Will & Patrick Wake Up Married (15 page)

Patrick shrugs. “Charm’s for people with no substance to back it up.”

Will huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. Patrick notices again how well formed his biceps are. “Oh, funny. I thought it was for people who wanted other people to like them.”

“Exactly. And that’s not on my agenda. I don’t need people to like me, so long as they respect me. And so long as they respect that
I’m in love with you
,” he says loudly, aiming his voice to the man in the corner.

“They’d respect you more if they liked you.”

“Show me statistics to prove that.” Patrick slurps his last sip of coffee. “New topic: I should probably go buy some actual clothes to wear. I grabbed a few things at the sporting goods place, but not nearly enough to get by. And you’re paying, by the way.”

Will sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, okay. Let me just get a Buckaroo to go and I’ll take you somewhere. Just please don’t talk to anyone, okay? Keep your mouth closed.” He walks wearily to the counter.

Patrick doesn’t want to embarrass Will. But he’s nervous and out of his routine. He’s never been good with the social skills at the best of times. If he’d been born five or six years later than he was, he’d probably have been diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. As it is, he’s always been inappropriate and weird and he knows he does life wrong. But why can’t Will be more like Jenny? Jenny doesn’t seem to care.

He taps his fingers against his leg and stares at the back of Will’s blond head. Jenny isn’t married to him. She can laugh and walk away and no one will judge her for what Patrick says or does. Hot shame prickles his neck, something he hasn’t felt in a long time. He wishes, for Will, he could be different.

But then he shakes it off.

For God’s sake, he’s Patrick McCloud, neurosurgeon. He cuts into people’s brains and saves lives. He’s a superhero, a savant, a saint, a genius. If Will can’t handle his social ineptitude, that’s his problem. Patrick’s the best damn catch in the ocean and if Will’s not proud of himself for reeling Patrick McCloud in, even for pretend, that’s his loss.

He doesn’t need Will’s approval.

Will leans his elbows on the counter, bending forward a little so that his pants stretch tightly across his ass. Patrick’s dick thickens in response.

“Traitor,” he mutters.
 

After shopping at a local men’s boutique, Will isn’t sure if he’s happy Patrick’s so easy to please, or appalled that Patrick buys two pairs of black jeans, two navy shirts, and two maroon shirts, all of them basically the same, and calls it a day. For Will, shopping has always been a bit more of an ordeal. He spends hours looking for the right fit, the right material, the right color.

Dress to impress, Nonna always says, and so Will does.

Back at the Tallgrass, Patrick dumps his shopping bags on the bed and immediately grabs the room service menu. Will can’t even believe what he’s seeing, given that, in between the store where they bought shirts and the store where they bought pants, Patrick had stopped by the Talking Hog food truck. He’d moaned around his bites of burger in a way that’d made Will blush with memories.

Will looks at the clock. He’s missed the two o’clock AA meeting. There’s another at eight. He doesn’t know if he’s got the energy to make it. He should call Owen at least. He’ll be worried.

He sends a text instead:
Back in town. At Tallgrass for now. I’m sober and I’ll stay that way. See you tomorrow.

Owen’s reply is typical:
Remember:
The program works if you work it. I’m always here for you.

As Will tucks his phone away, he hears Patrick order a salad with grilled chicken.

“What dressing do you like?” Patrick asks.

“Who? Me?”

“You, my diabetic hubby, need to eat.”

“Oh.” Warmth bubbles inside. It’s nice that Patrick remembers his disease even when he’s so distressed he’s basically forgotten it himself. “Okay, uh. Oil and vinegar is fine.”

Patrick wrinkles his nose but orders accordingly and asks for a fruit bowl for himself before hanging up. “Are you always so forgetful about eating? Or is it just situational stress messing you up? Because you need to take better care of yourself. I don’t want you ending up in the hospital.”

“Thanks, Dr. Bossy. Do you actually care?”

“No, not really,” Patrick says cheerfully. Then he sighs, squeezes the bridge of his nose, and it obviously costs him a little to add, “Yes. I do, actually. I could say I’m a doctor and it’s my job to care, and that would be true. It’s also true that I care specifically about
you
. It’s probably all the orgasms you gave me. Coming so hard while looking at your face screwed up my head.”

Will doesn’t understand how Patrick can almost be so sweet and then turn around to ruin it immediately.

Room service arrives. While Patrick signs for it, Will does his calculations, lifts his shirt, and injects himself on the opposite side of his abdomen from his last shot. He deals with the needle and tosses his insulin pen back in the bag.

Patrick must be tired too, because while they eat he doesn’t press Will for more information about his meeting with Eleanora. He just pops grapes and strawberries into his mouth and watches Will swallow like it’s somehow fascinating. When they’re both done, Will puts the tray out into the hallway to be collected.

Now that every other excuse is gone, Will intends to go see his mom before more of the day gets away from him. He really does. But he’s completely wrung out. He collapses on the sofa, letting his head fall back. He’ll just close his eyes for a second. Maybe he’ll wake up to find this has all been a terrible dream.

Patrick, though, is ready to talk. He sits beside Will and rubs his hands together in anticipation. “What did Granny say? Can she free me from the shackles of our loveless union?”

Will puts his head in his hands. “It’s not going to be as easy as I hoped initially. It might take some time.”

“We knew that. How much time? A week? Two?”

“Maybe a month?”

“What?” Patrick’s voice is loud.

“Maybe more than a month? Possibly up to a year?”

Patrick’s eyes grow dark with anger. “Don’t tell me the all-powerful Eleanora Molinaro you were going on about so enthusiastically when you were convincing me of this half-baked scheme can’t make a little inadvertent marriage disappear.”

“Could you hold it down?” Will whispers. “Or do you want someone to hear?”

“Oooh, right, the Molinaro spies. Might have the place bugged. Guess I shouldn’t yell then?
I’m not your toy, Will. I want a divorce and I want one now,
” Patrick hollers.

Will glares, raising his own voice. “Don’t be so dramatic, baby!” He stares Patrick down, daring him to say something else. “You know I love you more than life!”

Patrick stares daggers at him. “Who do you think you’re fooling, Will? The bellhops? The maids?” He wipes a hand across his face and stands. “You know, no. I can’t believe I’ve let your paranoia and insanity drag me across the country into this hornet’s nest of absurdity and—”

He rants on, but Will’s not paying attention anymore, because Patrick’s tossing his new clothes onto the bed and getting out his suitcase.

“Wait.” Will gets up and puts his hands on Patrick’s arms. “Wait, don’t.”

Patrick throws a shirt into the bag and sighs. “What do you want from me? I gave your plan a chance, but there is no way in hell I’m going to hang around this town for a
year
. Not when I could be at the Mayo Clinic or Cedars-Sinai or Vandy. Not when I can be honing my skills and expanding my practice. I am
not
small-town material, Will. I’m the big-time. I have absolutely no desire to play your loving spouse indefinitely and if your grandmother can’t get us out of this mess? Well, I sure as hell can.”

“Look. I know you can. I just need you—no, no, stop that. You’re not going anywhere.” Will pushes Patrick, trying to move him away from the bags.

Patrick lurches toward him, gripping his forearms and shoving him back with surprising strength. “I’ve been
pushed around
enough in my life, Will. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m going to take care of this my way.”

Will breathes in hard. Terror and attraction jolts through him at once. He swallows and backs away from Patrick, his hands shaking and his throat dry.

Patrick picks up his suitcase and heads for the door, and as he opens it, Will tries to block him.

“Really? It’s come to this? Holding me against my will?”

Will pushes the barely open door shut with a hard slam. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Patrick. This is just our first lover’s spat. That’s all. The first of many to come in our long, wonderfully happy marriage.”

Patrick stares at him like he’s kind of impressed by this level of insanity.
“Good God, you’re drinking your own Kool-Aid.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a very, very expensive drink.”

“You think you’re so clever don’t you?”

Will shrugs. “I think I don’t know what else to do.”

Patrick studies him for a moment and then eases his suitcase down to the floor. Will’s not sure what makes Patrick change his mind about walking out, but he steps away and throws his suitcase back on the chair by the bed. He stands with one hand jiggling by his leg and stares at Will.

Will takes a deep breath. “It won’t take a year. I promise. A month? A few months, tops?”

“And I should believe you because?”

“Because I don’t want to be married to you any more than you want to be married to me.”

“Right. Because of your boyfriend.
Ryan
. The noble asshole who dumps you over the phone while you’re in a bar, knowing full well you’re an alcoholic, alone in a city with no support system—”

“Just leave Ryan out of this.” It’s a reflexive defense. “You don’t know him at all.”

“Somehow I feel like I know him better than you do, Will.” Patrick rolls his eyes, waves his hands dismissively, and says, “Never mind. Forget I brought it up. A month. Maybe a whole year of this, you, this
town
.” Patrick shudders. He sits at the table, opens his briefcase and pulls out his laptop. He snaps it open. “Excuse me while I look at pictures of cancer-stricken kids.”

“What?”

“To inspire me to stay the course of this stupid plan.”

Will’s still standing by the door, half blocking it. Deep down he expects Patrick to make another run at it. Patrick clicks away at the keyboard, and then turns his laptop around for Will to see. There’s a full-screen photo of a bald, sick little girl in a hospital bed.

Patrick makes a fake crying face complete with fake sniffles. “So brave. She’s such a hero,” he says with a put-on quaver.

Will stares at him, incredulity rearing up inside him.

The moments tick by and Patrick pulls up a second photo, this time of an infant attached to wires. “Boo hoo. Sick baby.”

Will blinks wildly at him.

Patrick rolls his eyes and then clicks around some more on the computer but doesn’t show Will what he’s looking at. As the minutes tick by, Will’s muscles unclench one by one. God, he’s so exhausted. So damn tired.

He sinks onto the sofa and listens to the tapping of Patrick’s fingers on the keyboard, wondering if Patrick’s going to try to escape again. He snorts softly at the thought. Escape. Like he’s a prisoner.

But he is. They both are.

Slowly, he shifts down until he’s mostly supine, a pillow under his head, and the room sways gently with his exhaustion.

He just wants to be back at the apartment he shares with Ryan—correction,
shared
with Ryan. He wants to curl up on their couch with his head on Ryan’s shoulder and their fingers intertwined. Who cares that they’ve haven’t cuddled like that in a very long time? Ryan is everything that Will’s ever known, and the best he could ever hope to get, and now…?

Will squeezes his eyes shut because he’s
not
going to cry about this again. He remembers Ryan and Hartley together in the coffee shop, hearing Ryan’s words and
knowing
that he’s been played for an even bigger fool. And Hartley. Seeing Hartley’s hands on Ryan’s body, his tender, satisfied expression, and listening to the crap he’s feeding Ryan like some puppy he’s going to nurse back to health?