The Best Man: Part One (6 page)

“None of that makes any difference,” Connor says. “I didn’t buy the place so you could give half of it away. Now if he wanted to make an
investment
…”

“He doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“Then he doesn’t get to own any of it.” Connor’s tone indicates that’s the end of the matter, shutting Noah down as if what he thinks has no relevance.

The coffee house might have Noah’s name above the door, but it sits firmly in the palm of Connor’s hand.

“Not everything has to be so cold in business.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning sometimes you can make exceptions,” Noah says. “He hasn’t put any money into the shop but without him the place wouldn’t be a success. All I do is prepare food.”

It’s painful, admitting it out loud. It’s his one talent in life, and still it serves him no real purpose.

“And that’s all you should keep doing.” Connor rolls onto his side to face Noah, lifts a hand to smooth over Noah’s cheek. He knows he’s won the argument, and it’s made the tension ease out of him. “You stick to food,” he says, smiling, running his thumb along Noah’s bottom lip. “I’ll take care of business. Okay?”

Noah gets out of bed later, his mind too busy to let him rest. He tiptoes away from a sleeping Connor and slips on a T-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms, goes out to the living room and puts the telly on, volume low.

He doesn’t want to think anymore; he just wants a distraction.

When Patrick comes in, quietly shutting the front door behind himself, Noah is half dozing on the couch, curled up in the corner with his head on the armrest. He watches through heavy-lidded eyes as Patrick removes his coat, puts his keys on the breakfast bar.

“Where have you been?”

Patrick shoots him a blank look, and Noah realises he sounds like a nagging wife.

“Sorry, none of my business.”

Patrick gives him a sardonic smile before collapsing onto the other end of the couch, propping his feet up on the table with a sigh. “What are you watching?”

Noah’s curled up on the couch in such a way that his toes are brushing against Patrick’s thigh. It’s a weird sort of contact, and he can’t seem to stop focusing on it.

“Come Dine With Me.”

“It’s on at this time?” Patrick asks, eyebrow raised. He’s shrouded in darkness. Noah hasn’t bothered to put any lights on, so the only illumination is the telly flickering across the angles of Patrick’s face. The cut of shadow and light gives him an enigmatic appeal and Noah wishes he knows what it is about this man that makes him so beautiful to him, wonders if everyone else sees it.

It takes him a moment to realise Patrick’s waiting for an answer. “It’s always on,” he says, huffing a laugh.

Patrick looks at him, catches Noah staring. Noah doesn’t blush, doesn’t hurry to look away. It’s like the blanket of night gives him permission to look for a little longer.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Not tired.” His eyes flick back to the telly, but he can feel Patrick’s attention on him, warms under the intensity of it. Every time Patrick looks at him, it feels like a physical caress. “What?” he says, because he wants Patrick to know that he knows, that he can feel it. He’s not unaffected.

Patrick waits for him to glance over again before answering. “Nothing.” His voice barely has any sound to it.

A minute later, when Noah expects him to go to bed, Patrick gets comfortable. Slouches down further on the couch, folds his arms over his chest, rests his head back, and together they watch this random episode of Come Dine With Me without comment, and then the next one, until Patrick’s half slumped to the side and Noah’s toes have wedged their way beneath the warmth of Patrick’s thigh and the next thing he knows he’s waking up to sunrise, alone on the couch, the television switched off.

There’s a blanket tucked over him, and the space on the couch beside him is still warm, as if only recently vacated.

* * * * *

By the time they go to the gay bar that weekend, the air has cleared between Noah and Connor, and Noah’s looking forward to a good time. There’s no point staying angry with Connor; Noah’s confident he can get him to change his mind over time, because he’s a generous man, and he’s already given Noah so much, and when it comes down to it Noah knows that Connor just wants to make him happy, like Patrick said. And maybe on some things he just needs more time to realise that what makes sense for him doesn’t always make sense for Noah, or for the relationship.

It’s just time, is all. And they’ll have plenty of that.

Patrick and Connor are ready to go before Noah’s even made it home from work and he comes in to the apartment to find them half cut already, taking full advantage of the liquor cupboard Connor keeps in the living room. They’re sat on the couch drinking from crystal tumblers and they both look relaxed and handsome in their clubbing finery. Patrick’s gone for black jeans and a dark grey long-sleeved top, the vee dipping just low enough to tempt. Noah’s eyes catch on the hint of chest hair he can see there as he passes them on to the way to the bathroom, and when he glances up, Patrick’s looking at him, following him, Connor talking his ear off and unaware.

Noah showers and dresses and styles his hair, and when he comes out, Connor presses a glass of neat vodka into his hand, tells him they’re getting a head start. Noah drinks it in one go before pouring another, sits on the couch beside Patrick while Connor goes off to find his phone and call a cab, and when left alone in the living room Patrick leans into his space and murmurs, “You look good.”

When he sees the ghost of darkness in Patrick’s eyes, he says, “You too,” and he means it, wants Patrick to know he means it.

Patrick doesn’t look drunk yet but he doesn’t look entirely sober either, and Noah downs his second glass with Patrick’s eyes on him, watching him swallow, the roll of his throat.

Alcohol does funny things to Patrick, loosens the binds. It sends a buzz through Noah’s veins.

They pile into a cab and head to the club, and of course Connor knows the guy on the door so they don’t have to wait in line. Inside it’s packed and too hot and as they try to make their way across the dance floor to the bar, Noah loses them, finds himself alone and squashed within a group of intoxicated women. He breaks away from them, squeezing through a gap, too distracted by the elbows and knees jabbing him to pay attention to the slaughtered man jerking around behind him. The man slams into his back all of a sudden and the breath knocks out of him, makes him stumble, knocking against a tall, dark-haired man whose drink abruptly spills over onto his shirt and the crotch of his jeans.

“Sorry,” Noah shouts, but the man is furious, and he doesn’t care about Noah’s apology.

“Look what you’ve done, you fucking—” His face is reddening with rage, and he lurches forward into Noah’s space with a hand raised, finger pointing, alcohol-drenched breath leaking into Noah’s senses and turning his stomach.

“I said I was sorry, didn’t I?” Noah yells, gets his hands planted on the guy’s chest to try to shove him away. “Back off.”

“Don’t fucking tell me to back off—”

The guy’s suddenly propelled backwards, his face a picture of terrified shock as he loses his equilibrium.

Patrick’s got his hand fisted in the back of the guy’s shirt, and his expression speaks of danger as he pulls the guy around and up to growl into his face.

“Hey,” he says, and he doesn’t need to shout to be heard. He’s so close to the guy’s face that they’re practically kissing. “Apologise to the man.”

“He’s the one who bumped into me!”

“And I’m the one telling you to apologise.” His eyes are glinting with warning, and Noah’s breathless. The power radiating from Patrick in this moment is making him burn hot all over. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

The guy seems to know when to cut his losses. He grimaces at Patrick before turning his head to look at Noah. “I’m sorry, all right? Jesus fucking—”

“Good lad.” Patrick releases him, and turns him, and gives him a hearty shove on the back to get him moving. “Now jog on.”

Noah watches Patrick calm down, the way he rolls his shoulders and smooths his fingers over his jaw, the aggression draining from his eyes as he looks at Noah, flicks his gaze down his body to check him over, see he’s all right.

There’s something very strange going on in Noah’s body after what he’s just witnessed. Half irritation that Patrick didn’t think he could handle it; half something dark and thick and electric, something like the hot flush of arousal.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, although the irritation in him is quickly fading, leaving behind a tingling thrum of tension.

“Forget it,” Patrick says. “We getting the drinks?”

Noah looks around, suddenly remembering the third element of this equation. “Where’s Connor?”

“Finding a table.”

They get beers and shots, which Patrick carries on a tray, and he says, “Hold on to me,” as they move away from the bar. “Can’t be losing you again.” Noah clings to the back of his top as they make their way through the crowds towards the table Connor’s commandeered in a corner.

They sit for half an hour, watching the dancers, and Patrick goes back to the bar twice for more shots. Added to the vodka he had earlier, the shots are giving Noah a pleasant buzz already, and one look at Connor and Patrick says he’s not alone. Connor’s going red like he always does when he’s had a drink, and Patrick’s eyes are starting to glaze, and he’s sitting back loose and relaxed in his seat.

“Bit different to the places you and I used to go to, eh?” Connor says to him over the music, and Patrick nods, smiling wryly, looking around at all the young, barely dressed clubbers.

“Ever get the feeling you’re getting old?”

“Nah,” says Connor. “You’re only as old as the person you feel.” He punctuates his joke by giving Noah a grope under the table, making him laugh.

“Get off,” he scolds playfully, pushing Connor’s hand away. Patrick’s watching the exchange silently, drinks another shot. “I bet you two were always on the pull together.”

“We had a good time, yeah,” Patrick drawls while Connor grins and nods, the drunken fool. “Somehow I don’t think you’re all that innocent either.”

There’s a sultry darkness in Patrick’s tone that Noah’s sure is down to his increasing intoxication, but it makes him go warm all over anyway, as if the tone was intended for him.

“I never claimed to be,” he responds, and Patrick raises an eyebrow at him, eyes twinkling.

Noah’s suddenly itching to move, adrenaline thrumming through his veins. He gets up and stretches his back, catches Patrick’s eye drawing to the snapshot of skin his shirt exposes at his waist. “I’m going to dance.”

Connor looks up at him. “Already?”

“Yeah. You coming?”

“Maybe after another couple of these,” Connor says, holding up a shot glass.

Noah looks at Patrick, lets him read the challenge in his expression.

Patrick huffs a laugh. “I don’t dance,” he says.

“Shocker.”

Noah finds a spot on the edge of the dance floor, doesn’t stray too far from the table, wanting to keep them both in sight. The deafening music is pulsing a bass line through his body and he moves with it, uses it to guide his rhythm; he knows he’s not the world’s greatest dancer but he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a damn if he looks stupid. Dancing in a club like this, with the music swelling into every crevice of his body, is euphoric for him, and he’s half lost to it when he notices Patrick watching him. Connor’s talking away but he doesn’t appear to be paying much attention—he’s sat back in his chair, one of the strobe lights cut across his face to highlight his eyes, staring at Noah and refusing to tear his gaze away even when Noah stares right back, pushing his hands through his sweat-damp hair and parting his lips, letting his eyes fall to half-mast as he dances.

He feels like he’s dancing for him. And he doesn’t stop, doesn’t look away, ignores hands grabbing at him on occasion, people trying to encroach on his space. Doesn’t take a break until he sees Connor get up and head to the bar, goes back to the table, Patrick watching him the whole way—flips his chair around to straddle it, facing Patrick, his legs splayed wide around the chair’s back.

He’s sweating and he’s flushed and he’s heaving breaths, and Patrick’s looking at him like he’s gold dust.

“Boring, the pair of you,” Noah says, grinning.

It snaps Patrick out of his trance, makes him laugh quietly. “I’m just taking it easy.” He sits up and forward in his seat then, comes close enough to Noah’s face that he can drop his voice to a murmur. “You’ve got some…interesting…moves.” He watches Noah’s mouth as he says it, his throat.

“Shut up,” Noah says, laughing. He shoves Patrick, who shoves back, eyes glittering. “What does it take to get you out on the dance floor, eh?”

His eyes are tracking every bit of Noah, down his throat and to the slither of skin exposed by his collar, across his chest and lower, to the thighs spread wide around the chair. Then back up, just as slowly, and Noah’s holding his breath. “You don’t need me out there, Noah.”

Noah leans forward, presses his chest flush against the chair back, gets close enough to feel the burn of intoxication radiating from Patrick’s skin. “Maybe I want you out there,” he says, grinning playfully. “See what you’ve got.”