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"Say — Maria — we'll get the check, please," Pat called out across the floor of Richie Rock's Diner. He had barely touched his burger and sweet potato fries, but the sight of Crusher and Paula kissing and canoodling right across the table from him and Barb was making him very uncomfortable — as was Crusher's too-loud proclamation that their sex life was undergoing a real renaissance.
There are some things I just don't need to know, Pat thought to himself. And imagining Sportsmaster and Tigress — Larry 'Crusher' and Paula Crock — doing the horizontal tango was about five of those things.
"Aw now, there's no reason to run off so soon!" Crusher objected, pulling his face away from Paula's. His pale blue eyes zeroed in on Pat with the precision of a deadly thrown weapon.
"That's correct," Paula chimed in. "We are still conversing. We haven't even ordered yet."
"And you haven't finished your burger," Crusher added. "Beef is good — I don't have to tell you that, Pat, nice and high protein — but that bun is literally poison."
"It's not poison. It's sesame seed," Pat said mildly.
"Didn't you watch the video I sent you?" Crusher asked, frowning. "Up to 80% of US grain stores are infested with fungal rot. Plus the gluten is the plant's way of trying to hurt us. Pat, you know wheat causes full-body inflammation!"
"Yummy. Fungus and inflammation," Barb said sarcastically, glancing down at their plates.
Pat had to admit that the bacon avocado cheeseburger in front of him was sounding less and less appealing.
Paula leaned forward to stare at Barb, her eyes like a jungle cat's. From what Barb had been telling him, Paula had been strangely intense about their new friendship. Too intense.
It was just tough to know how to get them to go away without offending them, and maybe even getting themselves killed. Pat had heard rumors about why there was such high turnover in the Blue Valley high school football coaching position.
"That's why we only have cake sometimes, as a treat," Paula said, staring at Barb as though trying to memorize her so she could describe her from memory to a police sketch artist.
"Paula — we've made cake together quite a bit recently," Barb chuckled.
Paula looked at her very seriously.
"Yes. And it's unhealthy. That's why I replaced all the flour in your kitchen with a gluten-free blend of cassava, taro, and other low-FODMAP substitutes."
"Low — what — what?" Barb sputtered. "You were in my kitchen without me knowing?"
Paula frowned slightly and paused. "Yes?"
Barb glanced at Pat for moral support, then breathed in and turned a calm, yet authoritative look towards her couterpart across the table.
"Paula, there are some things where you really need to ask first," she said. Pat could tell she was infusing as much kindness and patience as possible into her tone of voice. "And replacing people's ingredients is one of those things. So is going into their house uninvited."
Paula frowned harder and opened her mouth to reply, but then Crusher swooped in to add his thoughts.
"See, it's great you feel that way," he said. His mobile, expressive face was glancing back and forth between Pat and Barb. "About invitations. Because Paula and I have an invitation that we really think you're gonna love."
"I can't wait to hear all about it," Pat said, privately bemoaning the free time that he could already tell he would be sacrificing on the altar of whatever 'bonding experience' the Crocks had decided to subject them to.
Oh, he could try saying no, and he would. The thing about the Crocks was that no matter what, they somehow ended up steamrolling right over Pat's soft refusals, and he ended up doing whatever it was they wanted anyway.
He winced, remembering that time Crusher had pressured him into trying a 'cold plunge' after a workout. Sometimes he still felt like he had icicles in his hair.
Paula beamed at him, her white teeth a slash in her strangely gleeful face.
"Great!" she exclaimed. "So — swinging!"
"Swinging?" Pat asked with intense trepidation. "You mean like — on a playground?"
Paula giggled. "No, Pat — they're called dungeons, not playgrounds."
"We meant swinging — as in, swapping sex partners," Crusher clarified.
"Where's that check," Pat muttered to Barb. "I'll go look for it."
He hustled Barb out of the booth so he could leave too, and went and found the check, and paid it. He and Barb made some quick apologies and left.
He might have felt just a little guilty about the wounded, betrayed look that Crusher turned on him. And he knew that Barb was feeling some kind of way about possibly offending Paula and ruining all the progress they'd been making in getting her to behave normally.
Well, more normally.
Slightly more normally.
"Swinging?" Pat exclaimed as they left Richie Rock's. "Seriously? Can you believe them?"
Swinging was something people had done in the 60s, during the era of free love, before they realized that in fact, love was never free. There was always a price to pay, and that price was worth paying — that price included things like commitment. Honor. And a little thing he liked to call — loyalty.
Things that trained killers like the Crocks wouldn't have a hope of understanding.
Pat could only hope that they would get the hint and leave them alone. He didn't relish the thought of out-and-out rejecting Paula. She had crazy eyes. She could kill him nine ways with a napkin ring. The thought of trying to have sex with Paula was deeply scary.
And it was distressing to think about Barb, his sweet, kind, caring wife, having to fend off Crusher, with his toned, taut body, his razor-sharp focus on accomplishing his goals, and his no doubt impressive cardiovascular fitness level and refractory period.
Pat shook himself mentally. He was getting distracted.
He rushed them both out of the diner so fast that he didn't even bother to take his sweet potato fries.
"I think they meant it as a compliment," Barb said later that night after the kids were packed off to their rooms and Sylvester was safely ensconced in the basement.
"Hmm?" Pat asked. He was sketching out some ideas to improve his shop and researching to see if he could find a scissor lift that would fit his budget.
"The Crocks," Barb said, coming to sit next to him. She was already in her pajamas, with a soft, fuzzy pink robe over the top, and she looked comforting and angelic. "I don't think they were trying to offend us with, you know. Their suggestion."
Pat put down his pencil and looked at Barb. "Swinging, though? Really?" he asked. "In what world would that go well?"
He could already picture it. Paula would stalk forward, maybe back him against a wall, and then start manhandling him — and Pat was the man!
As for Crusher and Barb — he didn't even want to imagine them together. A hot, tangled mess of feelings spun up inside him at the thought.
He couldn't believe Barb was even considering being gracious about such a suggestion!
"Well, I think Paula is learning to be more of a regular human being," Barb said, tilting her head to the side consideringly.
"Oh yeah, that's high praise!" Pat retorted.
Barb didn't say anything, and Pat's sense of unease grew.
Now that he thought about it, maybe Barb had noticed how attractive Crusher was. She had eyes, after all. She, and everyone else in town, could see what a fine specimen of a man Crusher was, with his muscles, and his agility, and his strength, and his chiseled jawline, and his quick smile, and his strangely sensitive-looking hands.
Pat could imagine those hands on Barb's body. Crusher would probably be a methodical lover. He would probably set himself milestones, like how many times he could make Barb come, and then he would see to it that he relentlessly over-achieved those goals. He would probably reduce Barb to a sobbing, orgasmic mess.
And his cock was bound to be something special.
"Pat?" Barb said, touching his arm. "You drifted off for a minute there."
"Sorry," Pat said, shaking his head. He was getting distracted again, darn it. He needed to stay focused so he could head off this disaster before it could come to pass. "I just really, really don't want us to swap partners with the Crocks. All right? I mean — can you even imagine me with Paula?" He gave a wry chuckle that turned into a shudder.
Paula's core muscles were probably so shredded she would snap his dick right off by squeezing too hard, assuming he managed to get it inside her at all.
Barb was looking at him strangely. "You thought — you and Paula?" she asked. "Oh. Uh, no, that's not what they're thinking."
"You know what they're thinking?" Pat asked, on high alert now. Barb knew things about the Crocks, and swinging, that he, Pat Dugan, did not know?
This was an emergency. This was a code red situation!
Barb bit her lip. "Well, only because Paula talked to me about it first. She's always been bisexual," she said. "And you know I had that crush on Lucy Liu back in college."
Pat's eyes bugged out of his head. He could not have heard his wife say what he just thought he heard.
"Wait — so you're suggesting —"
"Oh, I'm not suggesting it," Barb hastened to assure him. "Crusher and Paula are."
Pat felt like he must be in some strange sort of dream. The sort of dream where you wake up, shake yourself, think 'thank heck that never happened,' and then go about the rest of your day with a vague sense of unease.
"Crusher and Paula are suggesting, what exactly?" Pat asked.
Barb glanced away. "Well, I don't know if I want to put words in their mouths."
"But I guess you do want to put something in their mouths?" Pat snapped.
Barb stared at him, shocked.
Pat stared back. Had he just — been disrespectful towards his wife?
"Barb, I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. I don't know what came over me."
Barb stood up. "Paula was never offering to sleep with you, Pat," she said. "She has no interest in you."
"Oh," Pat said, his brain spinning like an engine at a thousand rpm.
Barb started to leave the room.
"So, uh, they meant — you and Paula?" Pat said. His tongue felt too thick for his mouth.
Barb glanced back over her shoulder. "That's right. She trusts me. I'm finally getting through to her."
And that would leave —
No, he couldn't think it.
"And that would leave —" Pat's mouth said, without him meaning to.
"That would leave you and Crusher to do whatever," Barb said, her hand on the doorknob. "Think about it."
"Right," Pat said to the empty room she left behind.
Right. Him and — Crusher Crock. Crusher Crock and him. Doing — whatever.
Doing gay things.
Gay, gay, gay things.
Crusher was just so manly. Pat couldn't imagine him being, uh, gay. Or bi. Not that gay men couldn't be manly! Or bi men, for that matter!
It's just that Pat himself had never thought about —
Pat wouldn't even know where to start with that sort of, uh. Project.
Which one of them would be the man?
That's offensive, Pat, he told himself. No one asked questions like that anymore. Whatever a couple got up to in the privacy of their own home was their own business. It didn't matter which of them — him or Crusher — would be pinning the other one down and fucking into him. It didn't matter which one of them — Crusher or him — would wrap their mouth around the other's cock, urging them to spill down his throat.
Pat shifted in his chair. All of a sudden, he was achingly hard.
He tried to return his attention to the plans for his auto shop, but after at least ten minutes, he gave up in a huff. Clearly, he wasn't going to get any more work done right now.
Pat Dugan was a red-blooded, completely straight American male. He had never jerked off to another man, not once in his entire life.
So that's definitely not what he was doing later on, in the bathroom. He was just taking care of a bodily function that was normal for red-blooded males to take care of, sometimes.
He fantasized about his wife, naturally — there was nothing wrong with that. Fantasizing about one's very own wife was normal. Expected, even.
It certainly wasn't Pat's fault if fantasy-Barb's cornflower-blue eyes happened to turn just a touch paler. It wasn't anything he was doing if he happened to think about wide shoulders, strong hands, and a predatory grin.
Women could have those, too. It was sexist to think otherwise.
The next morning, Pat was throwing some food into the crockpot when he spotted Crusher out his kitchen window.
Crusher was in his yard doing — some sort of martial arts routine, probably. He was springing forward and backward, sometimes on his feet, sometimes on his hands, with frightening agility. Every so often he would leap into a warrior's stance of some sort and throw so many punches and punch-adjacent moves that Pat's eyes blurred.
Pat blinked and looked back at the onion he was chopping.
Those punches had been very fast.
He should really monitor Crusher's battle readiness, in case they decided to turn evil again. And Paula's, of course.
Although it seems like maybe Barb is evaluating Paula's battle readiness, part of him snarked.
He lifted his eyes back to the kitchen window in time to see Crusher stripping off his shirt with one hand. His muscles moved under his skin like snakes writhing in a thin cotton bag.
"Oh — for the love!" Pat exclaimed. He had accidentally cut himself instead of the onion. Hissing in annoyance, he fumbled around for a paper towel to stop the bleeding.
"What'cha doing, Dad?" Mike asked, rounding the corner.
"Just getting dinner ready," Pat said. His eyes wanted to flick back to the kitchen window, but he kept them trained firmly on his son. His very sweet, very innocent, very charming son, who did not need a father who thought impure thoughts about his neighbors.
"Ouch, looks like you really got yourself," Mike said, critically examining the red spot on Pat's paper towel. "Here." He grabbed a Band-Aid from a drawer and approached Pat with it.
"Thanks, Mike," Pat said gratefully. If he'd done nothing else worthwhile in his life, at least he could pat himself on the back about Mike.
"Oh my gosh — that crazy neighbor guy is at it again!" Mike exclaimed, looking out the window.
Now that Mike was looking, there was no reason that Pat shouldn't look, too. His eyes snapped back to where Crusher had been doing his — katas, or whatever.
Were they called katas? Pat supposed he should really look that up.
Sure enough, Crusher was still out there, kata-ing away. Right now it looked like he was killing about twenty invisible ninjas with a wooden sword. Shirtless. Glistening with sweat.
As Pat watched, Crusher dramatically stabbed through an invisible ninja's heart, no doubt killing him, then made deliberate eye contact.
Pat jerked back from the window. Heat rushed over his face.
"Watch out or you'll cut yourself again, Dad," Mike chuckled. "Here — maybe you want to let me finish putting dinner in the crockpot?"
"Sure thing, Mike," Pat said, retreating to a safer part of the house. "Thanks."
"So, did you decide?" Crusher asked, dropping into a chair next to Pat, whose heart rate instantly doubled.
Pat was sitting at a table in the park closest to the auto shop, enjoying his lunch. Annoyingly, he had ended up making it with a gluten-free tortilla wrap instead of normal bread.
That's just because that's all we had in the house, he reminded himself.
He chewed and swallowed his bite of chicken wrap, then took a swig from his water bottle. Crusher was staring at him raptly. His eyes seemed to trace down Pat's mouth and neck as he swallowed.
Pat's heart rate kicked up even higher. Something about Crusher set off his flight or fight reaction — and the problem was that he knew he wouldn't win the fight, and he also knew he wouldn't be able to run fast enough to get away.
Not when Crusher probably ran ten miles every morning before he had his wheatgrass and pea protein smoothie.
Pat could maybe outrun a toddler. But only the lazy ones. A determined toddler would probably stand a pretty good chance of winning that race.
"Think about what?" Pat asked, stalling for time.
"Swinging, Pat," Crusher said, his tone of voice indicating that he had assumed better. "Like Paula and I were suggesting."
"Oh — I didn't think you were serious," Pat said, trying for plausible deniability.
That was a lie, though. He knew the Crocks were serious.
They were always serious.
"I'm always serious, Pat," Crusher said, his blue eyes wide and wounded. "I wouldn't joke about something like this."
"Right. Well, we're not interested," Pat said. His blood seemed to be fizzing in his veins, he was so nervous. He moved to stand up.
Crusher reached out and covered one of his hands, and Pat froze.
The thing was — Crusher was a killer. These hands had ended the lives of many people, some of whom were guilty, but some of whom were innocent. He was a contract killer who had done terrible things.
He was also incredibly hot. Pat would have to be both blind and legally dead not to acknowledge that fact, and since he was neither dead nor blind, he acknowledged it.
He acknowledged the heck out of it.
He had just drunk some water, but his mouth was dry again already.
"You're not interested, Pat?" Crusher asked, looking quizzical. "Really?"
Pat had many strengths. One of them was also his greatest weakness — he had a really hard time lying. Especially when looking someone in the eye. It just seemed wrong.
He paused, staring down at where Crusher's hand was covering his. It was large, which he had already known, and his forearm had veins standing out all along it, which he had also already known. He'd noticed that right away.
He hadn't known Crusher's hand would be so warm. But it made sense. No doubt Crusher's whole body was warm. He was almost entirely made out of muscle, after all.
Pat blinked. Crusher started to press small circles into the back of Pat's hand, and it felt good.
It felt really good.
"I'm, uh, confused," Pat finally said. "I'm straight."
"Oh, I'm straight, too," Crusher assured him.
"What?" Pat said intensely, keeping his voice quiet. They were in a public park, after all. "Crusher — you cannot sexually proposition another man and then call yourself straight!"
"I think I just did, though," Crusher mused. He gave Pat's hand a little squeeze, then went back to rubbing a circle.
Pat swallowed. He couldn't help thinking of what else those hands could do. Where else they might be able to touch him — if he would only —
"So, what, we'd just — do guy things?" Pat asked.
"Guy things. I like the sound of that," Crusher said.
"While our wives are —"
"Getting to know each other better," Crusher finished, quirking an eyebrow at him. "You don't mind, do you, Pat? Because personally, I think it's hot as hell."
Pat's mind spun around with images of Paula and Barb kissing — Paula and Barb lying in bed together — Paula with her face between Barb's legs, Barb pulling at her long, dark hair to position her tongue where she wanted her — Barb with one thigh hitched up around Paula's hips, plunging her fingers between Paula's legs —
Pat made an incoherent sound that sounded far more aroused than he had anticipated.
Crusher sent him a slow smile that spread out underneath Pat's skin like spilled motor oil.
Pat needed to re-take control of this conversation.
"I guess we can talk about it more," he said, pulling his hand away. "I'm still not sure, though."
"Hey — that's all I'm asking. For us to be able to talk about it," Crusher said, standing up. His blue eyes were intent on Pat, moving down him and then back up as though he was undressing him in his mind.
Why Crusher would have any interest in doing that — why someone as objectively hot and handsome and fit and sexy as hell would waste even a second glance on someone normal-looking and a bit doughy, like Pat —
It just didn't make any sense, that was all.
Crusher must have seen something of his thoughts in his face, because he suddenly got much more serious. He leaned forward.
"Pat Dugan," he said.
Pat instinctively straightened up, as though being called to the front of the platoon by his drill sergeant.
"You can do, or not do, what you want," Crusher said. "The speed and distance are up to you. Remember — it's about the journey, not the destination."
Pat reared back. "Did you just use one of your terrible life coaching aphorisms on me?" he sputtered.
"They're not terrible!" Crusher objected. Then a wrinkle appeared on his forehead. "Are they terrible?"
"Crusher, I spent the first three months of knowing you unsure whether you were about to hit me in the stomach or try to kill me and take over the world," Pat said. "Forgive me if I don't immediately trust that you're not gonna hurt me once you get me into a compromising position."
Crusher beamed at him. "I thought of that! I agree — there needs to be more trust."
"You — agree?" Pat asked, a bit lost.
"Yeah — you're totally right!"
Well. Pat did enjoy being told he was 'totally right.' Especially by someone as strong and skilled and handsome as Larry 'Crusher' Crock, aka Sportsmaster.
"I am?" he still asked, cautiously.
"Sure. That's why I was thinking you should tie me up," Crusher suggested. "That way, you'll feel in control, and we can take things at your pace."
"Ah," Pat said, his mind once again flatlining with unexpected thoughts.
He imagined Crusher's strong, muscular body, tied up and helpless despite all his years of training. He imagined having the power to decide to do, or not do, whatever he wanted.
Heck — he could tie Crusher up and just watch TV next to him, and there would be nothing Crusher could do about it. Except maybe mouth off.
If he did, I bet I could find a way to shut him up, Pat was absolutely horrified to hear part of his mind supply.
Heavens. What was happening? First Barb and Paula were going to go off and have sapphic sexual relations, and now Pat was seriously considering tying up Sportsmaster and making him gag on his cock?
"What is wrong with me?" he whispered.
Crusher gave him a sympathetic look. "Nothing's wrong with you," he said, then raised the index finger of the other hand. "Well — that is, there are a few things wrong with you, and one of those things is tension, and I bet I can help you with that. So whaddaya say?"
I should have known I could never say no to them, Pat thought.
He reached out and touched Crusher's shoulder — the first time he had ever been the one to initiate a touch.
"You know what? Now that you mention it, I think maybe we could find some ways to pass the time," he said. "Doing — guy things."
"Guy things," Crusher echoed, leaning into his hand.
"Right."
"Right," Crusher said. His eyes were so blue, Pat could drown in them.
Another long, tense moment passed between them.
Then a dog barked, and the spell was broken.
"Until later, then," Crusher said, briefly reaching up to squeeze Pat's hand. Then he broke away, striding off, his glorious tight ass on full display.
Pat didn't pull his eyes away. After all, why not? If they were going to be doing guy things together, shouldn't he learn more about what sort of guy Crusher was?
Humming a little tune, Pat gathered up his lunch things and turned back to the auto shop.
He didn't know when it would happen, or what would happen, specifically.
He just knew he couldn't wait to get started.