Fifty shades of Beaumont // Randy

Chapter 7

'Oh Andy Fowler, what am I going to do with you?'

Chapter seven: breakfast
Andy's point of view.

It's very quiet. The light is muted. I am comfortable and warm, in this bed. Hmmm... I open my eyes, and for a moment I'm enjoining the strange unfamiliar surroundings. I have no idea where I am. The headboard behind me is in a shape of a massive sun. It's oddly familiar. The room is large and airy and furnished in browns and gold and beige. I have seen it before.
Holy crap!
I'm in Beaumont's home. How did I get here? Memories of the previous night come slowly back to haunt me. The drinking, oh no the drinking. The phone call, the vomiting, Mikey and Ryan. Oh no. I cringe at the thought. I don't remember coming here. I'm wearing my shirt and underwear. No socks, no jeans, oh shit!
I glance at the bedside table. On it is a glass of water and two tablets. Advil. Control freak that he is, he thinks of everything. I sit up and take the tablets. Actually, I don't feel that bad. Probably much better than I deserve.

There's a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I can't seem to find my voice. He opens the door anyways and strolls in.
Holly hell, he's been working out. He's in grey sweat pants that hang, in that way, of his hips and black tshirt. Which is dark with his sweat, just like his hear. Ryan Beaumont's sweat, the notion does odd things to me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel like a two-year old, if I close my eyes I'm not really there.

"Good morning Andy, how are you feeling?" Oh no.

"Better than I deserve." I mumble. I peek up at him. He places a large shopping bag on the chair and grasps each end of the towel that he has around his neck. He's staring at me, brown dark eyes, and as usual, I have no idea what he's thinking. He hides his thoughts and feelings so well.

"How did I get here?" My voice is small and soft. He comes and sits down on the edge of the bed. He's close enough for me to touch, for me to smell. Oh my... sweat and body wash and Ryan.

"After you passed out, I didn't want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you all the way to your appartment. So I brought you here." He says.

"Did you put me to bed?" I ask.

"Yes." His face is impassive.

"Did I throw up again?" My voice is quieter.

"No."

"Did you undress me?" I whisper.

"Yes." He quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furious.

"We didn't," I whisper, my mouth drying in mortified horror as I can't complete the question. I stare at my hands.

"Andy, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my man sentient and receptive." He says dryly.

"I'm so sorry." I whisper as his mouth lift slightly in a smile.

"It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I'll forget in a while." Me neither - oh he's laughing at me, the bastard. I didn't ask him to come and get me.

"You didn't had to track me down with whatever James Bond stuff you're developing for the highest bidder." I snap at him. He stares at me, surprised, and if I'm not mistaken, a little wounded.

"Firstly, the technology to track cell phones is available over the internet. Secondly, my company does not invest or manufacture any kind of surveillance devices, and thirdly, if I hadn't come to get you, you'd probably be waking up in the photographer's bed, and from what I can remember, you weren't overly enthused about him pressing his suit." He says acidly,