Read The Best Man: Part Two Online
Authors: Lola Carson
The Best Man: Part Two (6 page)
Patrick’s sitting on the edge of the couch beside him, facing him, and he looks concerned. He raises a hand and drags it through Noah’s hair before settling it on the back of his neck as if needing the anchor.
“You okay?” he repeats, searching Noah’s eyes for the truth.
He’s so close that Noah can count his every eyelash.
“Yeah,” he croaks. He scrubs both hands over his face, brushes away the last remnants of sleep. “Sorry.”
“No need for sorry.” Patrick releases him, but he doesn’t immediately get up. “Bad dream?”
Noah nods. “Dunno what it was about really.” The images are fading rapidly, slipping through his memory like water. He remembers fear, and pain, and the most beautiful light just out of reach. “Didn't mean to get you out of bed.”
“I was already up.”
Patrick sits up with him for a few minutes, and then they both go to bed, and when Noah next wakes up it’s Christmas Eve morning and the chill in the air has him putting on thick socks and his biggest hoodie.
He’s in the bathroom and he hasn’t locked the door so Patrick comes in, and they end up standing there brushing their teeth together, Patrick looking at him in the mirror with that same concern.
“I’m okay,” Noah says around his toothbrush, “really,” and the tension eases from Patrick’s brow and he flicks water at Noah and then Connor’s stumbling in after his run, grumpy and sweaty, asking what’s going on, and this room isn’t big enough for three so Noah leaves.
He spends the day preparing and cooking food and when his eyes water from the onions, Patrick’s there suddenly, tipping his face up in his hands, looking at him darkly.
“Just the onions,” Noah says, holding a piece up in demonstration, and Patrick brushes his thumbs under Noah’s eyes to gather the moisture there before calling him a baby and leaving.
Patrick and Connor get tipsy on whiskey in the afternoon and they get louder and louder as they exchange stories and memories and talk about the good old days, and Noah watches them with fondness and a little exasperation as he brings them Christmas cake and mince pies and cheese on crackers in an attempt to soak up some of the alcohol. As evening falls Connor goes for a nap which turns into a full sleep and Noah ends up the sober one in a room full of half-drunk Patrick, who’s loose on alcohol and smooth talking and overly handsy as he tries to help Noah lay the table for Christmas dinner the next day, brushing over Noah’s hips and his back as they pass each other around the table, fingers catching as they exchange cutlery and napkin holders.
By the end of it Noah’s blood is thrumming with heat and Patrick’s eyes are dark and there’s a moment when Noah tries to enter the kitchen while Patrick’s exiting and they come to a standstill, staring at each other, inches apart. Noah licks his lips and he swallows and Patrick tracks the movement, before he clears his throat and his mouth parts on an intake of breath and they edge around each other, thighs and shoulders brushing.
Julie comes over the next morning and they all sit around and open their presents like children, lots of fake enthusiasm and gratitude over the naff gifts. Alcohol makes a reappearance straight after breakfast and Noah and Julie head to the kitchen after, because she’s a better assistant than both the men combined, and by the time Christmas lunch is served, everyone’s more than a little tipsy already.
They while the afternoon away watching crap Christmas TV specials and eating all their weight in food and by the time Julie leaves, Connor’s passed out drunk, and Noah’s practically leaning back on Patrick’s lap as the room spins around him.
“For all his talk,” Patrick drawls, his vaguely slurring voice rumbling through Noah from where his back is pressed against Patrick’s thigh, “he’s never really been able to handle his liquor.”
Noah peers over at Connor slumped across the armchair, his mouth hanging open, head fallen to one side. “Can you help me get him to bed? He’s basically in a coma.”
Noah and Patrick peel themselves off the couch and stumble a bit, laughing and grabbing each other to steady themselves, then they each grab a hold of an end of Connor and lift him away from the armchair, groaning under the weight of him.
“Jesus, how much did he eat today?” Patrick grunts as they shuffle towards the bedroom, missing the angle by an inch or so as they try to negotiate the doorway, Connor’s head thwacking against the frame. Patrick laughs, mutters, “Shit,” and once they’ve dumped Connor on the bed and thrown the quilt over him, he looks at Noah with his eyebrows raised. “More alcohol?”
Noah nods at the obviously genius plan. “More alcohol.”
They tussle at the drinks cabinet, Noah with his head inside it trying to find a good bottle and Patrick crowding behind, one hand on Noah’s hip, as he attempts to reach past him for what he wants. Noah can feel Patrick’s groin against his arse but then Patrick’s distracting him by grabbing for a bottle of whiskey, and Noah tutts and tries to tug it away from him.
“No, you’re not having whiskey. You always drink whiskey. We’re having tequila. Live a little.”
“Says the infant.”
“Hey, I’m twenty-three—” He turns and he’s flat against Patrick’s chest and he’s still trying to wrestle the whiskey from his grip but he’s not letting it go. “Put that
down
.”
He eventually manages to snatch it from his hand and hide it behind his back. Patrick makes a grab for, but Noah holds it out of reach, and their entire bodies clash together.
Patrick stops and takes a breath. “Do you honestly think you’re tall enough to keep that out of my reach?”
“No,” says Noah. “But getting it means you’ll have to get really close to me and I know you don’t want to risk that.” It’s the closest anyone’s come to saying it out loud and Noah holds his breath for the response.
Patrick stares at him. There’s a storm churning in his eyes. “Tequila it is.”
“Shots,” says Noah, and he breaks away from Patrick to find shot glasses and lime and salt, heart pounding the thrill of excitement into his ribs.
They end up sprawled on the floor, Noah with his head resting back against the front of the couch, Patrick reclining beside him, propped up on one elbow.
“To Santa,” Patrick says, and then they each lick the dusting of salt they’ve sprinkled on their hands and drink the shots, sucking on lime pieces after to chase the taste.
“Why do you wear this?” Noah asks him during a moment of quiet minutes later, hand lifting to trace his fingers over the cross pendant dangling on its chain, resting against Patrick’s chest.
Patrick looks down at Noah’s hand touching him, then up into his eyes. “I like it.”
“Are you religious?”
“Depends on your definition,” Patrick murmurs. They’re sitting so close together that they can keep their voices low, secretive. “I believe in god, and I try to live by a moral code. Not always the
best
moral code…”
Noah licks his lips, tangles the necklace around his finger so it’s pulling at the skin of Patrick’s neck, creating an indent, making him lean forward slightly, into Noah’s space. “What does your code say about getting drunk with your best friend’s fiancé?”
Patrick stares at him, then his eyes flick down to Noah’s mouth, and then he’s running the very tip of a finger along Noah’s jaw. “There’s a lot of ways my best friend’s fiancé is testing my code.”
“Like what?” Noah’s breath is caught in his throat.
Patrick hesitates, and he keeps his eyes on Noah, and when he speaks it’s with an edge of caution in his tone. “This is a dangerous subject.”
“Getting drunk with you is dangerous.” He swallows, and he pulls on the necklace, and he tilts his face to feel the warmth of Patrick’s breath across his lips. “Makes boundaries harder to see.”
Patrick dips his face the barest of an inch, enough that his nose ghosts over Noah’s, and the finger on his jaw comes up to Noah’s mouth, traces over his bottom lip, presses on it to make him part his lips. Noah’s tongue edges forward, and he tastes skin, and Patrick’s eyes on his mouth are burning. “You ever done a body shot?”
“Yeah.”
Patrick gets his fingers on Noah’s jaw again and tilts his face up, and then he’s leaning forward and licking a stripe up Noah’s neck, and Noah’s breathless with it, and he’s so drunk, and the wet heat of Patrick’s tongue against his neck is making his heart hammer and his head spin, blood rushing to his groin, hardening him. Patrick reaches for the salt shaker then, and he’s sprinkling it on the wet stripe of Noah’s neck, and he’s propping a slice of lime between Noah’s teeth and swigging his shot straight from the bottle as if he doesn’t have time for pouring a glass. Then he leans straight back in, and he’s licking the salt off Noah’s neck, and Noah’s heaving a shuddering breath and pulling hard on the necklace to draw him closer as Patrick’s lips close over his pulse point and suck. Then Patrick’s face is in front of his, and he’s coming in close, and he’s sucking the lime from between his teeth, the juice trailing down Noah’s chin and Patrick pulls away and spits the lime out and comes back in to lick up the juice, misses Noah’s lips, perhaps deliberately—gets his thumb and swipes the stickiness from his lips instead, sucks the thumb into his own mouth.
When it’s over Noah’s throbbing hard and his head’s spinning and he rolls his hips up on instinct, doesn’t care how wanton and out of his mind he looks, and Patrick notices, and he looks down at Noah’s groin, then back up to his face, and his eyes are scalding, burning for him, his neck flushing through with heat.
“Are you gonna touch yourself?” he asks.
And Noah considers it, actually considers it, because he’s so hard, and he’s so crazy with it. “Are you gonna watch?”
Patrick dips in, and he presses his forehead to Noah’s temple, breathes hot against his ear. “Seems only fair to repay the favour.”
Then he’s taking hold of Noah’s wrist, and he’s guiding Noah’s hand down his body towards his dick, and Noah can’t believe he’s going to do this, touch himself in front of Patrick, touch himself
for
Patrick—
Connor comes stumbling out of the bedroom, crashing into almost everything in sight, and Noah and Patrick don’t so much spring apart as they do peel themselves away from each other, slowly and without panic, Noah’s head too full of hazy arousal and intoxication to make him worry.
Connor squints at them. “What are you doing?”
“Body shots,” Noah says dumbly.
“Body—what?” Then he falls into a wall
“Jesus, you’re drunk,” Noah says, sighing, and he heaves himself to his feet, doesn’t look at Patrick. “Let me help you.”
He meets Patrick again in the middle of night, under the cover of darkness and shadow as he leaves Connor in bed and goes to the bathroom, Patrick heading in the opposite direction to bed. They stop in the middle of the room, and they look at each other, and Noah’s fingers twitch and ache with need.
“It was just the alcohol,” he whispers, and Patrick swallows and says, “I know.”
“He’s your best friend. It’s not worth it.”
Patrick crowds in close, and Noah’s breath hitches, and then Patrick’s leaning down to murmur hot and thick into his ear, “You’re getting under my skin, Noah.”
Noah licks his lips. His hand finds its way to a fist in the front of Patrick’s shirt. “You’re just drunk.”
Patrick smiles at him, and it looks sinful. “
In vino veritas
,” he whispers, and he pulls away from Noah, and he goes to his bedroom, leaving Noah alone and trembling in the darkness.
Noah doesn’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound good.
Or maybe it does, and that’s the problem.
* * * * *
Please note: The Best Man is serialised fiction and continues in The Best Man: Part Three—
available here
.