The Way Things Are (16 page)

The look on Ken’s face was grim and angry, like he wanted to argue about it. Maybe Patrick was making more work for the guy, but he really didn’t care. He’d spent the last five weeks walking on eggshells at every hearing, meeting, and community service hour. He was going to stop agonizing over Ken Atkins’s opinion of him.

Finally, Ken turned away. “I guess Thursday’s fine. I’ll call and let you know the time.”

Patrick gave in to the urge to watch Ken walk away, but he swore that was where his obsession would end.

Corbin appeared by his side. “Just so you know, there is no chance in hell I’m letting you back out tonight just because he left.”

T
WO
HOURS
later—after a shower, shave, and twenty minutes of trying to remember what box his nice clothes were in—he put on a pair of wrinkled slacks and a polo shirt, applied a bit of cologne, and shoved a couple of condoms in his back pocket. It had been nearly three years since he’d gone out just to get laid, but it had never been that hard to pick somebody up for a bit of fun. Even if he was horribly out of practice, it was better to be prepared.

Corbin’s Attic was quiet and mostly empty when he got there. The band Corbin booked to entertain the Saturday-night crowd was still setting up, and Corbin was still maneuvering new kegs into the cooler. As always, Corbin was dressed more like one of his patrons than like a professional. This time he wore tight black jeans and a tie-died rainbow T-shirt that fit him like a second skin.

He stopped fighting with the keg when he saw Patrick and just stared, openmouthed. “You’re here,” he shouted. “You actually showed up without me having to pay you!”

The bartender, a young man who hardly looked twenty-one himself, hurried over. “I can finally give you something besides water, then?” he smiled. “What can I get for you?”

“Jack and Coke,” Corbin answered for him.

Patrick nodded. “He knows me well.”

The object of Corbin’s one-sided affection came in carrying one keg on each shoulder. Patrick watched Corbin’s dark brown eyes as he followed the man’s progress behind the bar. He wiped the tap clean, then moved out of the way so David could set each keg into place. Corbin brought a Perrier out of the cooler, opened it, and passed it to the giant without a word. He took a delicate sip, set the bottle down, and went back out to the truck.

“I get the generic bottled water and he gets Perrier?” Patrick muttered, curious if his friend would even hear him.

Corbin’s attention shot back to him as if he’d been startled out of a daydream.

“He didn’t even stock Perrier until he noticed David comes in with one each afternoon,” the bartender whispered.

“Any progress on that front?” Patrick asked, watching David stalk away.

“No.” His face fell. “That’s nonexistent. As long as he works for me, it’s a no.”

The bartender looked worried for a moment. “Don’t believe him,” he whispered to Patrick. “Whenever a fight breaks out, David makes sure two of the bouncers keep Corbin out of it. David worries about him.”

Patrick almost snorted into his drink.

The bartender looked insulted. “What’s so funny?”

“The idea that Corbin needs to be protected in a bar fight,” Patrick admitted. “I’ve got to say, that’s pretty damn funny.”

“Oh, come on, Pat. I run a reputable business now. Besides, you know damn well that I’m a wimp.” Corbin wiped his hands on a bar towel and then began to tap the two kegs David left behind.

“You’re a wimp?” Patrick asked, trying to keep a straight face. He shifted his eyes toward the back door and watched as the bouncer came in with two more kegs. They were probably about sixty pounds each. Heavy, but nothing like the weights Patrick knew Corbin lifted three times a week. At a hundred and sixty pounds, he could easily deadlift more than his own body weight.

Corbin ducked beneath the bouncer’s raised arm, obviously giving the man just enough room to squeeze by. “I absolutely am a wimp,” he insisted. “Hey, since you’re here, does that mean you’re giving up on the sexy PO?”

Patrick nodded slowly. “He thinks the only reason I even tried was so I could manipulate him into going easy on Jay.”

“What? That sucks. Seems like he’s been good for the kid, though.”

“Yeah. Jay hasn’t actually gotten arrested again. That’s got to count for something.”

Corbin just shrugged.

In his back pocket, his phone vibrated. He checked the caller ID, relieved when it was the shipping terminal and not Ken calling to let him know Jay had, in fact, been arrested again. “Hello?” he answered quickly.

“Patrick!” Ethan’s voice boomed over the phone.

“What’s up, Ethan? You got anything for me to do?” During the six weeks he’d been on the job, Patrick spent most of his mandatory breaks in the terminal tower bullshitting with Ethan. His boss seemed like a decent guy, and he followed professional and local competitive boxing close enough that they never ran out of things to talk about. Ethan always seemed to be just as broke as Patrick was, so he also didn’t feel like a bastard for hitting him for overtime every chance he got.

“I’ve got two freighters in line to unload, and I’m down to one crane instead of three. I know you can get this shit done. You up for it?”

Patrick set his drink down on the coaster and gently pushed it away. “Sure. I can be there in half an hour.”

“Cool. See you then.”

He ended the call and found Corbin staring at him from across the bar. “You’re leaving after ten minutes? It’s not even six!”

“I’m sorry, but I really need the overtime. And the one guy in this place you’ve apparently got nothing going on with looks like he wants to kill me.”

“He does not,” Corbin said, then caught himself. He leaned forward over the bar, grinning. “Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Corbin sighed happily, not looking at the bouncer. “He writes poems about habaneros.”

“What?”

Corbin grinned. “Poems. About peppers. He’s really smart, and he’s—”

“Just ask him out again. And actually invite him
out
, away from the club.”

“He can’t work up the nerve,” the bartender interrupted.

Patrick grabbed his jacket and waved, then hesitated. “I really am sorry I’ve got to go. But habaneros? Seriously?”

“The poems are…. They’re artistic and shit, and they’re really about gardening with his grandfather as a kid. They’re awesome.”

“You’ve got it bad, Corbin,” Patrick said, sincerely glad to see his friend interested in someone for more than sex. “I’ll see you later.”

By the time Patrick got to work, two of the three cranes at the terminal were running. Patrick had to assume Ethan had either found someone else to cover, or he’d called every certified crane operator he knew to get the terminal back on schedule. Patrick clocked in quickly, then ducked into the tower to check in. “Hey, Ethan, I’m here if you still need me.”

Ethan covered the microphone on his headset. “I need you. We’ve got a lot of work, thanks to all the holiday shipping. I swear, this shit catches me off guard every year. Crane 8 is set up to unload from the smaller barge, the manifests are loaded, and everything from that ship is just going into short-term holding until I can sort it out. But I’ve got my hands full with this,” he said, gesturing to the freighter. “Can you pace the carriers and get it done on your own?”

Patrick watched the straddle carriers below them for a moment. “Yeah, I can manage.”

Ethan leaned over his computer terminal, checked one of a thousand shipping manifests, and tapped out a few quick commands. “That’s two more rerouted for inspection. This is the worst time of year for the Port Authority to be breathing down our necks.”

“They’re still checking everything that’s underweight?”

“No.” Ethan typed another command. “As of three days ago, they decided they’re making me check everything that’s under, over, or just plain weird. It’s fucking November and I’ve got to waste an extra hour at the end of my shift checking security seals on hundreds of these boxes every single day.”

“Crane 8, huh? Yeah, I’ll get it done.”

“Thank you!” Ethan shouted, typing again. “Man, I hate this time of year.”

“Year-end bonus.” Patrick repeated the phrase that so many of them used as a mantra to get through their twelve-hour shifts.

“There is that. I sure as shit need the money, so I guess I should just stop whining about it.”

Patrick strapped himself into the crane harness, set the headset around his neck, and let himself zone out. The repetitive, precise movements carried him through the hours and the darkness. He felt his phone vibrate once, but it was the quick vibration of a text message, so he didn’t even stop to worry about Jay. By one in the morning, he’d finished unloading the smaller barge, and the gigantic open-hull freighter was already being tugged back out of Puget Sound.

He shifted in the harness and reached behind him to activate the microphone he’d taken to leaving turned off. “Ethan, you want me to shut down for the night?”

Patrick caught what he was pretty sure was a “yes” among a burst of static, and began to shut down the control panel quickly. He checked his phone while he was climbing into the small cage-like elevator that would lower him down to the tower itself.

“Hey Ethan, you need me any more tonight?” Patrick asked, ducking his head inside the terminal office.

“Yeah! If you’re done, can you take over for about thirty minutes while I go through the containers in the yard?” Ethan called without looking at him.

“Uh, I’m not so good with computers,” he admitted. “I operated a few straddle carriers in New York, but that was years ago. I can go scan the security seals for you, though. That’s just one button and a clipboard.”

“No, I can get that.” Ethan stood up, glaring out the window. He clicked his fingers at one of his assistants. “Stop the trollies.” He turned on the microphone attached to his headset. “Damn it! No! That’s a refrigerated unit, moron! It needs to be near the keel where the fucking power hookups are! Where the little diagram I spent an hour and a half putting together says it’s supposed to go! I swear to God, if you were on my crew full time, I’d fire your ass!” He listened for a moment, then rolled his eyes.

Patrick grabbed the handheld scanner and the iPad it was attached to. Not quite a clipboard, but Patrick had seen Ethan use the app before. The scanner and tablet were tucked into tough black cases, and each one had a long shoulder strap so it could be carried up the ladders used to access the higher containers in each stack.

The iPad blinked to life, and Patrick was pleased to see the app was loaded and running. It seemed a lot more straightforward than the neon green text on the bank of monitors in front of Ethan.

Patrick pulled the iPad’s power cord out and headed for the elevator. “I got it.”

Even in the elevator, he could still hear Ethan yelling into the microphone. That part of the terminal manager’s job Patrick was glad he didn’t have to do.

He made his way through the dimly lit containers set aside for preliminary inspections. At this stage, the inspection consisted of checking to make sure that the seal and barcode placed on the container from its port of origin were intact. It was easy enough work, but it required a bit of climbing, and that was what Patrick had heard Ethan complain about the most. Since he never felt quite as alive as he did when the world dropped away below him, when his stomach churned and he had the constant battle with vertigo to keep his adrenaline pumping, he didn’t mind.

He started at the first stack, scanning the barcode and checking the metallic sticker over the door. He signed it off on the iPad, then looped the straps around his neck and hurried up the cold metal ladder attached to the container. Patrick scanned each barcode he passed on his way up, fumbling with the clunky devices hanging from his neck each time. As he reached the third container, the top one in this particular stack, he felt his phone vibrate again. He scanned the third container, inspected the seal, checked the corresponding box on the touch screen, and climbed down quickly.

He had two text messages from Corbin. The first, from earlier in the night, read,
Just think, you could have been having fun right now.
The second, from just a few moments ago, read,
You should have stayed. The sexy probation officer popped in looking for you.

Patrick swore. With less than one week to go before he was done with his probation, would Jay really get in trouble again?

“Why the hell wouldn’t he just call?” Patrick muttered, swiping to the next text message. Then again, why would he call? The Youth Services Center might call, but if Jay had been arrested, Ken wouldn’t have any part in the process until the next morning. And even then, he would call. He wouldn’t show up looking for Patrick in the middle of the night at a club.

The only reason Ken would go to Corbin’s Attic to find him had nothing to do with Jay at all. Patrick almost dropped his phone as his breath caught in his throat.

Ken’s there?
he tapped out on the tiny screen.

The reply came in seconds.
Bet you wish you’d turned down the overtime now.

Patrick couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. Ken had shown up at Corbin’s Attic looking for him? He tried to force his heart rate and his cock to calm down, but his body refused to listen. He thought about texting Corbin back, asking him to keep Ken there, but that just seemed like a waste of time.

If Ken decided he’d rather fuck Patrick tonight and worry about the conflict of interest in the morning, Patrick was totally up for that.

He sent a quick text to Corbin
. I’m almost done at work, anyway. I might pop back in. An hour, tops
.

He tucked his phone away and hustled down to the next stack of containers in the row. Now that he knew where the button on the touch screen was, he made it up and down the column in just a few minutes. Two more columns followed. He scanned each barcode, checked each seal, and moved on quickly. At the end of the stack of containers, a rusted orange shipping container was set off to the side. Nothing was stacked on top of it, and the seal over the door had been sliced open between the doors. A puddle of what looked like motor oil was leaking from the edge of the container beneath the door.