Clear Water Read Online Free Page B

from the wall, looking as pathetic as any kid ever did. “Whiskey?”
    “Yeah?”
    “You’re a good guy, but I’m a lot of fucking trouble. I’ll try and be out of your hair soon, okay?”
    Whiskey ruffled his crusty hair. “No worries. We can always use slave labor. Help when you’re ready.”
    And with that, he turned around and left the tiny, dark-paneled berth. He didn’t hear any more sobs as he went, but he imagined he wouldn’t hear any giggles either. Didn’t matter. He had shit to do.

Trix Counting Tadpoles
     
    P ATRICK did eventually fall back asleep, and when he woke up, he was surprised to find that his head was mostly okay but that his mouth still tasted like ass and his body felt like it had been worked over by a steamroller.
    He smelled pretty rank too.
    Whiskey. Was that really the guy’s name? Patrick liked it. It suited him. His dark hair was curly and long, his eyes were dark amber-brown, his voice was rough, he had a cheek full of black stubble, and most of the skin Patrick had seen peeking out of his shredded clothing had been tan.
    He looked like whiskey, and not the shitty kind that Cal used to down, either. He looked like the good kind, the dark tawny kind that his dad kept in the bar at home and only broke out when he had clients or employees over for carefully orchestrated dinners.
    His growly voice alone made Patrick’s cock hard the minute he opened his mouth, and considering how gawd-fucking-awful the rest of Patrick had felt, that had been some voice.
    But now he was gone, and Patrick had to get up and face wherever the fuck he was and whatever scrape he’d gotten himself into. Yay! Did this win him maturity points? Because Jesus, something had to!
    He rolled out of the hard pedestal bed onto some crappy orange carpeting and felt the subtle change of motion when he did. All sorts of things started to make sense to him then—the unsettling, unanchored feeling he’d had in his stomach since he’d awakened, the faint slap-shush sound that had worked its way into his dreams, the fact that he smelled like sewage and diesel oil. Cal’s favorite club was near the Garden Highway—right off the river. They were down near the delta somewhere, and he was on one of those big houseboat thingies.
    What were you doing, Cal? he thought bitterly. Where were you taking me after you slipped me a fucking roofie?
    One beer. He’d swear to it—and not only that, he’d swear he hadn’t finished it. Oh, yeah, he knew about Cal and the little mini-pharmacy in his pocket. Cal had lots of friends interested in that mini-pharmacy, but Patrick had always thought that he’d been special, because Patrick had been interested in Cal.
    Apparently, the only reason Patrick had been special was that Patrick gave Cal money without even needing to get drugs back.
    Aw, fuck. Cal probably had his wallet and maybe even his phone. Patrick didn’t know how much time Cal would have had after he wrecked the car, but he doubted Cal would have left without Patrick’s credit cards and bank card. Patrick had even written his pin codes on a card, just for psycho drug dealing losers to use to steal from him. Jesus—it was ten o’clock in the morning. Not that his dad couldn’t afford it and lots of it, but the idea that Cal would clean out all his bank accounts so he could live off of Shawn Cleary’s dime for a little while? Ugh. Patrick put his hand on his stomach and thought about how glad he was that he didn’t get sick easily. Jesus, his dad’s worst fear, and Patrick hadn’t even thought it was possible. Not his boyfriend—not Cal!
    Right. Well, there ya go. Shawn Cleary: 1,000 right guesses about life. His son Patrick: zero. Wonderful.
    Patrick sighed and started rifling through the drawers to come out with something that fit. Oh. My. God. The word clothes had been sort of an exaggeration. Well, it was hot, probably in the high nineties like the day before, so Patrick grabbed a pair of boxers and a pair of