The Best Man: Part Three (FINAL) (5 page)

“I know,” Patrick murmurs before going in for a deep, hungry kiss this time, stealing Noah’s breath from his lungs. When he’s finished, he pulls back and steps away and holds out his hand, his eyes dark and wanting. “You coming?”

Noah swallows away the guilt that’s making him feel empty. Lets the look in Patrick’s eyes fill the emptiness, the way he’s just torn him apart at the seams and stitched him back together.

He takes Patrick’s hand, and he follows him to bed.

This time it’s slow. The urgency of before is gone, although the desperation for each other is still there. Patrick strips him of his remaining clothes, then removes his own, and they crawl into bed together, naked and kissing and clinging on.

They do nothing but kiss for so long that Noah’s head swims with it, lost in this ocean of intimacy and the terrifying rise of emotion. He’s feeling things he never expected, feels like he’s being worshiped while Patrick kisses him and feels him and doesn’t rush to fuck him, content to lay here and learn each other, the rise and valley of each other’s bodies, the curve of muscle and the edge of bone, the taste of tongue and lips and the breathy sighs of pleasure. Patrick drags his hand through Noah’s hair and over his jaw and down his side and his thigh, pulls him in so they’re close, pressed together, a connection so intense Noah can’t breathe and Patrick soothes him, kisses his cheeks and his eyelids and his brows, trails fingers over his tummy and his chest, glides a thumb over his collarbone.

He retrieves lube and a condom from the bedside drawer and he kisses Noah through the sensation of pushing lube into his hole, working him open again, stretching him with one finger, and then two, catching his prostate this time, as if pressing apology into him for purposely avoiding it earlier, sucking kisses into Noah’s jaw as Noah arches up into the pleasure of it. Then he sits up and watches with what can only be described as pure adoration in his eyes as Noah rolls the condom on for him, getting his hands on Patrick’s dick for the first time, stroking it and wringing pleasure from it and the adoration in Patrick’s eyes turns to hunger. He presses Noah back down on the bed and settles between his thighs, Noah lifting his legs and wrapping them around his back, and then Patrick lifts Noah’s arms above his head and pins both wrists to the pillow with one hand, uses his other to guide his dick to Noah’s hole, pushes in, one long thrust that has them both groaning.

Noah stares up into Patrick’s eyes as their hips start rocking together, and then Patrick dips down to kiss him, and their matching rhythm builds a wave of bliss within Noah that has him breathing into Patrick’s mouth, their lips slack together. Patrick releases his wrists and hooks both hands under Noah’s shoulders, pulls him in close, Noah clinging to Patrick’s back and holding on as the rhythm picks up pace and Patrick’s fucking into him now only it doesn’t feel like fucking—it’s purer than that, deeper, the emotion of it hitting Noah in the chest and making Patrick bury his face in Noah’s neck.

They come together in a shuddering, burning rush of rapture that has them pressing and clinging close, breathing into each other’s skin, not the moment for screaming and shouting, the carnal release of fucking. This is different, this is a higher breed of bliss, this is two men dragging pleasure from each other’s bodies and saturating with it.

They kiss for a long time when it’s over, and when Patrick lifts his face away, his eyes are dark and warm and seeing nothing but Noah, so many emotions swirling within them that Noah doesn’t know how much of it is real, how much of it is the reflection of his own feelings.

He lifts a hand and trails fingers over Patrick’s brow, whispers, “Everything’s so messed up.”

“For now,” Patrick murmurs, then he turns his face to the palm Noah places on his cheek, kisses the skin there, nuzzles into it. “Things will work out in the end.” He kisses Noah again, presses emotion into his mouth, then he rests his forehead against Noah’s and tightens his arms around him, closes his eyes.

“You’re not marrying him, Noah,” he says

And all Noah can think to say, the only thing that makes sense, is: “I know.”

* * * * *

Noah wakes up to a warm body wrapped all around him and he smiles without opening his eyes, snuggles in further, sighs in contentment as those arms tighten around him, pull him close.

Then he hears a shift of movement that doesn’t come from the bed, and he opens his eyes, a sudden spike of dread piercing through his chest and sending shockwaves of panic throughout his entire body.

Connor’s standing in the room, at the foot of the bed. His eyes as he gazes down at them both are staggeringly dead and empty.

“Connor—”

Connor turns and walks away, says nothing, and in Noah’s haste to get out of bed he elbows Patrick in the chest, makes him grunt and sit up with a groan.

Noah doesn’t care about any pain Patrick might be in. He’s yanking on his tracksuit bottoms, grabs some random t-shirt off the chair in the corner of Patrick’s room, calls, “Connor, wait! Shit!” as Patrick looks around in confusion, trying to figure out what the fuck’s going on.

“He was here,” Noah explains, his tone hollow. “He saw us.”

All the colour in Patrick’s face washes away in an instant and he’s immediately climbing out of bed, naked and sleep-soft and representing everything that’s wrong with this situation.

“I’ll go.”

“No,” Noah says firmly. “I’ll go. This is my mess.” He tugs on the t-shirt and heads out of the room, Patrick calling after him.

It doesn’t take Noah long to find Connor. This park is where he always comes when he needs a bit of peace, a moment to think. He’s sat on the bench, his elbows on his knees, staring out at nothing until he hears Noah’s arrival, and then he looks over at him, his eyes flashing with fury.

Noah’s glad for it. Anything’s better than that emptiness of before.

“Walk away from me, Noah.”

“No,” Noah says quietly. He doesn’t try to sit. “We need to talk.”

Connor looks at him with disgust. “Have you even showered? Or are you still covered in
him
?”

It makes Noah swallow with shame. Not only is he covered in the evidence of his time with Patrick, he’s also wearing Patrick’s clothes. He couldn’t be less sensitive if he tried. His face burns.

“I’m sorry.”

Connor huffs a bitter laugh, looks down at the ground, shakes his head. “How long’s it been going on for?” he asks. “How long have you been fucking him in our home?”

“I haven’t. I just. It was just last night.” He takes another step closer. “We—there was an argument, and we got carried away.” He wants to say it didn’t mean anything, but he doesn’t want to lie, not now.

There’s a pause before Connor speaks again. “It didn’t just come out of nowhere, though, did it? You don’t just randomly decide to fuck your fiancé’s best friend.” His voice is harsh, vicious, cutting into Noah like a blade.

Noah thinks about walking away from it, but he doesn’t deserve to. “No,” he admits. “I don’t know what to say.”

“The truth would be good,” Connor says, looking up at him, the fury in his eyes so intense it almost smothers the hint of plea Noah can read in his tone.

“Things have been…developing for a while.” Noah wrings his hands together, crouches down in front of Connor, a metre or so away from him. Doesn’t think Connor could handle him taking a seat beside him. “I’m attracted to him,” he says quietly, looking down at Connor’s feet so he doesn’t have to see the reaction those words cause. “I shouldn’t be, but—I can’t help it.”

“Everyone’s attracted to him,” Connor spits. “He’s Patrick fucking Walsh. But they don’t all fall into bed with him two days before their wedding to someone else, so you’re gonna have to do better than that.”

Noah nods, takes a breath, tries to find some courage, the strength he needs to say this out loud.

“I have feelings for him.”

“What?” Connor’s blindsided by it. For all his talk of everyone’s attraction to Patrick, the idea that Noah’s connection with him could go further than that seems to have surprised the anger out of him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Feelings as in…love?” He looks incredulous, face pulled into a grimace of disbelief. “Do you love him?”

“I…” There’s a rush of something hot within Noah now at Connor’s direct question, a panic that has nothing to do with this confrontation. “I’m just really confused right now. My head’s a mess.”

“You’re an idiot, Noah,” Connor says after a moment. Noah’s not sure if he’s imagining the edge of pity in his tone. “Do you honestly think he’s ever going to love you back? The man doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

It rings true within Noah, and he thinks back to his earlier conversations with Patrick, his absolute certainty that love is for fools.

“You’re not the first, you know,” Connor continues, almost viciously. “He’s had a few boys like you over the years. Gets close to them, makes them fall for him. Then he gets bored, and he throws them away. Just like he’ll do to you.”

He pauses to let this sink in, and Noah can do nothing but swallow away the rising bile in his throat.

“I’ve given you everything. I’ve given you a home, a business—I’m even putting your goddamn best friend through college. What more do I need to do?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles vaguely. He’s barely even listening to him now. His head’s swimming, his system rocked by the truth of Connor’s words. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do with this information, with what Connor’s words are doing to his chest, his heart. “I was never after your money, Connor.”

“What’s he promised you?” Connor asks. “Not a fucking thing. He’s already half packed to go to America. Already one foot out the door. And you’re throwing all of this away for
that
?”

Noah wants to be sick, nausea filling his throat, churning his stomach. There’s too much conflict in his head, a battle of emotions his frayed nerves can’t cope with right now. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits, and the words taste like acid in his mouth.

Connor sighs. “Well you need to figure it out,” he says. “Because if you leave me standing up there in front of all those people tomorrow—”

Noah looks up at him sharply, surprise numbing the turmoil of Patrick. “You still want to marry me?”

Connor considers him, projecting nothing even close to love. Noah can’t blame him. “We all make mistakes,” he says levelly. “And I know what he’s like, how he can get under your skin.” Pain twists his features for an instant before clearing. “We can get through this,” he says with deliberation, almost like he’s talking himself into it. “As long as he never shows his face again.”

“But he’s your oldest friend.” Noah can’t handle it, being the cause of ending the friendship, having that responsibility on him, that blood on his hands. He’d rather walk away from them both.

But it seems Connor’s already made his mind up. “He’s nothing to me now,” he says, his tone dark and painfully final. He gets up suddenly, and Noah’s head’s spinning with the abruptness of it all, how he can go from waking up warm and secure in Patrick’s arms to this, his gut churning with confusion, his chest aching with knowing the ball’s back in his court, somehow, when it makes no sense at all.

“I need to go home to change,” Connor says. He gives Noah a look that makes him feel filthy. “And you need a shower. Come on.”

He gives Noah no time or opportunity to clear his head enough to object. He marches home, and Noah follows him, and when they reach the apartment, Noah dreads walking inside. If Patrick’s still in there, this nightmare will go from bad to worse and he has no idea, no fucking idea at all, what side he’ll come out on.

But he needn’t have worried. Connor makes a quick sweep of the apartment before coming back to Noah in the living room, his expression brutally triumphant. “He’s gone.”

The world falls away from beneath Noah’s feet. “As in…?”

“Taken all his stuff, yeah.” He smiles, the coldest smile Noah’s ever seen. “I told you, this is what he does.”

Noah walks away in a daze, all his feelings carefully locked away, restrained, unable to express anything with Connor around and suffocating for it. He goes into the bedroom, the bedroom he shares with his fiancé, opens a drawer for clean clothes.

Nestled under a pile of t-shirts is an envelope, and Noah’s heart’s in his throat as he pulls it out. He checks over his shoulder to ensure he’s still alone and then opens it.

Within it is a stack of money, and a note that simply says,
You win.

He collapses on the edge of the bed, all the breath rushing out of him, something hot and agonizing clawing up his insides and making him want to scream. Because once upon a time he made Patrick a bet for a thousand pounds that he’ll fall in love one day in the near future, a bet Patrick was so sure he would win. And here Noah sits with a handful of money, and a note in Patrick’s handwriting conceding his victory.

Only it doesn’t feel like victory at all.

A rush of anger and pain and confusion has him stuffing everything back into the envelope and his fingers brush against metal.

Sitting in the bottom of the envelope is Patrick’s cross.

He hides everything back in the drawer, and he goes into the shower, and the hot water on his face masks his tears enough that he can pretend he’s not falling apart at the seams, everything within him crushing under the weight of loss.