Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (74 page)

George snatched his hand back. “Nice to meet you.” He glanced at

Supernat. “Why don’t you come back after Mr. Supernat is through

with you? I’d like to discuss the job over drinks. Sound good?”



Standing closer, George observed a few small scars on Patrick’s

cheeks. Had he been wounded? He willed away the thought of Patrick

bleeding on a battleground.
Did they still call it a battleground?
“I’ll

see you later, then,” Patrick said. With a last grin over his shoulder, he

followed Supernat out. 
George returned to his desk and fell into his

chair.
Holy shit.
Patrick. He hadn’t seen Patrick since ninth grade, and

had no idea he’d joined the Army. But he’d never forgotten him. How

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could he? A guy didn’t forget the man he married. George twirled the

gold ring on his pinky finger. He’d moved it off his ring finger years

before when it outgrew the ring. Now it was an accessory that no one

asked about, unlike when it was on his ring finger. That had drawn

questions, but no one said a word about a pinky ring. 


He pulled the stack of papers he’d been reviewing before the

interruption toward himself. He doubted he’d be able to concentrate,

but he had to pretend. In a few hours, he’d have Patrick to himself and

then anything could happen. Like Patrick declaring his undying love

and George admitting that he was happy his relationships never

worked out because fate had pushed him into waiting for Patrick.

****



In the Army, Patrick went in for special forces training. In one of

the exercises, men were paired, stripped naked, and told to beat the

living crap out of each other. Patrick saw men return from the exercise

feral, saw them lose trust in their brothers. How could you trust

someone to save your back when any moment he might be told to beat

you to a pulp? And how could he trust you when you could be told the

same? Despite this, the fights were popular and wagers were laid

down. 


Patrick celebrated when he survived training and could leave the

fights behind him.


He didn’t like being on civilian ground. It was a culture shock, but

his supervisors had insisted. He needed a break after his divorce, they

said, even though it was six months after the fact. He didn’t see how

wearing a suit and keeping to a nine to five (as opposed to five to

nine) was a break. The assignment was simple, right along his

expertise. It was a numbers job analyzing the books for a financial

firm on shaky ground. He’d be working closest with Mr. Stuart, the

vice president of finances and securities. He hadn’t caught Stuart’s first

name. The firm was as formal as the military, which provided a

familiar comfort Patrick hadn’t expected. Meeting Mr. Stuart left him

shaken, though he had no question that he’d hidden it well. There was

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something in the man’s handshake, his blatant reluctance to let go, that

stirred feelings in Patrick that he’d shoved down years ago. He’d been

glad to leave the room and had meant to refuse the drink invitation,

but when Stuart said it was about work, he’d had to accept. 


One drink, a chat about numbers, a glance at the books, and he’d

head back to his hotel. Name drop the ex-wife if Mr. Stuart got fresh,

and that would be that.


****


Patrick had an ex-wife and three children, two boys and a girl.

Patrick the third, aged nineteen and called Rick, Joseph, seventeen,

and Mindy, “a surprise”, four. He’d served two tours in Afghanistan,

one in Iraq, two years in Hawaii, four in Japan, and the rest of his

Army career in places he couldn’t talk about. He was as straight as a

straight man could be.


They’d ended up in bed anyway, the end result of an accidental

brush of fingers across George’s lips that ended with Patrick’s cock in

George’s mouth, Patrick’s hand in his hair, and a stain on the floor of

George’s office because he’d unzipped and jerked himself off as he

went down on Patrick. After that, he had to take Patrick home. It was

the polite thing to do. Despite another mention of the ex-wife, Patrick

had no problem sticking his ass in the air, although George shoving

him down and making Patrick writhe on his fingers and tongue may

have had something to do with that.

As George rolled over and reached across Patrick to smack the

alarm clock into silence, Patrick grumbled into his pillow and pulled

the sheet over his naked bottom before settling back into sleep. He’d

tossed and turned all night, so George didn’t want to wake him.

Turning the alarm off, George sat up with his back against the

headboard. Patrick scooted over to his leg and rested his head on

George’s thigh. Yep. Straight as they came. And he still had no clue

who George was. When Patrick returned to George’s office for drinks,

George had given him his first name, but it sparked nothing. George

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had downed his brandy, finding it easier to swallow than his

disappointment and got on with the meeting.


****



Mr. Stuart was George Stuart. As in,
George
Stuart. Patrick hadn’t

believed the tall handsome man offering him a glass of brandy was the

same scrawny classmate he’d once loved until George started talking

about his childhood in the same town Patrick had grown up in.



He should have known. But George looked nothing like the faded

photograph he kept in his pocket, a picture of himself and George as

children.

But what was he supposed to do? George hadn’t mentioned

knowing him, and Patrick had already dropped the line about the ex-

wife. He didn’t expect that George would remember him, and even if

he did, Patrick wasn’t the same person. The Army had changed him.

He didn’t sleep anymore, for one. Short bursts, boots on, gun beside

the bed, always ready to go. Always on guard. What would George

say if he knew his best friend now had nightmares and mood swings

that had made his youngest call him a mutant-the bad kind of mutant.


 But when a drop of brandy stuck to George’s lips, Patrick reached

out before common sense caught him and after that common sense

fled. George’s adult body was perfect. He was softer than Patrick, no

surprise there as Patrick’s workout regime made an Iron Man seem

lazy, but he was nicely filled out. Soft in the right places. He had hair

on his chest, too. It tickled when Patrick rested his head on it. Patrick

spent a good portion of the post-coital bliss playing with it as he

waited for George to fall asleep. George had to sleep first. If he didn’t,

he’d see Patrick twitching in his sleep, running towards his men,

running towards the enemy. Patrick never retreated, not even in his

dreams. 


He died all the time, though. Or he lost a leg, an arm. His head.

The body carried on, as it had been trained to do. 


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Patrick nestled against George’s leg. They had one month, according

to his job contract. If he could bottle up the time, make the experience

as perfect as he’d dreamed and never tell George what he was doing,

let George have his fling and forget him, Patrick could head to his

new assignment, wherever the Army sent him, with a memory to

treasure. George caressed the back of his neck with warm, sleepy

movements. It felt possessive, an emotion that made Patrick

uncomfortable. He kept still, though. He’d belonged to George since

they were twelve years old. For one more month, he’d make that real.





****



“If you had to beat me up, would you do it?” George asked.



It was the second night of Patrick’s month and drinks had again

led to sex, although this time in Patrick’s hotel room. Tonight’s

libation had led to Patrick talking about special forces training and the

gladiator competition organized between the men.



“I’d have to.” Patrick slammed his glass down, though from his

surprised look the liquor had made him misjudge his force. “Orders.”



 “Pitting you against each other, forcing you into distrust.”



“Yep.” Patrick turned his chair away from the table.



George reached across for his hand. “If I were against you, I’d kiss

you.”



“Excuse me?”



“That’s what I’d do,” George said. “Forget fighting. I’d let you fuck

me right there.”



Patrick raised an eyebrow. “You would? With fifty guys standing

around?”



“Uh huh.”



Patrick glanced at the bed. “You up for some roleplay?”



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George hopped up. “I’ll open the curtains. The high-rise across the

way can play the part of the other men.”



“Oh, you devil.” Patrick cut off George’s laughter as he leapt on

him and dragged his pants down.



Afterwards, George rubbed Patrick’s back as Patrick again played

with his chest hair. Patrick had a nice dusting of dark hair, but he

pushed George away when he tried to drag his fingers through it. He

didn’t like having his nipples touched, either. George didn’t ask about

the scars that traveled down his torso like slash marks. In the stories

Patrick had told him about the Army, he skipped over any mention of

being hurt, unless it was linked to action, like dragging a troop to

safety or flinging a live grenade out of harm’s way. Scars that looked

like someone had taken a knife to him didn’t fall into that category.

Patrick had yelled in his sleep the previous night, spewed out

words that George guessed were Arabic and not nice. George’s uncle

was in Vietnam, and he came back both broken and violent, so George

scooted away, out of range of Patrick’s arms should he choose to use

them to act out his anger. He descended into growls instead and

clutched the pillow. Once he settled, George laid down against him,

put his hand on Patrick’s arm, avoiding his chest, and rested his cheek

against Patrick’s.



Patrick wanted him to fall asleep first, probably had no idea what

George had witnessed before. George closed his eyes. He could let

Patrick have this illusion. As long as he had Patrick, that was all he

needed. It was stupid to tell himself not to fall in love. He’d been in

love for almost thirty years. There was no talking himself out of it

now.



But he could talk himself into letting go. He’d have to. Patrick had

a distant look in his eyes, as if he looked to the future, too, and didn’t

see George in it.



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Patrick settled down beside him as George pretended to sleep. He

dropped his hand on Patrick’s elbow, keeping him near without saying

a word.

****

Patrick’s mother’s ring, the one he’d stolen from her jewelry box

and given to George while professing his forever love, had a scratch

on it from when his mother had lost it down the bathroom sink and

scraped it along the side of the drain pulling it back up with a wire

coat hanger. Patrick had been six at the time. He’d taken position

beside the sink to “help” by peering into the drain and declaring that

he couldn’t see the ring, but he guessed it “probably ought should be”

down there. When his mother pulled it up, she’d been upset at the

scratch, but shrugged it off. Patrick studied the ring, turning it over in

his small hands, and scraping his fingernail over it to feel the new

indentation.

Which was all to say that even though the ring was not remarkable

in any way but one, Patrick knew it. At age twelve, he recognized it

when he rifled through his mother’s jewelry box looking for the

perfect ring to give George.

And he recognized it at age forty when he saw it on George’s

pinky finger. He tugged George’s hand away from his face-George

slept cradling his own cheek-for a closer look. A ring having a scratch