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“We don’t have eyes, but people still wear glasses, that’s all I’m saying,” Dooley complained, stepping into the motel behind McQueen.
McQueen was tired from their crazy train trip. What was supposed to be a peaceful scenic cruise from Twin Lakes to Elttaes had turned out to be just another case.
The train had been haunted by a pack of ghost wolves (which instantly got Dooley excited) and they’d spent the trip running back and forth across the train, baiting the creatures with bones and doggy treats into their final resting places. After the train ride, they couldn’t catch a taxi in the middle of rush hour, so they had to walk seven miles to their motel room.
Seven. Miles.
Even though it was after six, it was well over 90 degrees outside. As they walked, they’d stripped off more and more layers. McQueen was down to his shoes, slacks, and the sweat-soaked dress shirt he refused to take off. He hadn’t bothered to work out lately (read: ever), so Dooley was bound to make commentary about McQueen’s average-sized biceps.
Despite all the jokes about him being lazy, Dooley must have worked out on the regular. The muscle definition in his chest, shoulders, arms, and even his thighs made McQueen want to throw his trench coat right back on.
Pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind, McQueen looked over the motel room.
To say it was small was a lie. It was minuscule. On the left, all within arm’s reach, were a TV on a table and a microwave, and a coffee maker on top of that. Every appliance looked like it was from the 70s, or earlier, with chunky buttons and a suspicious amount of duct tape.
Under the table was a rusty air conditioning unit. McQueen eagerly pressed the start button and the machine wheezed to life, spitting out a puff of dust as it stirred the hot air in the room.
Now at least they had a chance of sleeping. Assuming that the bed wasn’t as terrible-looking as the rest of the room.
McQueen glanced over at it. From the back wall, to about a foot from the kitchenette-table-entertainment center, to close enough that the door couldn’t open all the way, sat a Queen-sized bed. The covers were haphazardly rolled to the bottom third of the bed, leaving the slightly off-white lumpy mattress exposed.
To top it all off, the only window on the back wall was so covered in graffiti from the outside that it vaguely looked like stained glass. A stained glass painting of a long, way-too-detailed di—
“Dude.”
McQueen turned, careful not to bump his elbow on the microwave beside him. Instead, his suitcase clunked it loudly. He stared at Dooley, who had somehow shuffled into the room enough to close the door behind him.
“What?”
“Dude, there’s only one bed,” Dooley pointed out, dropping his duffel just inside the door. With a wry grin, he gave McQueen a knowing look.
McQueen groaned, laying his beloved coat and tie over the coffee pot. Surely that wasn’t a fire hazard…
“It’s fine. We’re only here for one night anyway, then we’re meeting with Rosco McGuffin in the morning about the vampire rats in his spa resort.”
“McGuffin. Do you think he’s Irish? What kind of spa resort would Irish people have? I’ll bet they have rainy outdoor pools.”
Ignoring his best friend, McQueen crab-walked his way around to the foot of the bed. Somehow, he had to peel off his sweaty clothes without taking off his boxers. How was he supposed to get dressed in any sort of privacy—
His mind went blank as Dooley stripped, leaving his clothes under his feet. Unbothered, he climbed into the bed in a pair of tiny, silky, black briefs.
Oh. Sweet. Lord.
McQueen shuffled his feet to turn toward the TV, bumping the toes of his shoes on the bottom of the bed as he did. Unbuttoning his shirt, he tried to wrangle his tired mind to think about anything but Dooley’s practically naked, Greek-statue-like body.
With far too much squirming and muttering, McQueen managed to get his pants down around his ankles after peeling his shirt off. Glancing down at his shoes, he opted to perch on the end of the bed to take them off.
“Dude!”
Oh, here it came. The jokes of noodle arms and McQueen’s pasty whiteness. He turned to frown at Dooley and stopped dead. His buddy was sprawled out, one leg propped up and his pillow stuffed behind him. McQueen stared, his gaze traveling down the line between Dooley’s pecs to the edge of his briefs.
Gulp.
“They've got that new Ubernormal show.”
McQueen took a breath as he realized that Dooley had the remote in one hand, grateful that his buddy was oblivious to his obvious gawking. The room had already felt like an oven; now it felt like a sweat lodge.
“Dooley, w-we should just go to sleep. We need to be up at dawn to go see McGuffin.”
“It’s the Werecarp episode!”
Hearing the excitement in Dooley’s voice, McQueen gave up and crawled his way up the bed. He could sleep with the TV on. It would be much worse if it was quiet because his heart was still thudding loudly in his chest.
Squishing himself against the wall of the motel, he deflated. How long could he keep this secret to himself? His crush on his best friend was getting out of hand. Grasping behind him blindly, he grabbed a handful of bedsheets and pulled them over himself. Instantly, he tossed it back off. No, it was way too hot for that.
The cheesy dialogue on the TV and the groany sounds from the AC both abruptly cut out, and McQueen heard Dooley sigh.
“Aw, man. The power cut.”
“Just go to sleep,” McQueen insisted, huddling against the back wall.
The bed creaked loudly as Dooley shifted. Then shifted again. He finally stopped, his foot landing against the back of McQueen’s leg.
McQueen adjusted further against the wall, but Dooley adjusted too, and McQueen could feel as he exhaled behind him.
No, just go to sleep, he thought. Don’t think about it.
“It’s too hot in here. Let’s open the window.”
Before McQueen could comprehend what had been said, Dooley was leaning over him, his muscular thighs pressing against McQueen’s butt in the process. The detective panicked, slapping both hands on Dooley’s chest to push him back.
“Let me do it!”
McQueen sat up, slamming his back against the motel room wall.
“I got it,” Dooley insisted, abruptly standing up to reach the window latch. McQueen was captured between the wall, Dooley’s glistening legs, and the pair of black briefs his buddy wore, which were now at eye level.
McQueen felt a droplet of sweat run down his face.
The window opened with a ripping sound, leaving a stray piece of flapping duct tape above McQueen’s head as Dooley flopped back onto his pillow.
“Night,” Dooley said brightly.
McQueen sat against the wall, panting in the silence of the room.
“G-goodnight, Dooley.”