And then Charlie came, a cry tore from his throat, and his body throbbed hard around Patrick’s cock. Patrick held Charlie close through his aftershocks, rocking their bodies together through his own orgasm, one arm wrapped across Charlie’s chest, hand to his heart.
It was surely feeling Charlie’s orgasm that sent Patrick over, that dropped him off the top of a cliff and let him fall gratefully to the bottom. But afterward, he wondered if it was the sensation of Charlie’s heartbeat thundering against palm that had pushed him into his pleasure.
Because once it was over, that was the most overwhelming sensation. Their heartbeats. Pounding together. In sync.
Patrick pulled out and Charlie rolled over with a grunt, tossing the messy pillow to the floor. The pillow had borne the brunt of his orgasm, but there were sticky threads of semen on his stomach and cock. Patrick bent down and licked him clean, enjoying Charlie’s oversensitive twitching, before ditching his condom in a nearby wastebasket.
Charlie was flushed and sweaty. Quite frankly, he looked like he’d been fucked and fucked good. His eyelashes were a little wet, and he’d yet to completely catch his breath. Without asking, Patrick grabbed his camera off the bedside table and snapped another picture of Charlie’s face.
Charlie laughed and took the camera gently from Patrick’s hands. “Come here. Selfie time.”
“This camera is worth thousands of dollars. It’s my livelihood. And you want to take a selfie with it?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
Patrick lay down next to Charlie so their heads were close together. Charlie wrapped his arm around Patrick and held the camera out away from their faces.
“Smile.”
“I am, bossy,” Patrick said, but he laughed. And then laughed again when Charlie took the picture. In their next selfie, Charlie was kissing his cheek, and in the last one, Patrick brushed their lips together softly.
Charlie finally sat the camera aside when it seemed as if their kissing might get more serious. “I haven’t come like that in a long time.”
“Haven’t come how? While bottoming?”
“No. Hands free.”
Patrick chuckled, delighted that it’d been different for Charlie too. That it had been special.
“You had the pillow,” Patrick teased.
“True. It didn’t feel like it was the pillow that made me come, but your cock. My whole body is still buzzing from it.”
“Good.” Patrick snuggled closer to him, brushing his fingers through Charlie’s dark, sweat-damp hair.
“Yeah.” Charlie’s eyes closed, and his limbs started to go heavy with sleep. “Will you send me those selfies?”
“Sure.”
“To remember you by.”
The sound of rushing water suddenly filled Patrick’s ears. “Oh. Okay.”
Charlie fluttered his eyes open, but Patrick could tell he was barely holding on to consciousness. “For when the weekend is over, and we have to move on.”
Right. Move on.
The prospect didn’t seem so easy to Patrick anymore.
Chapter 6
Patrick snuck out while Charlie was sleeping off their morning sex, but he left him a note—See you tonight. So Patrick wasn’t totally a horrible person, right? Maybe only a partially horrible one?
It’d all gotten to be too much there at the end.
He needed time to decompress and build up some walls on his heart before they faced each other again at the Alumni Cookout and Ice Cream Social.
Luckily, he’d ridden his bike to Charlie’s duplex the night before, so it was easy to leave. He cringed when Blue roared to life. Charlie probably wouldn’t sleep through that racket, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it but ride away.
Mom was drinking coffee on the front porch of her little wood-paneled cottage when Patrick pulled up. She had the next two days off from the diner for the Alumni Weekend festivities, and obviously planned to milk them for all they were worth. She was in her favorite floral muumuu.
Patrick, on the other hand, was rocking last night’s clothes in the most obvious walk of shame ever. After leaving the reunion, he’d sent his mom a text not to wait up for him, but he’d hoped to at least make it through the front door of her house before having to confront her.
“Nice morning, isn’t it?” she called to him as he jogged up the front walk.
“Yeah, it’s peachy.” He fell onto the porch swing beside her.
After a few beats, she said, “How do you feel about makeup? Like, on you?”
He slowly turned his head to stare at her. “What are you talking about?”
“You have an enormous love bite on your neck. I was going to offer to cover it up for you.”
“Shit.” He slapped a hand over his throat and cringed when he felt the dull twinge of pain from the bruise. She cackled.
“I’d thought maybe you were simply sleeping off too much alcohol at someone’s house, but seems I was mistaken.”
Her laughter was infectious, and rather than angst about being caught out, he simply laughed.
“So . . . Charlie North?” she said slowly
He snorted. “I’m not talking about this with you.”
“All I’m saying is that you could do a lot worse than that boy. He’s a firefighter. I mean, come on.”
“Ew, Mom. Stop crushing.”
She laughed and nudged his arm. “I’m a red-blooded, single woman. I’m allowed to look at firefighters.”
He wanted to hug her, happy that she was making jokes about being single when he knew it was anything but simple for her, but he was worried he smelled a bit like sex. So no hugs this morning. He should have showered at Charlie’s, but it had been more imperative to leave than to be clean.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said eventually, after minutes of comfortable silence. “It’ll be weird without your father.”
His parents had officially split around Christmas. Patrick’s dad was a Small City Alum too—his parents had been high school sweethearts—so his mom had never been to an Alumni Weekend without him.
“He’s not going to show up, is he?” Patrick asked. That dreadful thought hadn’t occurred to him until now.
His whole reason for coming was so Mom would have a date. A buffer. She was going to be confronted by person after person, especially alumni who weren’t townies and privy to the gossip, asking about Dad, not knowing they’d recently gotten a divorce.
But he’d never thought about what it would be like if Dad were there too. With his new girlfriend, maybe.
It was not a pleasant thought at all.
“No. We already talked about it. He’s sitting this one out.”
“You talk to him?”
She glanced over at him like that was a dumb question. “Yeah.”
“How often?”
“Maybe once or twice a month. Usually when I can’t remember online passwords.” Patrick snorted a laugh, and Mom grinned. “Sweetie, have you talked to him?”
Patrick’s laugh died in his throat. No, he hadn’t talked to his dad, besides a few texts here and there. He wasn’t ready yet.
“Mom, he cheated.”
She gasped and put her hand to her chest in fake horror. “He what?” Patrick rolled his eyes, but she was laughing like this was the funniest conversation ever. “Yeah, he cheated, and it sucks. He sucks. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s your father, and he loves you.”
“I know. I’m not ready to forgive him yet.”
He bit his lip and stared out across the street. Your parents getting divorced was probably hard at any age. It definitely sucked at twenty-eight.
“What are you wearing tonight?” Mom asked, changing the subject. “It’ll be hot. Did you bring shorts?”
“The only shorts I own are . . . too short for Small City.”
“Eh, Small City is too short for you.”
That didn’t make sense, but it also did. She was saying this place, his hometown, was too
small-minded. He wasn’t so sure she was right. After spending time with Charlie and Suzy and Rachel . . . Well, his mind had been reeling all morning, dreaming up possibilities that he’d never considered before.
“Maybe it’s not,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe I could fit in here, if I tried. Maybe I could come home. And stay.”
Her humor stalled and she stared at him, her mouth slightly open. “I’m assuming there’s a story behind this?”
He nodded reluctantly. “I need to quit my job at the gallery. I’ve already written the resignation letter.”
“There are other galleries in Chicago.”
An embarrassing lump stuck in his throat. He didn’t want to admit to his mistakes and newfound reputation, or the way his friends and peers now thought he was a star fucker for sleeping with his boss. The way those friends were maybe not his friends after all.
“My job isn’t exactly . . . comfortable anymore. I had a falling out with Richard, and it’s been bad, Mom. Really bad, and I can’t continue on there. Plus, I miss you, and surprisingly, I miss other things too. Like open fields and hills and the prescribed burns and your cooking.”
He hadn’t realized how much of a balm being here could be until he’d gazed at the Flint Hills sunset the night before, and all of him had ached at how lovely it was.
After a deep breath, he blurted out all the thoughts that had prevented him from falling back asleep in Charlie’s arms that morning.
“I think I could make a living here. There’s the Chase Gallery, and I have a good relationship with the owner. Last time we talked about my photography, he said he was hoping to retire soon, so that might be an opportunity. And I can still get my photography in some galleries in Chicago—it’s not like that income will disappear. I have several contacts in St. Louis and Kansas City, too. Plus, there’s not a wedding photographer who is more than a hobbyist within like fifty miles of here.” He was rambling now, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop. “It’s just a thought. A stupid one.”
She had her Mom-face on, all serious and penetrating, and he wanted to flinch away from the intensity.
“Patrick, I’d love to have you back, and it sounds like you’ve thought about this. But let me make one thing very clear. There is no trying to fit in here. You would be miserable.”
A pang of hurt sliced through his chest. “You really think I couldn’t?”
“Lord Almighty, that is not what I’m saying! You shouldn’t have to. And I will be livid if you try. You are special, and I’m not only saying that because you’re my son. You can come and live in Small City and be exactly you. And if you can be you here, and be happy, then absolutely, move back. But if you can’t be happy here and be yourself, then you better not dim your light to make others comfortable. I’ve never wanted that for you.”
His chin quivered, and he laughed to hide his sudden swamp of emotions. “Yeah, okay. I hear you.”
“Are you sure this doesn’t have to do with a nice firefighter with a tight—”
“Jesus, Mom. No.”
It was a lie, though. Charlie North certainly complicated things.
The Alumni Cookout and Ice Cream Social was at Bakers Edge—a park that ran adjacent to Bakers Creek, which everyone, including Patrick, pronounced crick. It was a townie thing he’d never quite quashed.
The park was full of people. A group of old women were grilling burgers and hotdogs, a handful of teenagers were fishing in the creek, and little ones were flying kites in the open space that was supposed to be a soccer field. Around the park, groups of alumni had circled up in the shade of huge cottonwoods.
Patrick, because he was a pathetic puppy, immediately zeroed in on Charlie. He was standing with several burly men under a cottonwood tree, guarding a cooler of drinks. His outfit today was a too tight blue T-shirt, shorts, Ray Bans, and flip-flops. He was like a summer catalog ad.
Patrick, on the other hand, had been talked into his black cutoff jean shorts and a pink tank top, by his mom, who’d insisted on helping him choose his clothes for the event. It was ninety-five degrees in the shade, so it hadn’t taken much to convince him shorts were the best choice. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel they were a bit too risqué for this crowd.
He’d also painted his fingernails, a sparkly pale pink, because his mom was right. If he was thinking about making a life here, he had to do so as himself. Fingernail polish and all.
Mom plopped her lawn chair down in a circle of middle-aged alums, and Patrick followed suit. He recognized a handful of the people, knew some of them were from his mom’s high school class, but was happy to simply blend into the background for a while. He’d spotted a few people from his class besides Charlie, but they’d all been cliqued up.
“Ronnie! Long time no see!” a grizzled white man said to her, his voice a little too loud, like he couldn’t tell he was almost shouting. “How you been? How’s Gregory?”
Patrick tensed, and Mom squared her shoulders.
“That didn’t take long, did it?” Mom said under her breath. Then, “I’m good, Timmy. You should come on down to the diner soon. I’ll get you some cobbler, on the house. And Greg is fine. We’re divorced.”
“Oh, Veronica. I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Timmy said. She waved his concern away.
The chatter seemed to die down a bit, like her announcement had put a damper on things. It made Patrick want to growl. Mom stood and patted his shoulder.
“I’m going to go grab a hotdog. You want one, darling?” she asked him.
He nodded. “I can go though. You can stay here and chat.”
“Psshhh. It’s fine. I want to say hi to Mrs. Jenkins anyway.”
Then she left him there among the vultures.
Okay, it wasn’t that bad, but he was definitely getting side-eye from some of them.
The black woman sitting next to him leaned in. “You’re Veronica’s son, right?”
“Yes. Patrick.” He held out his hand to her, and she shook it with a smile.
“Della. Nice to meet you. I was a grade below your mom. Had to wait until she’d graduated to get my starting spot on the volleyball team. She was a good athlete. Were you in any sports?”
“Athletics weren’t really my thing.”
A stiff-looking blonde woman wearing an American flag blouse snorted, and Patrick glanced at her sharply. He couldn’t place the woman.
“Oh, ignore her,” Timmy whispered, loudly, with a gesture toward the blonde. Timmy’s beard was scraggly, but he had bright, clear eyes.
Della said, “So what do you do? You don’t live around here, right?”
The way she said that felt off to him. It was like she couldn’t imagine him here in Small City, like he didn’t fit her image of a Small City resident.
Maybe he was just being sensitive.
“I currently live in Chicago. I’m a photographer.”
“Oh, how interesting!” she said, and he relaxed a little because she sounded genuine and the blonde no longer seemed to be paying them any mind. “I got out of town and moved to Seattle after high school. First chance I got. Couldn’t imagine sticking around in this podunk town.” She smiled at him conspiratorially. “Do you have a partner or significant other with you?”
The blonde woman, who evidently was paying them mind, tittered. “Oh, Della. Were you always so PC, or is it from living out there on the West Coast with all of those hippies?”
A few people shifted around, like they were uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation.
“I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment,” Patrick said, trying to head off the tension.
Della glared at the other woman before turning her attention back to Patrick. “Well, you be careful. If there was one thing I learned when I was younger, it was that everyone would try to marry me off when I came back home for visits. If you don’t watch out, this town will play matchmaker for you and then you’ll be stuck here.” She gave a fak
e shudder and a wink.
“That wouldn’t be so bad,” he said, and Della and Timmy shared an ornery glance.
“I’d rather chew off my own arm than live somewhere so small. Everyone would be all up in your business all the time, and places like this, well, they aren’t always the most accepting,” Della said.
Timmy chimed in. “Now, it’s not so bad, if you like a place enough. But to live here, you pretty much got to be into fishing, hunting, cattle, and small town politics, or you’ll be bored silly.”
“Is that what you do in your time off?” Patrick asked. “Fish and hunt?”
“No. I’m a truck driver, so I’m out and about enough to get my fill of excitement. And then I play videogames when I’m home,” Timmy said, and Patrick laughed. Timmy was the last man he’d expect to be a gamer, but it took all kinds.
“Some people like small towns because they see the value in family and tradition and faith. Big cities can be cesspools,” the blonde woman said.
Timmy snorted and mouthed, “Yikes,” at Della and Patrick, which forced them both to stifle laughs.
Through the laughter, though, discomfort wormed its way into Patrick’s stomach. This woman, with her big-as-Texas hair and gaudy patriotism, was such a caricature, but Patrick couldn’t help but wonder if she was the rule rather than exception here in Small City. Maybe his instinct to get out of a town as a seventeen-year-old—the same one that had evidently pushed Della to the West Coast and Timmy to videogames—had been solid.
His mom returned with a hotdog, and he gratefully grabbed it and stuffed it in his mouth, hoping to get out of any more talk of cesspools.
A rough hand landed on the back of his neck, and warmth hit him right in the chest. He immediately knew that hand belonged to Charlie, like their skin was talking to each other, saying hi, how are you, please keep touching. Patrick tipped his head back to see Charlie and tried not to make moony eyes at him.
Charlie grinned and then squatted down next to Patrick’s lawn chair, his hand trailing off Patrick’s neck slowly and raising goosebumps along his arms.
Small City Heart Page 5