Clear Water

by Amy Lane

  “Is that normal?” he asked Fly Bait (whatever her real name was) as he walked down the stairs.

  “No, Patrick,” she answered. “It is most certainly not.” She fished in her pocket then and pulled out a cell phone with a walkie-talkie function. “Whiskey, asshole, you out there?”

  “Yeah. Got the probes in sector eight set. How’re you?”

  “Sector six had three anomalies in 237 specimens.”

  “Holy frog guts, Fly Bait—are you sure?”

  “Your new intern says it is so—and he set the anomalies aside for us to look at.”

  There was a crackling silence on the other end of the walkie. “Our new intern?”

  “Hey—you took him in. The kid can count to two-hundred-and-thirty-fucking-seven, and he knows a two-headed frog when he sees one. Only problem is you’re going to have to feed him—can you do that?”

  There was a grunt. “That I can do. Little fucker’s thin as a rail. Someone should.”

  Patrick opened his mouth in protest, but Fly Bait’s flat, unimpressed stare stopped him.

  “I’ll pass that on,” she monotoned into the walkie. “You got the probes set, let’s do some calibrations, and bring us some fucking food.”

  What followed next was a recitation of numbers—basic oxygenation levels, chlorine levels, and nitrogen levels, plus algae counts, plankton counts, and unnamed contaminant counts.

  It was that last one that they ran into problems with.

  “How many parts per million?” Whiskey asked, disbelieving, and Fly Bait repeated the number again.

  “That’s hella high. Let me reset that probe.” About four minutes later, he asked for another reading, and this time, when Fly Bait gave him a reading that was very close to the first one, his interest came through the walkie-talkie.

  “O-kay… I’m going to bring some samples in. We can spend tomorrow analyzing it, and I’ll run a sample to the big lab at the college—let’s see what’s making that number so goddamned interesting, shall we? I mean, it’s not like it tells jokes or speaks in languages, right?”

  Fly Bait didn’t even blink her eyes, but Patrick giggled, because he imagined a big paramecium in the front of a stage, saying things like, “It’s easy to get stepped on when you’re in the shape of a shoe!”

  Whiskey must have heard him, because the next thing that came through on the walkie was, “Ask our unpaid intern what he wants to eat.”

  “I wanted Chipotle,” Fly Bait said irritably.

  “Yeah, but he laughed at my joke. What do you want, kid?”

  Patrick looked at Fly Bait and decided to stay in her good graces. Anything was better than going home. “Chicken burrito bowl, chicken and rice only—”

  “Are you on a diet, kid?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have food allergies?”

  “No.”

  “Do things like beans, sour cream, and cheese make you vomit?”

  “No.”

  “Then why don’t you have some fucking fat on your food.”

  It wasn’t really a question, but Patrick answered it anyway. “It’s bad for your skin.”

  “Your skin’s fine. What do you really want on your fucking burrito? Don’t make me ask again.”

  Well, Tetracyclene and laser treatments were six years in his rearview, right? “Everything except beans, with extra guac,” he said decisively, and Whiskey’s satisfied grunt on the other end of the talkie made him feel like he’d won something.

  “You’re not going to ask me what I want?” Fly Bait sounded miffed, but not at Patrick, so it was okay.

  “Vegetarian bowl, side of guacamole,” Whiskey recited promptly, and Fly Bait grunted into the phone and hung up.

  Patrick was very wise for once and didn’t smirk or crow or any of those other things he was tempted to do. Instead, he looked at the box of Cal and Catherine in his hands and said, “So, uhm, what do we feed the twins?”

  Fly Bait looked at them and muttered, “We usually put a piece of salami in the box and wait for the flies to come in. It’s how they got so fat.”

  Patrick set about doing that and then put the two-headed frog back in the shade, after making sure it had some water in the bottom of its box to keep it cool. He tried to glare at the Cal side of the frog for a minute and then sighed.

  “It’s not fair to hold it against you, big guy,” he said after a moment, wishing he could pet the frog but not sure if they’d like that. “Besides, you’re starting to look cuter than him anyway.”

  Cal blinked slowly, and Catherine shifted her head a little back and forth. Patrick wondered what it would be like to have another head on his shoulders. Would one of them be the smart-and-together Patrick with the Ritalin and the other be Trix-the-chronic-fuckup without it? Would the smart one pull one way while the fuckup pulled him toward the next boyfriend, and would he end up being two-headed and immobile, caught between the good parts of him and the stupid parts?

  He sighed, the breath gusting across the frog and making both heads blink.

  “Maybe we’ll say ‘Cal’ is short for ‘Calhoun’ instead of ‘Caleb’,” he said after a moment, blinking himself. “I’ll call you Caleb if you feel like drugging me and fucking me over.”

  He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about that, he didn’t want to think about his car, he didn’t want to think about the future he was going to embark on or the fact that his credit cards were currently being used to fuck his father over—

  Shit.

  Well, he could do something about that last one.

  He got heavily to his feet and went in to ask Fly Bait if he could use the phone.

  Whiskey

  Takeout Skinny

  HE FELT good walking up to the houseboat with a bag full of takeout. It was like he was the provider—he’d killed and dressed a burrito with some fat for that skinny little body, and now he was going to feed his little stray. Like bringing a kitten some food or a frog some flies, right?

  He did not expect to hear the boy’s voice on the other side of the boat, pitched querulously and high, as he wrangled into the cell phone.

  “Look, I’m sorry, I don’t remember those passwords,” he said, and Whiskey had to grimace. God—he sounded like a child. “No, here. Let me give you my name and my birth date, and then you ask me the question, okay? You know… my mother’s maiden name or some shit? It’s just… I think my scumbag boy—ex-boyfriend is out spending all my father’s money, and shit, can we not make me remember my PIN number to stop him?”

  There was a pause then, and Whiskey heard the kid trying desperately to get his shit together.

  “Yeah. My birthday is September twelfth, I’m twenty-three, and my mother’s maiden name is Eames.”

  There was a pause then, and Whiskey almost went limp with relief. It wasn’t like he had designs on the kid or anything, but oh-thank-you-Jesus, he was legal. God, just knowing he was legal made Whiskey feel better on so many levels.

  Then the kid’s voice pitched again, shaking, panicked, and angry, and Whiskey had other things to worry about. “No! I can’t remember my PIN number—I never remember my PIN number—it’s in my phone, and my phone is gone too, and I just want to not ever have to talk to my father again. Fuck!”

  Whiskey had to duck as what looked to be Fly Bait’s phone went hurtling from the far side of the quarters and clattered across the deck to disintegrate against the prow. The sudden silence was punctuated by deep, painful, shuddering breaths and the slow, measured thud of someone pounding their fist against the side of quarters.

  At least Whiskey thought it was a fist. He rounded the corner, a liberal ass-chewing literally on the tip of his tongue, when he saw that the kid was thudding his head—hard!—against the outer wall and rocking himself back and forth.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” Whiskey put the food down and stepped up quickly, putting one hand on Patrick’s shoulder and one hand on his forehead, trying to keep him from hurting himself
any more.

  “Sorry,” the kid whispered. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m stupid. God, I’m so fucking stupid. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Fuck… I didn’t fucking mean to.”

  His face was scrunched up, and his shoulders were hunched, and his whole body was vibrating like a tuning fork, and Whiskey wasn’t sure what came over him then, because it was one thing to say he had a PhD and knew what would calm a person down, and it was another thing to pull them into your chest and make them calm down.

  “Deep breaths, kid,” he muttered. “Deep breaths. It was a cheap fucking phone. Deep breaths, okay?”

  He waited a long moment, and then he felt a reluctant nod against his shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” the kid said after a moment. His voice was measured and controlled and almost diametrically opposite of what Whiskey had heard only minutes before. “I’m going to get myself centered, okay? I….” It was hot, and his normally pale face was red from exertion and emotion and from chucking poor doomed cell phones against the inner hull of the houseboat—but this was a whole different flush.

  Whiskey took a step back and gestured, and the kid looked at him in agony. “It’s yoga, okay? Could you just not look? I’ll be down in a minute, and I’ll tell Fly Bait I’m sorry, I’ll pay her….” His face squinched up again, that same expression he had had when he was banging his head against the wall.

  “I’ll buy it,” Whiskey said. “Don’t tell her anything. It was my fault. I’ll swear.” What in the fuck was coming out of his mouth? Seriously? What was that funky bullshit he was spewing? If any of his students could hear him now, they’d be getting out mops to clean up the bricks they would have just shit on the deck.

  The kid squinted at him and then just shook his head. “I’ll find a way to pay for it,” he said quietly, and then he smiled a crooked little grin. “I’m sure there’s more funky little frogs to count, right?”

  Whiskey nodded. “Yeah, kid. We got shit for you to do.” They did not. But seriously, what was feeding one skinny-assed kid compared to that look of pure, joyous relief on his face as Whiskey told him they had a place for him here? He’d find something for the kid to do. Hell, he’d invent something for the kid to do.

  Whiskey ran away then. He picked up the bag of Chipotle and ran down the stairs into the quarters and dropped the bag on the table; then he went to the refrigerator and took out a cold bottle of water, downing it as fast as he could without spitting it up.

  “Problem?” Fly Bait asked, rooting through the bag.

  “Yeah, I think I’m getting heat stroke,” Whiskey answered. It was the only possible explanation.

  “Is the kid done with my phone yet?”

  Whiskey grimaced. “Bad news about your phone, Fly Bait. I accidentally knocked it out of his hand and it’s dust.”

  Fly Bait found her order and started shoveling food down her throat. “You accidentally knocked it out of his hand?” she asked after her first swallow. The fact that she repeated it indicated a world full of doubt.

  Whiskey rolled around possible responses, then settled on, “Uhm, yeah. Yup. That’s what happened.”

  He was standing with his back to the window with Fly Bait facing him, and when her eyes got big, at first he assumed it was because she was going to tell him he was full of shit. Which he was. But then he realized that she was looking over his shoulder, out the window, and he turned around and choked on his own tongue.

  “Holy Goddess, mother to us all,” Fly Bait murmured, and Whiskey couldn’t even spare her a glance.

  “I thought you didn’t like men.”

  “I don’t like to fuck them,” she replied almost absently. “That doesn’t mean this one isn’t pretty.”

  God. Jesus. Goddess. Holy Ned, life partner to Geoff, god of biscuits, was this boy (man, he was a man, thank Ned he was a man!) ever pretty. And he was standing upright, with his leg extended behind him, and he was holding his foot in his hands, over his head!

  Whiskey swallowed hard and downed the rest of his water, and it wasn’t enough. His entire body broke out in a head-to-toe, lip-dripping, ball-swelling sweat. The kid slowly lowered that leg and then went into what even Whiskey recognized as the basic warrior position. Whiskey watched as his muscles flexed, and the line from his shoulders to his back to his ass to his thighs to his calf to his bare, long feet made that scattered kid into one perfect, fluid piece. Patrick raised his hand, following it with his eyes, tilting his head back and concentrating on the absolute perfection of his thin, long-muscled body. Through the limited perspective of the window, Whiskey could see that his chest was moving smoothly and his face was no longer twisted with anxiety. His expression was actually serene.

  Which was great for the kid, but Whiskey was imagining that fluid body wrapped around his own, those long thighs wrapped around Whiskey’s ass as he pounded into the kid, wrapping a hand around his as-yet-unseen cock and making his head tilt back, making his mouth open and his serenity shatter. Making him scream.

  Whiskey moaned low in his throat and realized his groin was pressed against the kitchen counter so he could assuage the ache in his cock with a little bit of pressure.

  Fly Bait’s voice was hoarse and needy. “We have got to get that kid out of here.”

  Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. “I promised him he could stay.”

  There was a silence, and he actually felt her fulminating laser-eyes on the back of his neck. “Why in the fuck would you do that?”

  Seriously—did she really have to ask? He gave her the answer that should have been the right one but really wasn’t. “Because he needed a place.”

  “Why this place?”

  And this, at least, was the truth. “Because I don’t think he’s got another place to go.”

  The kid was done with his yoga and was shaking himself out and padding across the deck. Without another word, Whiskey started digging through the bag for his own order and the bag of chips and guac he always got so he could appear to be a normal human being and not some sort of sexual predator when the kid padded down the stairs.

  Whiskey grunted at him, gesturing to the food on the table, and the boy’s movements were fluid and willowy as he pulled out his food. He looked around at the couches and chairs, realized that most of them were full of equipment, and then backed up to the counter/wet bar (yeah, this was a classy joint) across from Whiskey and slid down the cabinets, sitting with casual cross-legged grace.

  Whiskey looked around the kitchen/dining room/living room and then started moving equipment, making room for him on one of the couches at the table. He looked at the spot, grunted, and gestured with his chin again.

  “Thanks, Whiskey—it’s nice of you to go all Planet of Martha Stewart and the Apes on me, but seriously, I can sit down. It’s your science shit—don’t knock yourself out.”

  Whiskey blushed. “Kid—”

  “Patrick.”

  Well, yeah. But “Patrick” was a name he could imagine calling out when he came. “Kid,” on the other hand, was someone he was absolutely never going to touch with his work-roughened, desperate, shaking hands.

  “Kid—”

  “You can call me Trix if you want.”

  Whiskey was suddenly distracted. “Trix? What in the hell kind of name is that?”

  Patrick (Holy Ned help him!) blushed. “It’s what my old boyfriends used to call me. I don’t know why it started—but, you know. If you don’t like Patrick.”

  Eat, Wesley. Eat. Try to pretend your hands aren’t shaking with rage. “Trix isn’t someone you take seriously,” he said. Trix was, in fact, someone you passed around to your friends because he was easy, lubed, and had a sweet mouth. Whether this kid had actually been that sort of Trix or whether he was just someone guys liked to take advantage of, it didn’t matter. Someone should have been looking out for this kid—and someone had fallen down on the job.

  “Well,” the kid said through a thoughtfully full mouth, “maybe I’m not either.”

 
Whiskey took another bite. “This place is a pit. Tomorrow me and Fly Bait are out in the field. Clean it up. Stack shit. Make it look organized. I’ll leave you the car and some cash. Get some dish soap and some groceries. Jesus. Get us some yoghurt that won’t make me hurl. We good?”

  Patrick took a bite and nodded. “Can I write all that down?” he asked, his voice small. “I get distracted. When we’re not eating, I need to make a list.”

  Whiskey was about to say something smart—something about how any moron could clean a house and buy groceries—but that look was starting to come back. The one that had made Patrick throw a cell phone and bang his head against the fiberglass side of the boat. Whiskey discovered that particular look made his stomach churn, and decided against the smart-assed remark. “Yeah, kid, no problem. As soon as we’re done eating, ’kay?”

  “Trix,” the kid said hopefully, and Whiskey shook his head, angry.

  “You’re not a one night stand, kid. You’re not a party toy.”

  “I’m not a kid.”

  Fuck me raw if you’re not. “Fine. Patrick.”

  “Thank you.” The look on the kid’s face? Pure joy, and Whiskey’s stomach started to churn again.

  Whiskey grunted back, because an honest-to-Christ “you’re welcome” really might have made him choke.

  WHISKEY and Fly Bait spent the rest of the afternoon talking about the frog anomalies and the chemical additives in the water, until Patrick, who had taken it upon himself to clean up after lunch and then to do the laundry, finally got himself some spray cleaner and one of Whiskey’s better shirts (he had the nerve to call it a rag) and started on the bathroom.

  The bathroom was awkward. The kid (fuck! Patrick!) kept knocking his elbows and knees and shit on the toilet and the tiny shower, and the steady stream of swearwords that issued forth from the head would have done up a gawdshonest Merchant Marine for a world of pride.

  Whiskey and Fly Bait conversed in brief, truncated sentences:

  “Chlorine levels?”

  “Below x.”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s not it.”