"You didn't get anything good this week, Justin." Joey, who'd been bitching since he walked in the door, was bent over, ass up and elbow deep in a cooler of ice. "A man works hard, he deserves a good bottle of beer."
"Winnings were slim last week," drolled Justin, slouching in his seat. His beer was warm and half empty. "Had to supplement with my own money. You want good beer? Bet bigger, lose more."
Joey straightened, pulling a domestic lager from the cooler, then frowned and ambled back to the table, already set for the weekly poker game.
The Friday Night Poker Club, in existence for the past twenty years, usually met at the home of Detective Lance Bass and his husband, Michael. Namely because they had the nicest house, it was always clean, and Bass could cook. The buffet was already loaded down with fried delights from chicken strips to bacon fries.
Beverages, purchased with the weekly winnings, were always provided by Justin, who, as of the week before, was a newly minted Detective and had completed his first week in Robbery/Homicide.
"What are you moping about, Fatone?" Lance asked, pulling the strings of a bright yellow apron. "Been a dick since you walked in here, and not the kind I like." He paused, sniffed the air, then sniffed again. "Justin... is that you? Why do you stink?"
"I don't st-" Justin started to answer, but was shouted down by Chris as he bounded into the house, full of energy. Chris worked with youth programs and spent most of his day bullshitting with teenagers at community centers. He'd somehow landed the cushiest job among them, thanks to his wife's family connections.
"We playin' yet?" he said, heading straight for the buffet to pile his plate. "Why do you stink, Timberlake? You investigate a robbery at a fish house or something?"
"I don't stink."
"Haven't seen Chasez yet," said Joey.
"What do you mean yet?" asked Lance, mindlessly following Chris, picking up crumbs. "He's your partner; you should have been staring at him all day."
JC and Joey worked Special Victims Unit, which served children and the elderly of Orlando. The assignment was interesting, to say the least.
"Since we left the squad room. I think he went home to get a piece before he spent the night with us bastards."
"Hey, man." Chris shrugged. "Happy wife... or whatever they've got goin' on, happy life."
"I wouldn't know about that." Joey sucked down the last of his beer and belched before tossing it in the direction of the recycling bin. The bottle hit the floor and spun, making a ringing sound in the silence.
"Joe-" Lance started, but Joey held up both hands in surrender.
"Fuck! Save it. Sorry, I'll get it." He picked up the bottle and dumped it into the bin, then dug into the cooler for another one.
"I was gonna say I'm sorry to hear about the split, actually. But uh..." Lance's weight shifted from one foot to the other. "You're hitting it hard tonight. You okay?"
"Yeah. Why?" Joey forced a grin, throwing his arms open. "It's my first drink all week. I'm relaxing with my guys, doing my Friday night thing. I'm... it's fine."
"He is not fine," came a voice from around the corner. JC strolled in, casual as ever in mirrored shades and a trucker cap. "After what we saw today? He's not fine."
Joey groaned, rolling his eyes. "Don't even start, C."
"Oh, I'm gonna start," said JC, giggling. After issuing fist bumps and grabbing a beer, he settled into his seat. The stack of cards they'd been using since their first game, when they'd been probies at the Police Academy together, sat in the middle of the table, along with the bag of poker chips so old the emblems had worn off.
Chris, always the dealer, grabbed the stack of cards and began to shuffle them. "First, let's start with why Timberlake stinks."
"I do not stink," Justin protested. "I took a shower, changed my clothes-"
"Wash your hair?" Asked Joey. He chuckled when Justin paused. "Rookie mistake. Stink clings to hair."
Justin wilted. "I was out with Trace on a call. Had to go dumpster diving. Well, he's the senior officer, so I had to go dumpster diving. It was full of... we'll call it juice."
"Ewwww..." was the collective opinion of the room.
"I didn't want to get my hair wet until tomorrow, ‘cause it curls up. Jess told me to grab some dry shampoo-" The room groaned. "Alright, alright! I'll wash it tonight."
"Well, that solves the mystery of why Justin stinks."
Chris dealt the cards in a smooth, rhythmic motion. Everyone picked up their hand and shuffled the cards around, trying to put on a poker face. "Why isn't Joey okay?"
"You want me to tell it?" JC asked, obviously eager to share the story.
Joey shrugged, frowning.
"I'll tell it." JC put his cards down, because in true Chasez fashion, he needed both of his hands to tell a story. "So, we're downtown getting lunch at Fratelli's, cause Joe doesn't get enough pasta at his mom's every Sunday. We get a call for an elderly gentleman wandering Orange Ave."
"Dispatch said he was possibly nude and not all there," added Joey.
JC stopped to giggle, fortified himself with a drink, then went on with his story. "This one," he said, pointing to Joey, "wants to cut lunch short so he can go gawk at the naked guy. So we head over and the rumors are true- he's not wearing a single thing but a pair of Timberland boots and a smile. Just shakin' shit around."
"Gives a whole new meaning to thug appeal." Chris grinned, fanning out his cards. "So uh... you know what I'm gonna ask, Fatone."
"What everyone's gonna ask," said Justin.
Joey was uncharacteristically quiet, though a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"Come on, grump ass. We gotta know," goaded Lance. "Was he uh... was it worth missing Fratelli's?"
"First of all, are we playing poker or bullshittin'?" Joey frowned, but it wasn't holding. "Second of all, there's no such thing as missing Fratelli's. You get it to go. And third..."
Joey snatched up his cards and fanned them out. "Guy was hung like a horse!" Joey shouted, grinning wide to howls of laughter around the room. "Didn't know they made ‘em that big, and I've seen Chasez!"
"That's the Fatone I know and love," said JC, rearranging his cards. "What's the opening bet?"
