She leaned against the door. “Had to make sure you didn’t straddle that poor boy over there.” She pointed at Nash who was still asleep and blissfully unaware of her presence. Patrick envied anyone who could sleep through a tornado. “You looked like you were gonna have a fit when he started in on that poor bartender.”
Patrick pinched the brim of his nose. His head pounded with the force of a jackhammer. “Told ‘im not to go embarrassin’ me like that. Actin’ like a damn fool.”
“Don’t be such a crybaby”—Patrick’s jaw clenched so hard he thought a tooth might crack—“just…don’t go bringin’ him into ole Spoke for a li’l while. Let the heat simmer.”
“His ass ain’t leavin’ the ranch unless it’s to go back to the bus stop.”
“Well that’s harsh, don’t you think, Baby?” Nash’s deep, sleep-riddled voice made Patrick jump.
He looked over at Nash and immediately wished he hadn’t. Nash, in all his hungover glory, sat in the twin sized bed with the blankets pooled around his waist. His tank top was missing—probably somewhere on the floor with the rest of his clothes—which revealed what Patrick could only guess was at least a thousand freckles and a golden trail of hair that started at Nash’s belly button and disappeared beneath the blankets. Patrick yanked his eyes away, body burning with somethin’ he didn’t quite understand. Somethin’ he didn’t want to understand.
LeeAnne whacked Patrick on the back. “Welp, I’ll let you two lovebirds settle things out. I gotta get goin’. Call me sometime, Baby. Don’t be a stranger.”
Before Patrick got his wits about him, LeeAnne was already closin’ the door, which left him and God damn sunshine-reincarnated alone. Patrick threw off his cover, snatched up his coffee, and picked up his poor discarded hat from the floor. “Put on your clothes and let’s go. I ain’t got time to waste,” he snapped. He put his hat on and walked out.
He pulled the door closed harder than he intended to, causin’ the pictures on the wall to rattle from the force. Bowin’ his head, he apologized to the elderly couple down the hallway. God, what was the matter with him? Why was he so out of sorts? Patrick took a sip of his coffee and tried to get his head on straightbefore Nash came out. Unfortunately, Patrick wasn’t blessed with such luck. Nash walked out of the room lookin’ right as rain and twice as pretty. He caught Patrick’s eye and smiled. There was a knowin’ glint in Nash’s that told Patrick he must’ve said something last night that he couldn’t remember. His stomach flipped the same way it did the first time he got caught lookin’ at a dirty magazine.
“Let’s hit the road”—Nash’s hand was warm and heavy on Patrick’s shoulder—“Baby.”
Patrick shrugged off Nash’s hand. “Don’t call me that. Ain’t nobody called me that in years,” he lied through his teeth
“Good thing I ain’t nobody then.”
A fire engulfed Patrick’s body that he didn’t know how to put out. He wanted to say something smart, something offputtin’ to make Nash quit lookin’ at him with those damnfuck meeyes. Patrick wasn’t witty, and a God awful hangover lingered behind his forehead. “Get your ass to the truck before I—before I—”
“Before you what?” Nash pressed in close, close enough his chest pushed against Patrick’s, whose back made contact with the wall. “Don’t be makin’ threats you can’t cash out, cowboy.”
Footsteps came up the stairs, and Nash peeled away from Patrick faster than lightnin’. The footsteps stopped half way up then began to descend as if the person forgot what they were going up for. Patrick’s heart ricocheted off his ribs. He pushed himself off the wall then delivered a thwack to the back side of Nash’s head, causin’ his hat to tilt forward.
“Don’t you ever,” Patrick hissed, “do nothin’ stupid like that again, you hear me? I oughta ring your fuckin’ neck, but you’re the only hired help I got. Get your God damn act together cuz I ain’t no queer.” He snarled every last word, but he feared there wasn’t a drop of venom behind them.
Nash fixed his hat then gave Patrick a side-eyed once over. “Whatever you say,cowboy.”
Patrick was used to long stretches of silence when drivin’ by himself. They allowed him time to think, to get his head on straight. However, this time the silence—thick with tension so dense a knife couldn’t cut it—was suffocatin’. Guilt for causin’ it gnawed at him the whole way back to the ranch, yet Nash didn’t look the least bit bothered by Patrick’s outburst. He didn’t go out of his way to talk or even acknowledge Patrick once they arrived at the ranch though, slingin’ open his door the minute the truck pulled in front of the house. Patrick killed the engine then got out and hovered awkwardly at the front of the truck while he watched Nash grab his bags from the truckbed.
“A’right, cowboy, where am I stayin’?” Nash asked.
Patrick’s tongue failed to cooperate, so he jerked his head towards the front door. They took the two measly steps to the front porch, then Patrick unlocked the door. “Kitchen’s free game, same with the livin’ room. Your rooms down the hall to the right, and the guest bathroom across from it is all yours.”
Nash nodded along as Patrick talked. “Any rules I need to know while I stay here?”
“Clean up after yourself and don’t go movin’ shit that ain’t yours. Really that’s ‘bout it. Oh and don’t get piss drunk on the ranch.”
“Easy ‘nough. Anything else I need to know?”
“I’ll go over chores once you get settled; that way I can show you ‘round the ranch while we do our mornin’ work.”
“A’right, I’ll go throw this stuff down then. Don’t reckon I need to change since we’ll more than likely be gettin’ dirty.”
“Don’t see a reason to dirty more clothes.”
Nash walked down the hallway, leavin’ Patrick by the door. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. What was happenin’ to him? Why was just talkin’ with that boy so damn hard? It’s like after their spat, Patrick couldn’t get himself together. Nash wasn’t anythin’ special. Just some ranch hand Patrick’s father hired for the cold season. Simple as that. So why on God’s green Earth was Patrick’s stomach so tied up in knots, and why couldn’t he think straight?
He kept tryin’ to think about why Nash had felt so comfortable gettin’ up on him like that where anybody could see. Tried his damndest to remember if he said anything to Nash last night that gave him the impression he was, in sortaway, anythin’ other than straight. Patrick never looked at another man in no kinda way. Never thought about ‘em the way he thought about women. Women were pretty and soft in all the right places. They tasted good too. Sweet like sugar and fruit. Patrick couldn’t imagine what a man might taste like. Probably bitter and sharp like those damn lemon drop candies LeeAnne used to make him eat when he was a kid. He wondered if Nash tasted like lemon drops.
“A’right, let’s get this over with, yeah?” Nash walked into the joint kitchen and livin’ room area. One of his eyebrows shot up. “You a’right? You look redder than a damn firetruck, Baby.”
Patrick’s face grew hotter, and he put his hat back on. “I told you to stop callin’ me that,” he snapped, forcin’ himself to sound cross. “C’mon. We got work to do.”
