The Broken Triangle (14 page)

And Patrick wasn’t.

“Sorry,” Ben said. He looked it. “I didn’t mean that to be as hard as it was.”

“Hey, you know me,” Patrick said, more concerned with fixing his hair than rubbing the sore spot where Ben’s hand had made contact. “I’m a big fan of hard things.”

“Shane’s in there moaning about you goofing off, and I don’t want to hear it. He has enough to complain about as it is.”

Patrick couldn’t imagine what that might be. The business had taken off like a shot as soon as Ben got involved, and even the months they’d been out of work after the fire while the place was being rebuilt hadn’t done more than pause the upward climb. Not that Ben and Shane shared the exact details with their employees, but there’d been raises across the board when the Peg reopened—tiny ones, but still an excuse to celebrate with a shopping spree—and heavy hints that there’d be Christmas bonuses in the near future. What on earth could Shane have to complain about?

He realized he was still standing there in front of Ben, not working, and maybe his employers had a point when they nagged him about being lazy. “Right,” he told Ben, striving for brisk efficiency. “I’m gonna go check the bathroom, make sure it’s clean.”

“Good idea.”

The ladies’ room was Shelly’s territory, and even when she didn’t work for a couple of days in a row, a quick mop after closing was enough to keep it clean. The Square Peg’s regulars were mostly men, and the occasional group of female customers seemed to be less disgusting than guys when it came to bathrooms. Patrick glanced in through the doorway, but the lights were off, so he turned his attention to the men’s room.

It smelled fresh, which was still a novelty. There was no denying it; a year ago, this place would’ve been on the stinky side, floor wet with splashed water and piss, toilet paper as rare as a winning lottery ticket, and the soap dispensers empty for long enough that they were bone-dry inside. Not that anyone had complained at the time, but now that they were used to it being clean, they’d probably get fussy if things went back to the way they were. People were funny like that.

A tall blond guy was taking a piss, the muted sound of his stream hitting porcelain lost a moment later when a toilet flushed. Patrick gave the man who emerged from the stall a brief smile that changed to a reproving frown when the man didn’t wash his hands. Eww. He stepped aside to let him leave and peeked into the three stalls to make sure the toilets were clean and the supply of paper was adequate, holding his breath when he got to the one that’d been recently used.

“You always this fussy about where you take a shit?”

Patrick whirled around. Tall-and-blond was leaning against the sinks, drying his hands on a paper towel.

“What? No. I mean, yes. But I don’t want to.”

Ooh, that was a nice smile he was getting. Friendly. Sexy. Knowing his reaction to it wasn’t going to be easy to hide in his jeans, he didn’t even try, doing some leaning of his own against the nearest stall.

“So you were looking for something in there? Maybe I can help you find it.” The man balled up the towel and tossed it into the trash, then adjusted his dick through his dark pants, taking a little too long for it to be innocently done. His cock was already hardening to a mouthwatering length. “Unless it’s really small. Is it?”

An afternoon quickie would be just the thing to take his mind off his shoes and dislodge naughty thoughts about Vin from his head. It would also get him fired, because the way his luck was running, his knees would hit the floor, his mouth would open wide, and Ben or Shane—no, both of them—would walk in and find him.

“I’m short, but my dick isn’t, I swear.” Patrick caught his lip between his teeth, hitting the brakes before he took flirting past the point of no return. “Look, I work here, but I finish at six—”

“Not interested in waiting.” The man moved in closer, three long strides, not touching Patrick but filling the space before him. He leaned over, pursing his lips to blow across the side of Patrick’s neck. Every hair Patrick had rose, and his dick decided to copy them. Anything done to his neck worked for him. Licking, biting, light touches, or a tight grip. Total kink of his. “I am interested in seeing if you’re telling the truth about your dick, though.”

“Suppose I lied?” Patrick fluttered his eyelashes. He overdid the twink sometimes, but it worked for him. “Would you be mad at me?”

Gray eyes twinkled down at him. “I’d blister your little butt, but I could see from across the room you weren’t lying, so I guess you’re safe. Now tell me again how you’re working, but you’re still going to blow me in the next two minutes, because I’m just that hot.”

Patrick hesitated, but he already knew what his answer would be. He was easy, and anyone with even a hint of gaydar had always been able to tell—and most of them had been willing to take advantage of it. This was who he was. Why try to change? It wasn’t as if anyone looking for something more serious than a quick fuck was ever going to give him a chance. Guys who wanted someone permanent—guys like Vin—didn’t want a slut like Patrick.

“Okay, stud,” he said, jerking his thumb at the handicapped stall, which at least would give them room to breathe. “Let’s make some magic.”

It went well. When didn’t it? Patrick knew what he was doing, and he had a dozen tricks for spinning a BJ out or making a guy shoot helplessly within a minute. His personal best was thirty-eight seconds, though he’d stopped counting in his head toward the end, so maybe it was more like forty-eight. Even through latex, he could feel the heat of the cock he was sucking, melting the last of his hesitation and making him wish they had more time.

Punishing the man for his impatience was something he owed it to himself to do, though. Patrick was a slut, and he got off on big butch guys pushing him around a bed or to his knees, but he was always in charge, even if that was a secret he kept to himself.

So he jiggled and rolled a heavy pair of balls in his hand with an expert twist of his wrist, dug the tip of his tongue into every sensitive place he found on the cock in his mouth, and—because that smile had been a nice one—handed over a wad of toilet paper for the guy to put to good use when it was all over.

A familiar slack-jawed gape of pleasure had replaced the smile. Patrick smiled demurely and, still on his knees, took out his cock, jerking off into a generous handful of toilet paper with a minimum of noise and mess. He could’ve gotten the guy to do it, but right then pulling up a zipper was giving the man issues, so Patrick wasn’t about to trust him with something as important as his dick.

Jerking off didn’t take long either. When he’d finished washing his hands and checking his reflection, he found himself wondering if it’d been worth it.

And that was a scary thought for a Monday afternoon.

With a final flutter of his lashes and a casual flick of his fingers in farewell, he sauntered back out into the bar. Shane glanced over at him, but Patrick was good at hiding his emotions. His cheeks might have been a shade pinker than usual, but he made sure he looked like an employee who’d completed a boring task, not a man who’d gotten lucky.

He would’ve gotten away with it if Tall-Blond-and-Stupid hadn’t come out of the toilet a moment later, glowing with satisfaction, everything from his strut to the wink he gave Patrick giving the game away.

Patrick swallowed, his lips dry, his heart hammering painfully. Fuck.
Please let Shane be struck blind.
No, that wasn’t nice.
Let Shane have looked away.
Yes. Dropped something and bent to pick it up, giving that stupid bastard time to walk away and out of Patrick’s life forever.

He sneaked a peek at the bar, and his glance collided with Shane’s furious glare. Shane’s mouth was tight, his nostrils flared, the powerful body a solid mass of anger. He raised his hand, crooked his middle finger, then stabbed it at the door leading into the office space, his message clear.

Shit.

“Shane, I didn’t—” Patrick tried when he got closer, but Shane shook his head.

“Shut it. Now.”

Meekly Patrick shuffled past him and went into the office, where Ben was sitting behind the desk. Ben looked up and smiled, but the smile turned into a confused frown when Shane came in and shut the door with a kick of his heel.

“That’s it,” Shane growled. “I’ve overlooked too much for too long. Let you get away with shit that would have had you shown the door a dozen times anywhere else. But this—”

“What’s going on?” Ben interrupted and stood, coming around the desk and putting himself between them. Patrick was grateful for the buffer zone. Shane could be hot as hell, and his accent had at least half a dozen customers creating excuses to extend their conversations with him each week, but right then he was reading more terrifying than sexy.

Patrick kept quiet, wanting to see what Shane had guessed rather than confirming his suspicions.

“He’s fucking customers in the toilet,” Shane snapped.

“I’m not!” Patrick snapped back. “It was one guy, and I didn’t fuck him! And for the record, I’ve never fucked anyone here at the bar. Well, okay, once, but it was in a car outside, so it doesn’t count! You don’t own the whole world, you know!” Patrick knew he was making things worse, but he couldn’t help it.

Shane sucked in an outraged breath. “I bloody well own you during the hours I’m paying you to serve drinks and wash glasses and mop up piss!”

“Both of you, stop shouting,” Ben said. He managed to sound calm and stern at the same time. “Patrick, were you having sex in the bathroom? It’s a simple question.”

Patrick’s voice cracked when he tried to answer. “No.” But he didn’t want to lie to Ben. “I…I sucked a guy off.”

“That’s only ‘not sex’ in an alternate universe,” Shane growled. “That’s it. I’ve had it with you. There are dozens of people who’d be grateful for a good job like this, instead of arsing around on the company’s time. You’re—”

“No.” Ben was fierce in a way Patrick had rarely seen him. “Not another word. Patrick, wait outside. Shane and I need to discuss this alone.”

The air in the hallway seemed ten degrees cooler, but Patrick’s face still stung hot with humiliation and anger. He slumped down on the floor, leaning his head back against the wall, and waited for the office door to open again.

He could get another job easily enough—probably by doing what he’d done in the stall—but nowhere like this. The Square Peg staff felt like family, and Vin—God, he’d miss Vin so much. Their shifts would never line up and let them spend time together, not with the Riley factor to consider. They’d drift apart, and Vin would forget all about him.

He choked back a moan, and was he crying? Was he? Shit, he was.

“Patrick? Shit, what did he do to you?” Vin slid to his knees on the floor and put his arm around Patrick in an awkward half hug. “He yells, but he doesn’t mean half of what he says. It’s his safety valve.”

“‘Sound and fury, signifying nothing,’” Patrick said wearily. Vin made a puzzled sound. “It’s from a play.
Macbeth
. I had a thing for the English teacher in my senior year. Thought memorizing a few lines from Shakespeare would get him to eat my apple, if you get my drift.”

“Did it?” Vin kept any hint of censure from his voice, but Patrick doubted Vin approved of what had been a harmless crush on an oblivious teacher.

“No, and what is wrong with me?” He banged his head against the wall a few times, ignoring the dull throb it left behind. Maybe it’d teach him that when he did something crazy, the consequences weren’t fun. Except this happened so often it was a lesson he seemed incapable of learning.

Vin’s hand slid between Patrick’s skull and the wall. “It was kind of stupid. Did you even know him?”

Patrick closed his eyes. “He had a nice smile. No brains, but his dick was a seven, easy. Does that count?”

Vin’s sigh was answer enough.

“They’re kicking me out,” he told Vin. It hurt to say, but it was less physically damaging than the head banging. “Ben’s probably telling Shane not to make the kicking literal, but I’m done here.”

“You are so fucking not.”

That got his eyes popping open. Vin was close enough to kiss, not that Patrick would ever go there. Watching Vin flinch back would hurt too much. “I’m not? Are you, like, the secret owner and they work for you? Because if you are, I swear I’ll behave from now on.”

Vin hissed with exasperation and yanked his hand away. Ouch. Wall. “No, of course I’m not. Do you ever take anything seriously?”

He closed his eyes again, shutting out the world and the next ten minutes of his future. He wasn’t going to enjoy them; therefore he was going to keep his eyes closed until they were over. It was a good strategy. Ask any ostrich.

“Not taking anything seriously is my safety valve. I’m toast. It’s done. Be nice to my replacement. Well, not too nice. In fact, I hate him already, whoever he is, so you have to hate him too.”

“You go, I go.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Patrick. Look at me.” Patrick obeyed because it was Vin giving the orders. “How often do I say things I don’t mean?”

“I don’t know.” Trying to be fair, Patrick thought hard for a minute. “Never?”

Vin nodded. “I mean it. If they fire you, I’m gone. They might be able to replace you without much trouble—sorry—but not both of us.”

“No, it’s okay. Shane said the same thing. There are tons of people who’d be better employees than me. I suck.”

“Sounds like that was the problem,” Vin said.

Patrick’s eyes flooded with tears, hot and spilling everywhere.

Vin gathered him close and held him. “Hey, shh. Don’t cry.”

“I deserve to be fired. I’m a terrible person. I’m no good at my job, and…I’m a slut. No decent guy is ever gonna want me.” Patrick spoke between sniffles but sprang to his feet when he heard the office door opening.

Ben was the one standing there to deliver the verdict. Was that good or bad?

“Shane and I have agreed,” he said. “One more chance, Patrick, but that’s it. We’re serious. You’re on probation, and if you screw up again like that, we’ll have no other option but to let you go. I’ll write up something to that effect for you to sign before your shift ends. All right?”