Amy Lane's Greatest Hits by Amy Lane

Author:Amy Lane [Lane, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gay romance
ISBN: 978-1-63476-626-5
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2015-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

Whiskey

Nail It Until It’s Flat

THE THREE of them spent the late afternoon coordinating the data from the probes, and Patrick proved to be pretty useful. Whiskey wanted to praise him like he would an undergrad, but every time he tried to say “good job,” Patrick shrugged it off, like it was something a child could do competently and Whiskey was just humoring him. It made Whiskey want to break a clipboard over his head, and about the time he was flipping a mental coin between doing that or kissing the damned kid silly, Patrick’s medication wore off.

It was easy to tell when it happened too. One minute, Fly Bait was reading off data and Patrick was recording it, and everything was happy. The next minute, Patrick’s elbow shot out in the confined space of the quarters and knocked over a sensitive piece of equipment. Patrick dropped his clipboard and pen, bent over, and bumped his head on the table when he tried to pick it up, dropped the console again (and this time Whiskey was there to catch it), and then jerked back so quickly he fell on his ass and banged the back of his head on the cupboards when he jerked again.

Whiskey and Fly Bait looked at him as he glared at the clipboard at his feet and rubbed the back of his head.

Whiskey said, “Okay, then. Time for dinner and a swim. Patrick, you swim. I’ll do dinner.”

Patrick’s expression wrinkled into one of self-loathing, and Whiskey sighed and offered him a hand up.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

Whiskey pulled him up sharply, and Patrick pitched forward into his arms. Whiskey shuddered and clasped him tight. For a minute Patrick resisted, but he must have felt something in Whiskey’s arms, something that meant it, because that slender, taut body relaxed fractionally, and Patrick’s head came to rest on his shoulder.

“Go swim, Patrick,” Whiskey said softly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry.”

Patrick took a deep breath and backed up. He ducked his head at Fly Bait and then ran up top, where there were towels and he could dump his shirt and flip-flops at will. Whiskey sighed and turned to Fly Bait.

“You wouldn’t want to make sure he….”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go put sunblock on his back. But it’s a real fucking waste of skin on skin, because it doesn’t make him any less gay man or me any less a lesbo.”

Whiskey found himself growling. “Which is why you’re the perfect candidate.”

Fly Bait rolled her eyes and left.

Whiskey set the equipment to rights and finished up the last few notations. They hadn’t been that far from quitting time—Patrick had helped to make quick work of it. He probably would have been helpful even after he’d had his moment of spaz, but he wouldn’t let himself live it down. I’m sorry! I’m sorry! He shouldn’t be. Patrick shouldn’t be sorry. But Whiskey was starting to really think that somebody should be.

He put everything back where Patrick had organized it.

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