Free Clear Water by Amy Lane Page A

reason they settled him. He could bring back the groceries to Fly Bait and Whiskey and then leave a message on his father’s machine. He didn’t need to face the world just yet. It would be okay.
    That was his mantra, through checkout, through packing the groceries back into the tiny Celica, through the trip back down the levee to the quay. (He knew where he was now—about forty-five minutes down I-5 from Cal’s bar. Jesus, Cal—where were you taking me?) It would be okay. It would be fine. He would be fine. He’d tell his father that he was fine and that Shawn Cleary didn’t have to worry about Patrick ever again. Shawn would probably be relieved. It would be okay.
    He didn’t stop to think about the future or that he couldn’t live with Whiskey and Fly Bait forever—but then, long-term planning had never been Patrick’s strongpoint. He just pulled the car up into the parking lot for the boat dock and grabbed his environmentally friendly blue Walmart bags and flip-flopped his way down to the quay.
    As he neared the boat, he was startled to see Whiskey and Fly Bait on the deck, talking to a man standing on the dock whom Patrick didn’t recognize.
    The man was wearing slacks, worn leather shoes, and a short-sleeved polyester button-up shirt with a cheap tie. He was talking to Fly Bait intently, taking notes on a little pad of paper, and he didn’t see Whiskey’s intent look at Patrick. Patrick did, and when Whiskey darted his eyes to the little fish/bait/gas shop at the other end of the quay, Patrick didn’t even hesitate to change his direction and walk straight for it.
    He had enough change to buy a soda and some ice cream bars, and by the time he’d thrown his little bag in with the rest of the groceries, the guy had moved on down the docks. Patrick hurried over to them, his arms cording with the strain of $160 of Walmart food and groceries.
    “Whowazzat?” he asked, taking the step from the dock to the boat so quickly he tripped. He would have gone sprawling, but Fly Bait steadied his shoulder and Whiskey caught him around the waist. He didn’t even acknowledge he’d almost gone over, and the two of them started taking the bags from him gently while he tried to talk to them with his hands.
    “Whowazzat? Did my dad send him? Because I’m all over the fucking news! There was even a picture!” It had been his senior portrait. Six years ago he’d had a little bit of baby fat, and his hair had been really lame, but people might still recognize him. “I’m on the news and my dad thinks I’m dead and whothefuckwazzat?”
    Whiskey and Fly Bait exchanged looks as Patrick started bouncing so hard on his toes that the boat began to rock.
    “My dad thinks I’m dead! I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I… it’s just my dad thinks I’m dead and I probably have to pay for the guard rail and the salvage and I didn’t want to scare anyone I just wanted to fucking disappear. Oh Jesus…. It’s not like he gives a fuck anyway, why did he have to put me all over the fucking television?”
    Whiskey was suddenly there—river and sweat (today was about ninety-eight and humid, so the emphasis was on sweat) and heat—and he clapped his hands on Patrick’s shoulders and held him there while he vibrated with the need to bounce some more.
    “Patrick,” he asked, calmly, like he was talking about breakfast cereal, “did you by any chance forget your meds this morning? And your yoga? You’re back awfully early—did you, maybe, skip a little part of your morning routine?”
    “I can’t take them without food—there was nothing to eat. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Who was that? I need to call my dad—who was that?”
    Whiskey nodded. “Okay. Here. How about do this for a minute?” He extended his arm then, and cocked his hips, and Patrick was suddenly looking at his form. It sucked.
    “Okay,” he said, taking his hands unselfconsciously and putting them on Whiskey’s hips. “You need to be like this. Move your