Clear Water (16 page)

Fly Bait had buried her face in her hands at this point, and Patrick sat down abruptly.

“I’m still hungry,” he said unhappily. “I should have eaten the last of that oatmeal.”

“Patrick?” Fly Bait said, her voice still muffled by her hands.

“Yeah?”

“If I drive to town and get you something ridiculously fattening to eat, would you do me a fucking favor?”

“Yeah, Fly Bait. Anything. I’m solid for it.”

“Uhm, would you a), believe that Whiskey is a better lover than that on his worst day, even with a cranky lesbian who never should have talked him into it, and b), never talk about this conversation again?”

Patrick shrugged. “Can it be a giant Oreo milkshake?”

“Sure.” She hadn’t taken her hands away from her face.

“Aces. I’m going up top to get the tools. I want to rip the carpet out of your room this weekend, since you’re deserting me and all.”

“Fuck you, Patrick.”

“Yeah, just don’t forget the goddamned lube.” And with that, he wandered up to the deck to talk to the fucking frogs.

He got up top of the deck and lay down on his stomach to look at Cal and Catherine. Sometimes one of them would move a back leg and the other one would try to coordinate, and that could be kind of exciting, but nine out of ten times, that whole enterprise sort of fell through. Mostly, Patrick just looked at them. They looked back and breathed. They didn’t croak, really—maybe their croaker had broken when the two of them split as tadpoles, he had no idea. But they breathed, and blinked, and that was peaceful. He could deal with that.

He was in the shade under the awning, in the almost-cool little place he’d made to keep the research frogs and tadpoles cool in the sweltering late June heat, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel Whiskey’s shadow over him or feel it when Whiskey crouched down beside him.

Patrick’s legs (Cal had called them skinny little chicken legs. Fucker!) were sticking out from his cargo shorts, and he was
not
anticipating Whiskey’s hand on the back of his thigh under the hem of his shorts.

He was laying on a hard, flat surface, and suddenly he had a hard, round erection, and he groaned and thunked his forehead on the deck in the hollow made by his arms.

“Patrick?”

“Go away.”

That hand caressed—seriously
caressed
—
the back of Patrick’s leg, and Patrick shuddered.

“Patrick, you do realize all the hatches were open to let in the cooler air, right? I was up here counting anomalous tadpoles—I heard everything you said.”

Oh, fuck!

“’Kay. Change of plan. Kill me first.
Then
go away.”

He heard that soft exhalation that meant that Whiskey was smiling. Not really laughing, but breathing with a smile. “I’ll leave you alone in a minute, but first, can I say something?”

That hand was cupping the back of his thigh, and the thumb attached to it was tracing the edge of Patrick’s boxer-briefs. Patrick made a whimpering sound that must have counted as a “go ahead,” and bucked his hips, and the hand continued to torture him sweetly.

“I would never do any of those things to
any
lover, okay? I get tested every six months, and I wear a condom unless I’m in a long-term relationship with someone who
also
tests negative regularly. And I’ve never cheated on a lover, and it’s not good for me unless it’s good for them. So if that’s what all of this is about, then maybe you could trust me on this part, you think?”

Patrick sighed and started to respond rather shamelessly to Whiskey’s hand, which was now cupping his ass through his underwear.

“You’re so nice to me,” he said after a few quiet moments in the sunshine. “You’re so nice to me, and I like you so much. I couldn’t stand it if sex made things different. How could I look at you like the good guy if you… I don’t know… play games and… do that other shit.” He couldn’t say those things to Whiskey—not like he had to Fly Bait. When he had unloaded on Fly Bait, it felt like he was simply venting. Telling Whiskey, it felt like an accusation, and that was wrong, because Whiskey had never treated him anything but decent.

That hand moved out from Patrick’s shorts and then moved up to stroke the soft skin at the small of Patrick’s back. “Patrick, you think I’m a good guy. Do you think I’d put that in jeopardy by being a selfish bastard in pursuit of a one-off? Haven’t I earned
any
trust in the last three and a half weeks?”

Oh, that hand. It was really sinful—it moved down his spine, and then up to his shoulders, and then it rubbed his neck under his rucked-up T-shirt. Patrick started to wiggle a little, right there on the deck, under the awning, with the frogs.

“Three weeks isn’t a really long time,” Patrick mumbled, but his body was making a liar out of him with every smooth stroke along his shoulders. “I mean, I’m barely through my bottle of pills—”

That hand stopped and moved away. “How many do you have left?”

“Five. I was going to ask you if I could call in the prescription, but then I have to go in and fetch it myself, because there’s this whole big thing because everybody wants to just hype the fuck up on Ritalin, and they’re sort of a controlled substance, you know?”

Patrick pulled up to his knees and then turned around and sat on his bottom, pulling one leg up to his chest. He looked at Whiskey earnestly, and Whiskey nodded in that way he had—the one that said he was surprised but not shocked and that he could deal with that.

“No worries. Maybe we can do that this weekend, since Fly Bait is going to be gone. We’ll call it in, then go into town and pick it up. Maybe have dinner at a place that requires shoes or see a movie or something.”

Patrick flushed. “Like a date?”

Whiskey smiled a little and nodded. “Yeah. Sort of exactly like a date. And then we’ll come back here in the dark, and maybe, you’ll let me kiss you again. But this time, I won’t be seriously fucking pissed off, and it’ll be gentle. And sweet. And maybe you’ll kiss me back.”

Patrick looked at him, feeling like his eyes were growing wider with every word. “What if I don’t? Can’t? Am really bad at it?”

Whiskey raised a hand and cupped Patrick’s cheek. Patrick leaned into the touch and gave a little wiggle of happiness when a tanned, bony thumb stroked his cheekbone. “How about you just let me kiss you, and we see what happens next. Like I said, Patrick, I like the way you look at me. Like I’m a good guy. That’s important to me. Do you really think I’m going to do anything to fuck that up?”

Patrick rested his chin on his knee. “It’s that important to you?”

“It’s more important than frogs, even.”

Patrick glanced behind him to where Cal and Catherine and Courtney and Christopher and Conrad and Chastity all sat in their tub and breathed.

“God, I hope it’s at least more interesting!” he commented sourly, and was relieved when Whiskey’s eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Hell yeah.” Whiskey leaned forward then, and Patrick closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the inevitable and was surprised when their lips just brushed, barely brushed, and Patrick whimpered and opened his eyes.

“So, Patrick. Do you trust me to go out on a date with me? I promise, baby—I won’t do you wrong.”

Patrick nodded, and then Whiskey went the final distance, pressing his lips against Patrick’s, and Patrick opened his mouth and let him in. And he tasted wonderful, and his tongue swept in and tangled around, and Patrick just wanted to swallow him whole.

Whiskey backed up a little and grinned. “Do you want to help me with the science stuff?” he asked, and Patrick blinked and tried to control his heart rate, which was skyrocketing.

“I was gonna… you know, the carpet? It’s tacky. It really sucks. I was gonna rip that out, you think?”

Whiskey shook his head and crinkled his eyes. “Come help me do science shit. It’ll be fun working together. We can start the carpet next week, okay?”

God, it really
was
fun working with Whiskey. No yelling, no disapproval, just lots of “Thank you, Patrick” and “You’re right, Patrick—I didn’t see that!” All the shit that made Patrick feel good, and being not stupid and able to help Whiskey with something useful—
that
was what turned Patrick on.

Patrick nodded, close to him, smelling Whiskey and river and sweat. “Maybe we can go swimming afterward,” he said hopefully, but Whiskey shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Swimming? Are you kidding? We’re going to take showers and put on shirts and jeans without holes and, you know, dress up like guys going out on a date. We can swim at night, if you like.”

“Here?” He didn’t even know if the houseboat could go out at night.

“We’ll take it out after we get back. It’ll be nice, Patrick.” Whiskey’s mouth pulled up at the side. “Almost romantic, even. You game?”

God, yes. Yes. I’m game for anything you suggest. I’m pudding with a boner, but even worse, I’m stupid pudding with a boner, because I know how many ways this can go south and I know how bad a lover can make you feel and still, all I want is you.

“Yeah,” he said blithely. Because after all, what was one more failed relationship if this didn’t pan out? “I’m game.”

Whiskey smiled, and Patrick’s heart did a complete barrel roll, and half of it was panic.

What was one more failed relationship? Oh, fuck. Who was he kidding? This wasn’t “one more failed relationship.” This was
the
relationship, the one that, if it failed, would make him pretty sure he’d fucked everything up beyond repair. He had to ask—he just had to.

“Whiskey, do you really think I’m not a fuckup?”

Whiskey swallowed and placed a little butterfly kiss over Patrick’s eyebrow, and Patrick closed his eye and let him.

“I’d bet my life on it, why?”

“Because this is really fucking important, and I really don’t want to fuck this up.”

Whiskey nuzzled next to his ear, and Patrick got to smell his hair—it smelled like sun and river, and Patrick could get lost in the thick, coarse curliness of it all.

“Patrick, making love isn’t like driving a car or running a test or doing the dishes,” Whiskey said, pulling back a little. “It’s like… like a conversation. You can’t fuck up a good conversation. Even if you say something just dumbass stupid, the other person will forgive you, and you’ll keep talking. Trust me. Conversating is one of your specialties.”

Patrick felt a smile and the first stirrings of confidence. “Really? Because I
can
talk, can’t I?”

Whiskey’s smile was a little bit crooked, but still good. “Like stopping was a crime,” he confirmed.

Patrick smiled at him all moon-eyed for a minute, and then Whiskey kissed him briefly on the mouth and pulled away. He stood up and offered Patrick a hand.

“Come on—let’s get this data crunched, and that way, when Loretta comes to get Fly Bait, we can just get ready and have ourselves a weekend, what do you say?”

Patrick nodded happily and took his hand, only to find himself hauled up into Whiskey’s arms. This time, he hugged back and laid his head on Whiskey’s shoulder and everything.

It was sublime—a thousand times better than sex had ever been. He thought that maybe if having sex got him more hugs like this, it would be worth it, even if that whole “sex with me will be better!” thing didn’t pan out, and then Whiskey pulled back and lowered his head for a kiss and all thoughts ceased for a moment, even when the neighbors in the next boat got out of their boat and stared at them like they were two-headed frogs.

F
LY
B
AIT
came back with his gigantic Oreo shake and a hamburger with mushrooms and cheese on it, just like he liked ’em, and handed him his food without comment. Patrick took it from her and then watched as she scurried into her own room, and looked at Whiskey unhappily.

“Did I totally offend her?”

Whiskey looked up and then looked in the direction Fly Bait had just vanished. She’d brought him a chicken sandwich, and he bit off some, chewed, and swallowed before he answered.

“Probably not,” he said, wiping his mouth on his shoulder. “She just tries to make it a policy to keep her distance—I think she’s just discovered that she gives a shit about you, and that scares her.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows. “Hunh. Who knew?” Then he raised his voice and pitched it so she could hear it through the door. “I like you too, Fly Bait!”

“Fuck you, Patrick!”

Patrick actually heard it then—the affection Whiskey had talked about but that Patrick had thought was a myth. He smiled, took a big drink of his shake, and went back to recording Whiskey’s numbers, thinking happily of Oreos and vanilla ice cream in every bite.

Around four o’clock, Fly bait came out of her room looking very
un
-Fly Bait.

Whiskey let out a low whistle. “Verra nice!” he purred. “Verra,
verra
naheece!”

Fly Bait heard his praise and flushed. Patrick hadn’t noticed it, but she must have gotten her bird’s nest of hair trimmed when she’d gone to town, because it was cut and layered neatly around her thin, small face. She’d put on a little bit of make-up—enough to bring attention away from her freckles and put it where it belonged, on her wide hazel eyes. And she wasn’t wearing a tank top and cut-offs, either.

“Omigod!” Patrick gasped. “That’s a
dress.
A
summer
dress. It’s
pretty.
” It was too. It was green with an off-white batik sort of pattern, and it wrapped tightly around Fly Bait’s thin body, making her not
thin
exactly, but more slender
and willowy
.
She had something on her lips that made them shine softly—no color, but shiny and soft and not as grim and compressed as Patrick and Whiskey were used to.

“Fly Bait!” Patrick said in awe. “You’re
beautiful.
And that’s saying something—I don’t usually notice things with tits.”

Fly Bait looked down at her chest and blushed. “Then you should have noticed me. They’re not exactly out for show.”

Whiskey was over at her side in two seconds, engulfing her in a really big, really comfortable hug. She batted at him with her hands ineffectually but finally gave in. Patrick thought that maybe he wasn’t the only one who had problems with people being nice to them, and that made him feel strangely better.