Some Assembly Required (19 page)

Benji had assumed Patrick would be the kind of guy who talked all the way through a movie, critiquing the acting and special effects or making predictions about what was going to happen next. And maybe he was that kind of guy—Benji would be amazed if he wasn’t, because being a bit of an asshole just seemed to be part of Patrick’s DNA—but Patrick didn’t utter a word through the entire movie.

Patrick gasped when Thanos made his brief appearance in the first end credits, his excitement dancing across his face like a five-year-old at Christmas. He watched with rapt attention, like he was trying to memorize every cast and crew member’s name, and then cracked up when the battle-weary team went for shawarma. He didn’t let Benji speak at all until the entire thing ended and the Netflix menu came up.

“Let’s watch it again.”

That wasn’t exactly what Benji had envisioned Patrick saying to him at the end of their first official date. He’d kind of hoped Patrick would be overcome with emotion and throw himself into Benji’s arms, cursing himself for wasting so much of their time together by running away.

And while any excuse to spend time with Patrick was a good one, even if it didn’t involve Patrick emoting, Benji was dead tired.

Ha. Dead tired. Because he was tired. And dead.

Benji bit back a grin at his unintentional pun. Normally he’d share it with Patrick, but he didn’t want to break up the oddly charged mood with a bad joke.

“Tomorrow, maybe? We could have a movie marathon with the Avengers’ back stories.”

Patrick’s eyes grew comically wide. “There are more Avengers movies?”

Benji rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, yeah. There are a couple Captain America movies, and there’s the Hulk’s movie. Oh, and Thor. And Iron Man, of course. There are a bunch of those.”

Patrick held his hand out imperiously toward the laptop. “Let’s watch them now.”

Benji felt his aura flicker, which he’d learned was the ghostly equivalent of a yawn. He’d expended too much energy setting everything up, plus all the energy he’d used eating the popcorn. As much as he’d like to spend the night watching movies, he needed to sleep.

“I’m glad you liked it, but I’m beat.”

“I can fix that,” Patrick said with a heavy-lidded smirk. He slid across the table, and Benji nearly fell off the edge when Patrick wrapped his arms around him. His nose knocked against Patrick’s collarbone, and he felt a zing of energy rush through him when the soft fabric got pushed aside. Benji couldn’t help but nuzzle in closer, chasing the addictive charge.

Patrick curved around him, pressing open-mouthed kisses against Benji’s neck. “So good like this. I’d forgotten,” he muttered. “Orgasms for everyone, and then we’ll watch more movies.”

Benji tilted his head, giving Patrick better access to his neck. Then Patrick’s words sank in, and Benji reared back, actually going over the edge of the table this time. He was still tangled up in Patrick, so he brought him over as well. They landed in a painful heap on the conference room floor.

“I didn’t figure you for the sort who liked a little pain with your pleasure,” Patrick muttered as he sat up and examined the rapidly healing rug burn on his elbow.

Benji licked at his lip where he’d bitten it in the fall and grimaced when he tasted blood. So much for the hope that he’d find the grace and coordination in death that he hadn’t had in life.

“I’m not averse to it, but only with prior consent,” he said, rubbing his jaw. He tested the sore spot on his lip again and was surprised to find it healed. The lingering taste of blood and the tenderness of the new skin were the only evidence it had happened.

Patrick shot him a lascivious grin and stood up. Benji took the hand he offered him, not surprised in the least when Patrick used it to pull him close as soon as Benji was on his feet. “Consent is fluid,” he purred.

Maybe they’d have to screen
Fifty Shades of Grey
on one of their date nights. Though what Benji saw as a cautionary tale probably would come off as a how-to manual for someone with Patrick’s dented moral compass.

“It’s not,” he said firmly. He didn’t push Patrick away again, but he didn’t give in to Patrick’s kisses and caresses, either. “And we’re not doing anything until we hash out the parameters.”

Patrick pulled back with a choked laugh. “Are you asking me to make a sex contract?”

His eyes were creased with amusement, and Benji wanted to say screw informed consent and tackle him then and there, right on the conference room floor.

But the more logical part of him knew that Patrick was all talk. If he pushed him, Patrick would turn tail and run again, and Benji would have undone all the progress he’d made since Patrick’s last flight.

So he tamped down his libido and settled in for an uncomfortable talk. “No, I’m asking you to be in a relationship with me.” He didn’t miss the way Patrick flinched at the word, but he didn’t shut Benji down, and that was heartening. Baby steps. “And that involves knowing what you’re comfortable with and moving at a pace that we can both be happy with.”

Patrick’s exaggerated grimace was almost enough to hide the flicker of vulnerability on his face, but Benji caught it. He didn’t know what had happened to Patrick to make him so surprised by kindness and patience, but it made him want to put his fist through something. Benji had never been a violent guy, but he wanted to beat the crap out of whoever had put that furrow between Patrick’s brows and the hesitation in Patrick’s voice.

“I’d be more comfortable with you on top of me,” Patrick said, but the deflection didn’t have the same edge to it as his last one had.

“It’s a place I’d really like to be,” Benji said, grinning when Patrick’s eyes widened in surprise. “But not until I’ve earned it.”

“I’m not a quarterly bonus,” Patrick snapped. “You don’t have to earn me.”

“But I do. And it’s not you, exactly. It’s your trust. You aren’t going to really be able to let go and relax with me until you trust me, and I’m not going to push you past your comfort zone just because I’m spending my afterlife with blue balls.”

Patrick snickered and made a grab for Benji’s crotch. “Oh, I can let go with you,” he said, his tone sultry.

Benji felt himself harden under Patrick’s warm grip, and he didn’t fight it. Sparks of pleasure shot up his spine just from the limited friction. He had no doubt that when he and Patrick finally did have sex, it would be downright explosive.

“Okay,” Benji said. He dragged his fingers through Patrick’s hair, delighting in the zing of energy and arousal that resulted. “I’ll drop my pants right here and let you give me a blow job if you answer one question for me.”

Patrick flicked his heavy-lidded gaze from Benji’s tented jeans to his face. “Anything.”

Benji scraped his nails across Patrick’s scalp, gentling him like a skittish animal. He knew Patrick would probably bolt, and he was okay with that. Patrick needed to understand that Benji was serious about this. His mother had been fond of the saying about breaking a few eggs to make an omelet, and he was about to upend the whole carton.

He stroked down over Patrick’s neck, lightly caressing the soft skin and short hairs with the pads of his fingers. Patrick’s gaze was glazed over, and Benji took a minute to appreciate that before bringing everything crashing down. That was probably what Patrick looked like when he was fucked out, and Benji sincerely hoped he’d get a chance to confirm that at some point.

But first, the omelet.

He took a breath.

“Who’s Alec?”

The question hit Patrick like a silenced hollow-point to the back of the head. Quiet, unexpected, momentarily confusing, and painless. Patrick rumbled, holding Benji in hand, eager to find out if it was true that it was always the quiet ones who were the most filthy.

“Wait, wait,” Benji said in a half-moan, trying to back away.

Patrick planted another hot kiss on Benji’s neck, savoring the contact of skin on skin, aura on aura, and most of all, the salt of sweat of another human, his own hardness rising to the occasion. He had carefully orchestrated plans to lay Benji out in his MILAN and claim ownership over every inch of him, but the conference room would do in a pinch.

“Patrick, I said wait.” Benji pressed his palms flat to Patrick’s chest and eased him away.

He blinked, confused. “Wait, what? We’re burning daylight here.”

Benji knitted his brows in that adorable way, but his stern expression wasn’t as cute. “I asked you a question.”

Turning away, Patrick snorted dismissively. He scratched at the back of his neck, his hardness going limp with every passing second. “You said you were tired, right?”

Benji shook his head. “That’s not what I asked.”

Patrick nodded. “Yeah, anyway, I’m zonked. Big day tomorrow.” He maintained his even expression. It was a piss-poor way of changing the subject, but he would march barefoot across miles of broken glass to avoid it.

“Hey,” Benji snapped, clasping a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “If we’re doing this, there’s no secrets.”

Patrick shrugged him off and headed for the door. “Look, it’s going to be packed tomorrow. We should get some rest.”

“Why won’t you tell me?” Benji called after him. “Who’s Alec?”

The name slammed into Patrick’s gut. Benji might as well have kicked him while he was down. He didn’t answer as he took three steps beyond the threshold and then teleported to the only place safe enough from prying eyes.

His feet hit the floor in the darkened warehouse, and he made a beeline for Scratch and Dent. It was the last place that exclusively belonged to him. Benji had taken over as steward of wayward children, but Patrick found solace among the misfit furniture corralled in Scratch and Dent.

He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the last pleasant shocks of aura exchange. Except there was nothing pleasant about it. Things were going well. Benji was ready and willing, and Patrick was ready to show Benji what it was like to fuck in a crowded CASA when no one could see them. But not physically. He shivered, remembering the feel of Benji’s hands on him. He was no stranger to aura fucking, but the real deal? The real
human
deal? That was a different animal. Especially the emotional intimacy that came with it.

When it came to openness and expressing… feelings, that wasn’t Patrick’s scene. And he’d been a fuckwit to think Benji would be okay with keeping it casual. It could have been a utopia of opportunistic blow jobs and fucking in inappropriate places. But, alas.

Benji wanted honesty. Who the hell wanted honesty anymore?

What the fuck are you doing?
Patrick cursed himself as he wandered aimlessly through the expansive scratch and dent department.
What the fuck are you doing?

The ENZA bookcase was a pathetic sight: white veneer peeled off it in long thin strips like a weeping wound. Patrick stubbornly set his jaw and cracked his knuckles. He cupped his hands in front of his mouth, puffing a breath into them. Wisps of blue light trailed from his fingertips and danced down his knuckles, dripping like condensed vapor. He reached out, smoothing his fingertips over the wounded bookcase.

Wounded? Was that what he was calling it?

Patrick slowly mended the scratches with his caring hand, brushing in long strokes against the jagged strips.

He had never taught Benji how to mend, and in that moment, he resolved he never would. Mending took more energy than anger, but instead of sickness, it left tranquility behind.

Tranquility. Heh. Patrick hadn’t known such a concept in… years? Could it have been years? Just how long had he been in CASA, anyway? He tracked to fifteen years. He was certain of fifteen years. He had his markers, his hard data. How many times the robins came to make the nest on the café windowsill. How many times the advertising changed over for the different holidays. How many times customers came in with shorts and flip-flops, sweating from the hot summer sun, and then in coats and scarves, shivering from the cold.

How much hard data had he kept track of since Benji? He shook his head, searching for the details. He knew he’d seen the robins. He had to.

“How many times?” he muttered under his breath. “How many times?”

He tried counting off on his fingers and only reached two. That wasn’t right. He counted again.

Was it three? Four?

He’d lost track. Patrick never lost track.

There were rules. He prided himself on those rules as much as Karin and Agnes gave him shit about them.

The first rule was everything was temporary, but not him. Because CASA was a bitch like that.

Second rule was never under any circumstances get attached. If rule two ever needed clarification, he was to see rule one.

He’d gotten attached. Again.

Patrick took a long slow breath and pulled away from the ENZA bookcase, admiring his work. He ran his fingers over the edges and frowned at the dullness.

“You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?” he asked the bookcase. “You’ll get to leave someday.” He patted the piece of furniture like a child. “Someday.”

He turned away, contemplating the darkness of the warehouse. Benji was around here somewhere. Moping at Karin, or whining at Agnes. Or worse, conspiring with them for another scheme.

“Movie night.” He snorted in derision and then teleported to the top of a stack of torn boxes. He crouched like a gargoyle looking for his next victim.

Why did he have to ask? Benji opened his mouth, and there came the name, and the question Patrick never wanted to answer.

“Who’s Alec?” Such a simple innocent question had turned a potential night of hard-won fucking into rolling in Gloom shit. The name poisoned Benji’s lips and made Patrick’s dick limp in less than three seconds.

Patrick slid down the stack of boxes. His new patient caught his eye: poor hapless string of TURIN lights with four shattered bulbs. He cradled the lights, feeling along the plastic covered wires. His fingers grew cold as he sent the mending currents through the cord.

Mending. Feh. What a joke.

“Excuse me…?” A young woman spoke up from the entryway.