Free Clear Water by Amy Lane Page B

hips here ”—he adjusted them—“and fix your feet so they’re here ”—and then he put out his hands to steady that surprisingly solid, muscular body. “Oh yeah—and look at your hand. No—move your neck so your chin is parallel with the ground, okay? Can you do that?”
    Whiskey’s next words sounded like they were coming from gritted teeth. “This is harder than it looks, Patrick. Howzabout you do this one and show me how.”
    Patrick stood up and placed his feet carefully, balancing his weight on his front foot. He extended his arms and leaned forward, keeping his chin parallel to the deck and his eyes on the ends of his fingers.
    “Okay,” he said, his voice evening out. “Now, raise your hand above your head and follow it.”
    Whiskey did so, and Patrick turned a little and gave him advice to adjust his form.
    “Stop concentrating on me, kid—work on your own for a bit, okay?”
    Patrick sighed. “I was going to be a teacher,” he said apologetically. “Maybe if I talk to them, they’ll keep the job open for me.”
    “You could call them up,” Whiskey said, relaxing his arms and leaning back against the quarters. Patrick continued his pose, moving down to the triangle pose and feeling some of his agitation seep into the humid air as he moved.
    “I will. First I’ve got to leave a message for my dad, though. He needs to know to stop looking.”
    “We can do that too. Why didn’t you take the yoga job right away?”
    Patrick snorted. “Yeah, right.”
    “What? You too good for work?”
    Patrick sighed, let out some more tension, and moved to the revolved triangle. “No,” he breathed, letting the sun sink into his skin, muscles, and bones. “That’s what my dad said when I told him I was going to get a job teaching yoga to help put me through school.”
    Whiskey grunted. “Why’d he say that?”
    Patrick shifted his weight, went into revolved triangle from the other side, caught his breath, and answered. “Because I’m a fuckup major. Why wouldn’t this be like anything else?”
    There was a silence, and Patrick’s heart sank and then established its normal rhythm. Why would I expect him to be any different? It’s my problem, not his.
    “Because you’re good at this,” Whiskey said, and Patrick’s heart started skipping rope like girls on a playground. “You’re good at this. And you’re not a fuckup. Find your center, enhance your calm, restore your peace, what-the-fuck-ever. Did you bring in the water?”
    Patrick was back in the warrior-three position. “The flats are still in the car.”
    “I’ll go get them. When I get back, you, me, Fly Bait, we’ll have a little powwow, okay? Don’t worry, Patrick. We’re not going to sell you out, okay?”
    Patrick straightened, got both feet on the ground, and went into sun salutations. “I don’t know why,” he confessed, calm and able to say it without self-pity now. “I mean, I’ve got to be a colossal pain in the ass. But I’m really grateful. I’ll do whatever you need me to do, because I don’t ever want to take you guys for granted, ’kay?”
    “We’ll hold you to that, Patrick,” Whiskey said, heading for the dock around Patrick’s stretching, breathing body. He didn’t sound like he was taking the promise seriously at all, but Patrick wasn’t wounded. As he commenced in another sun salutation, he thought with more confidence than was usual for him that he just had to prove that he meant it.

Whiskey Fuckup Major
     
    P ATRICK didn’t notice as Whiskey hauled the cases of water past him and down the steps into the relative cool of the boat quarters. Whiskey was glad, because he had a hard enough time keeping his hands from shaking as it was.
    Something about the kid’s touch on his hips, his waist, his arms—hell, his chin—had made Whiskey sweat, and the worst part? Patrick had no idea. For a kid with a mouth that fuckable, Patrick was… God….
    Whiskey set the water down and stared out the small