reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee already beside her. But as soon as she spotted him, she put the paper down and smiled.
"Mornin’, sugar," she said sweetly.
Johnny’s response was an unintelligible grumble, a sure sign of too much undiluted blood in his caffeine stream. He poured himself a cup of coffee, lifted the covers on the serving trays curiously.
“They tell me it’s complimentary,” Dixie offered helpfully.
“Too early,” Reb told her.
“It’s nearly ten in the morning, Johnny.”
He shrugged, leaned over to kiss her cheek before sitting down beside her.
“Shouldn’ta kept me up so late last night, darlin’,” he said.
“Didn’t hear ya complainin’ then.”
She grinned at him, and he smiled back.
“Anyway,” Dixie continued, “you’ve never been in better shape. You’ll be fine tonight. Doc’s got your back, and between the two of you….”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Johnny said, taking a sip of his coffee. “But these guys aren’t pushovers. Not the brightest crayons in the box, but that don’t make a lotta difference in the ring.”
Dixie cocked her head to one side, looking at him contemplatively.
“They were operatin’ under the mistaken impression that Doc an’ I was still feudin’. He put it best, a misunderstandin’ between brothers. Me an’ him might not be blood related, but we make a damn good team.”
“Y’all sure do, Johnny. An’ y’all are gonna walk outta there tonight the new tag team champions,” Dixie told him. “Only, y’all ain’t exactly a tag team.”
Johnny shrugged again.
“I dunno. Me an’ Doc discussed the idea, bein’ an official tag team. Might do it, if we win them titles. But I gotta admit to bein’ a little disappointed.”
“About what?”
“Them Superfans don’t seem to think a couple of Confederate boys is worth one of their little…. impersonations.”
Dixie shook her head slowly, her hair playing across her shoulders in dark-hued waves.
“That ain’t what’s important, sugar. What’s important is that they wanna rely on what’s most familiar to them, in takin’ on you an’ Doc. They wanna use techniques they’ve practiced and practiced well, things they could do in their sleep. It’d be too risky, posin’ as anyone else, against the two of y’all.”
“Ya think so?” Johnny asked, smiling again.
Dixie nodded solemnly, and, that settled, both turned their attention to other things.
