SERIES: Do You Like Boots? (AKA: Box 18)
PART: 6 of 6
RATING: NC-17 (Explicit Heterosexual Sexual Activity, Pos. kink, Adult thematic material, language, adult content)
PAIRING(s): S/C; incidental L/L and F/E
DISTRIBUTION: To Myself so far; any other archives are welcome to ask, but disclaimers must be included, my email left intact. send a URL, and provide full disclaimers as well as credit me fully. Please inform me if you are going to submit my work to any sort of search engine. Please do not submit my work to a search engine that picks out random sets of words and uses them as key words, such as "Google"
Please contact me in order for this story to be placed on an archive, or if you want know of a friend who would enjoy my works, please email me their address and I will mail them the stories, expressly for the purpose of link trading. MiSTiers are welcomed! Please do inform me that you'd like to do the MiSTing, however, and send me a copy of the finished product. I'd also love to archive any MiSTings that are made of my work!
CATEGORY: Romance, Drama
FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!
SETTING IN TIMELINE: Post-Show canon; takes place in 1978, when everyone is roughly forty.
SPOILLER/SUMMARY: Carmine and Shirley try to pick up the pieces of their failed romantic lives by returning to what they know best...
NOTES: We need some S/C in this house...

 ***
His hands were shaking. Carmine couldn’t fathom why as he wiped his hands against the front of his pants. He leaned against the ornately painted wall of the theater, giving his script one last cursory glance.

It was a charming little show called Within the Woods, an amalgamated mix of fairytale and modern morality. Carmine was reading for the Big Bad Wolf, the third in line for his audition. He took a bite out of the shiny red apple he clutched in his fist and laughed humorlessly to himself; the days of private auditioning and jumping-the-rope were apparently long gone.

“Number three?”

Carmine looked up at the sound of the producer’s voice. He pasted on his brightest smile, his most professional walk. He could barely make out the faces seated in the auditorium.

“Hello, Mr. Ragusa. What do you have prepared for us?”

Carmine kept his gaze steady, planting his feet against the wooden stage floor. He felt a surge of energy course through his bones, confirming his stubborn faith. Yes, this was definitely where he belonged. “A monologue from the Fatastiks, and ‘If Ever I Would Leave You’, in the key of ‘C’.”

“Whenever you’re ready Mister Ragusa.”

He defied the bored complacency in the tone of his inquisitor. He relaxed his stance, stared straight at the cheap seats, and opened his throat.

***

“We’ll call you,” they said. It was an improvement from indifferent stares and cold dismissals, Carmine decided as he stepped out the stage door and into the midsummer sunshine. Maybe he’d get the part; if he didn’t he had at least taken a step forward; his performance had been a sound one, one of the best he’d given in years thanks to Harlette’s coaching. He owes the man a beer, Carmine realizes; thanks to his coaching these producers would remember “Rags”, and likely recommend him for other projects.

On his way out of the parking lot, he overheard a couple of fellow auditonees gossiping as they shared a cigarette at a neighboring bus stop. “I went after some short guy with a ‘fro,” one said. “One of the girls in the chorus said he used to be Carmine Ragusa.”

“Holy shit! He used to be THE guy in this town – what the fuck happened?” the other asked, seemingly oblivious to Carmine’s presence as he flicked a tad of ash from the end of his cigarette.

“Heard that he became a cokehead a couple of years ago. It fucked up his voice. The thing is, this guy could sing.” A shrug of confusion from the first performer, his hair dripping sweat down his neck.

“Sure it’s the same guy?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit. Bet he gets the part.”

“The way he can sing and dance? He’ll probably have it in the bag. He’s aging like milk, though.”

“That’s what coke’ll do for you. Makes you act like a fuckin’ space cadet, and look like a pile of dried shit. I’m telling you, Billy, I’m never touching the stuff - if you ever see me trying it, do me a favor and smack me.” He puffed and passed the cigarette over.

Carmine stared at the kids for a good minute before forcing himself to walk up the block, toward home and Shirley. He could’ve smacked the kid, knocked him out with one punch, but what it would’ve done him no good.

Carmine smirked. He could see Shirley standing at the end of the street, her purse in hand, waiting for his approach.

“How did it go?”

“Better than I thought. Ready for lunch?”

“Of course, but I’m paying. I told Harlette to stop by for a drink when she gets up.”

“Then I’m buying,” he wrapped an arm around her. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you, Shirl.”

She smiled. “Give yourself credit,” she said.

“If you’ll split it with me, Angelface.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sorry I tried to put space between us. You reminded me so much of…”

“Shh. I’m a Feeny – we’re made of sterner stuff than that.” She watched his expression for a moment, her own mouth drawn downward as they took their usual table at La Maccio. “You haven’t called me that in a long time.”


“Do you miss it?” He ordered a couple of mochas from their waitress, an antipasto and some salad to start.

She blushed. “It’s nice to hear it again.” Then her smile took on a dimpled, mischievous air. “I guess you don’t mind my having secrets, then?”

“They just make you more alluring.” Their waitress arrived with the drinks, and they clinked them before taking a sip apiece.

Shirley chuckled. “Then you wouldn’t mind me having other secrets?”

He smirked. “Any you wanna share?”

“We’ll get to that later. But I do have one question for box 18.” She grinned over the top of her glass.

“What?” He wondered, draining another gulp of his.

Her bubbly grin was adorable, and no matter what she had to say Carmine knew he’d always love her this way. “Do you like boots?”

 

To Part 5