Love And The Real Boy - Coming About, Book 2 (24 page)

As he let Patrick’s strong arms enfold him, he allowed himself a brief second of dread over what, if anything, he was going to say to Patrick about this. If he hadn’t known he knew how to love, he certainly didn’t know how to tell someone he was in love with them. What if Patrick didn’t feel the same way? Could Rich handle another disappointment?

Shaking his head, he decided he’d ‘Miss Scarlett’ the damn thing and worry about it tomorrow. Because Patrick was warm and strong and
here
, and Rich wanted to enjoy that feeling while it lasted.

Chapter Twenty

Rich had debated with himself over how—and if—he was going to tell Patrick about his feelings. He’d stewed over it for a couple of weeks, but in the end, he felt that it was bordering on cowardly not to man up and say something. Hell, maybe Patrick still thought he was just a hookup in Rich’s eyes. And, God help him, he
was
afraid.

Having spent most of his life burying the fact that he was gay would probably make him seem like a coward to most people. But he hadn’t been hiding in some damn closet; he’d strategically kept his personal life close to the vest. He hadn’t been forced into it by society—certainly not by fucking family…he’d made a conscious choice.

Now that he was, for all intents and purposes, ‘out,’ Rich had to make another strategic decision—what he was going to do about the man he loved. As he maneuvered his Camaro through the streets of Blue Ridge, he felt an almost giddy lightness. Rich had always thought of himself as a pretty simple guy. He’d never known the true weight of the baggage he carried around until he had someone to help him carry it…or maybe to help him set it down.

He turned onto Patrick’s street and waited for the fear to come—the unease, the panic, the need to bolt. But it never did. He was ready. Rich would tell Patrick everything: from the real motivation behind his meltdown and subsequent ruination of lives or at least friendships, to his feelings for Patrick. And he knew just how to do it.

Patrick had proved he had no compunction about letting himself into Rich’s house without permission, so it seemed only fair that Rich should return the favor. When Patrick had given him a key, Rich had taken it ‘for emergency use only,’ no matter how it was intended. But he’d decided to deem his new self-awareness an emergency.

Rich knew that Patrick would still be working on the
Galeocerdo
for another hour or so. It was their last full day of work on the boat. Tomorrow they would drop the lift and hope she floated. That made it a perfect time for him to slip into Patrick’s house unnoticed. Setting down the heavy shopping bag he was carrying, Rich used his key to let himself in.

All the shades were drawn, so the inside of the house was dim. There was no need for him to turn on any lights however, because he knew Patrick’s place as well as his own by then…including the empty picture hanger that was mounted to the wall above the fireplace. It had been driving Rich crazy for days, so he was going to kill two birds with one stone.

He pulled the framed photograph out of the sturdy Macy’s bag he’d brought it in. Not wasting any time looking at it—he’d spent quite enough time studying the damn thing—he stood on his tiptoes to thread the hanger into the bracket mounted on the sleek black frame.

Once he got it up there, he stepped back to survey his work. Frowning, he nudged the frame to the left, then back to the right just a tad. Perfect. Satisfied that the picture would have the desired effect, Rich made his way back to the bedroom where he flopped down on Patrick’s bed and settled in to wait.

* * * *

Patrick wasn’t just tired, he was
damn
tired. He’d been an hour later at the marina than he planned on, double and triple checking everything. Once a boat had hull damage, it was extremely difficult to regain the structural integrity. Fiberglass vessels were almost never the same, but wooden boats had a better chance of being able to get back that watertight seal. Patrick just hoped he’d done everything right; that boat had to float come morning. He thought about calling Rich—the guy still hadn’t figured out how much it brightened Patrick’s day to hear his voice—but he was barely conscious even as he unlocked his door and dragged his wilting body over the threshold.

It was full night, and he hadn’t left any lights on or windows uncovered. He fumbled around for the switch to the foyer light. Finding it after a few false starts, he flipped it on and started shedding his dirty work clothes. Who the hell cared if he left a trail of grimy clothes across the floor? It wasn’t as if anyone lived there with him—he was surprised by how disgruntled the thought sounded inside his head—so he could just pick them up whenever he damn well pleased.

He shuffled across the living room in nothing but boxer briefs and socks, intent on grabbing himself a beer or six from the fridge. Then he froze. Something had caught his eye when he was halfway to the kitchen. There was a framed picture in the empty spot over the mantle—the one that had an empty hanger because he’d bought a print to hang there and he ended up hating it.

But this…he edged around the couch and past the coffee table so he could get a closer look. He thought he might have been mistaken in what he thought he saw, but he wasn’t. It was a poster-sized print of one of the photographs Rich had taken for his work project; the project that had simultaneously outed him and earned him a promotion. Eyes wide, Patrick stared at it for a full minute before he was able to process the sum of the parts that he was seeing.

Patrick had seen some of the proofs from Rich’s presentation, but this particular image had definitely not been among them. It was one of the set that Rich took using the remote, inserting himself into the picture with Patrick.

This one was different from all the others. Patrick had taken a break from his gladiator pose and was stretching his arms behind his head, hands crossed and clasping his neck, working out the kinks. Instead of looking off into the distance as instructed, he was looking down at Rich and smiling.

Rich was down on his knees where he’d been playing the ‘worshipping minion,’ but he had broken character as well. He’d taken the silk scarf that had been covering Patrick’s groin and wrapped it around his hand—though his head and shoulders were strategically positioned to keep Patrick modest. His other arm was wrapped around Patrick’s hips, probably clutching his ass away from the prying eye of the camera.

The photo was in black and white, with selective color only in their eyes and in the red of the scarf, so Patrick couldn’t see the warm tan of Rich’s skin. But his body could have been carved from marble. The soft slope of his neck down to his shoulders and into his corded biceps was graceful. The line of his spine bisecting his powerful back was near perfection, and Patrick felt the familiar urge to trace it with his tongue.

But it was the expression on Rich’s profile that drew Patrick’s attention. It was one that he hadn’t seen before and couldn’t readily identify. Instead of raising his head to look directly at Patrick, he’d lifted his chin just barely and was looking at Patrick with only his eyes, shaded by his brows. His mouth was slightly open, like he’d just inhaled, and one corner was turned up as if he was getting ready to smile.

To Patrick, it looked like he was discovering…something. His feelings, maybe—but that seemed too much to hope for on Patrick’s part, especially that long ago. Hell, he still couldn’t even get Rich to admit that they were in a relationship. But, then again, there was the picture, front and center in his living room—someone had to have put it there.

Patrick would definitely have to get to the bottom of the mysterious portrait and the man behind it, but first he wanted that beer, a shower, and his goddamn bed—and he wanted eight solid hours of not worrying about whether the
Galeocerdo
was going to float.

Grabbing his beer from the fridge, Patrick headed for the bedroom, kicking a path through his dirty clothes. The hallway was dark, but a small lamp in his bedroom was on an automatic timer so he could see his way in. He walked into the bedroom, set his beer on top of the bureau and rummaged through the top drawers for some fresh underwear, socks, and sweats.

He turned around to lay the clothes out on the bed so they would be ready for him after his shower, but the bed was already occupied. “
Jesus bleedin’ Christ!
” he shouted, not proud of the squeak in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

It was obvious that Rich had fallen asleep laying on the bed because as soon as he heard Patrick’s voice, he shot upright, blinking. He rubbed his eyes and looked around the room as if trying to figure out where he was. Then those eyes found Patrick and widened, but they seemed to be lit with something different…something new.

Ignoring his beer and his damn near overwhelming desire for a shower, Patrick sat down on the bed beside Rich, on top of the covers. “What’s going on, babe?” When Rich didn’t flinch at the word—such a thing might draw attention to the fact that they were actually boyfriends—Patrick was encouraged. “Did something happen?”

Rich looked down at his hands, and a charming blush tinged his cheekbones. “Yes—I mean no…well, nothing bad. Unless you think it’s bad, then it could be something.”

“Easy,
ghrá
, you’re babbling,” Patrick pointed out, slipping into another endearment before he even realized what was going to come out of his mouth.

Rich took a deep breath and ducked his head. “I wanted to come over to bring you the print. Do you like it?”

Patrick wasn’t sure what to do with this sudden shy side of Rich. He was used to the snarky, self-assured, defensive man who just happened to turn his crank like no other. Though he didn’t really know what was happening, he had a feeling that he should handle this moment with extreme care.

“It’s incredible…beautiful. Thank you.”

Rich gave him the brightest, most genuine smile Patrick had seen from him. He was proud of his work—though he didn’t want anyone to know how much.

“Thanks. You don’t have to keep it there. It won’t hurt my feelings if you move it or take it down.” His smile became lopsided, and his eyes twinkled. “I mean, I’m sure that’s not the kind of artwork you’d want hanging up when your mom comes over.”

Patrick lowered his head so that he could look Rich straight in the eyes. “Fuck that, it’s staying. My house, my art. If guests don’t like it, they can feel free to show themselves out.”

“Cool,” Rich said. He shrugged it off, but Patrick could tell he was pleased.

“What’s the occasion, if you don’t mind my asking? I didn’t miss an anniversary or anything, did I?” He expected his sarcasm to at least get a chuckle out of the guy, maybe even a real laugh. Instead, Rich paled and clenched his hands in the down duvet.

“Yeah, uh…that’s sort of related to what I came here to talk to you about. I made a decision the other day during the burn—no, that’s wrong. I would say it’s more like I came to a realization. But before I can explain that to you, there are some things you need to know about me.”

Even though he was as jumpy as he’d ever been, Patrick reached down deep inside himself to draw on whatever inner stillness he could find. Rich looked like he was on the precipice of something big—something life changing—and the last thing Patrick wanted to do was get in his way.

“I’m all ears.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Rich was the fucking poster boy for ‘up shit creek without a paddle.’ He’d gone over and over what he would say to Patrick, but when faced with the man, he was completely at a loss. He had no frame of reference for this. He knew how he felt about Patrick; he knew he needed to tell Patrick, but he was pretty terrified.

So far this little relationship of theirs had been flying totally under the radar of Rich’s shit luck, and he was afraid that acknowledging it would cause everything to fall apart—like it always did. He felt like his insides were crawling and knew it was because he was about to put himself into a position of vulnerability, and his survival instincts were trying to take over. He just had to convince his insides that Patrick wasn’t the enemy.

Taking a deep breath, Rich prepared to gut himself and hoped his man would be there to put him back together on the other side. “You know how I grew up—I think I’ve given you all the ‘highlights’ by now.” He stared off into space, but he could see Patrick nod in his peripheral vision. “You know that this whole thing with John-Michael and Jos is new to me, and it’s a work in progress.

“What you may not have figured out is that there was never really anyone else around for me—other than Rory.”

“So that’s why you freaked out about Justice, then?”

Rich hadn’t expected Patrick to figure out the direction he was taking so quickly. It disconcerted him. “Yes, but it goes back farther than that. Rory’s a couple of years younger than me, and I pretty much found him homeless on my doorstep. Obviously that struck a chord with me. I took him in, we became inseparable for the most part, and he was almost like a replacement for John-Michael—I know that now, but at the time, you know I thought I was in love with him.

“It all started way before Justice ever came to Seattle. The first time I ever heard Rory on the phone with him, sight unseen, I resented him. The relationship they had, the ease with which they spoke to one another, the banter, friendship, and love in general—they were all the things I’d been deprived of and couldn’t begin to understand.