Patrick opened the door. Nash mosied along, pausin’ in the doorway, his body mere inches from Patrick’s. “You know, I think LeeAnne was right.” Nash turned and looked at Patrick, a mischievous and devilish glint in his eyes. “You ain’t got a lick of fight in you.”
Nash walked on out of the house, leavin’ Patrick grappling for words. Patrick clamped his tongue between his teeth and prayed for the strength not to wring Nash Colby’s skinny little neck.
3
Nash turned out to be a fine ranch hand, takin’ to his tasks like a bear to honey. He didn’t complain ‘bout going out late at night to tend to the animals or shovelin’ cow shit, and kept his head down. He didn’t bother Patrick much for the first month, aside from the occasional small comment here and there in passin’. Durin’ that time, Patrick started to miss Nash’s witty remarks—which felt odd to admit, so Patrick didn’t, keeping those thoughts to himself. Just like how he kept the fact that he couldn’t get Nash Colby out of his mind since pickin’ him up at the bus station to himself.
Patrick felt like a damn teenager goin’ through puberty all over again, obsessed with the first pretty girl that showed him a sliver of attention. Except this time, it was a pretty boy that seemed to get a kick out of givin’ him a little Hell whenever their paths happened to cross durin’ the day. Nash insisted on callin’ PatrickBabyany time they interacted, brown eyes sparklin’ withmischief and mouth quirked up in a shit-eatin’ grin. Patrick wanted nothin’ more than to wipe the smug look off Nash’s face.
At the thought of Nash, Patrick itched for a cigarette. There wasn’t anything like a Marlboro to take the edge off. He pulled on his heavier coat—the weather was gettin’ bitter, but he’d be skinned alive for smokin’ inside—and headed out. He stepped out on the deck while he dug around for his Marlboros. Withdrawin’ the crumbled packet from his back pocket, he plopped down on the cold wooden stairs. The plastic crinkled in his hand as he brought the open box to his lips and tugged out a cigarette with his teeth.
“Mind if I join?”
Patrick looked over his shoulder to see Nash with his hands in his coatpockets. “Long as you got your own,” he said, turnin’ back around. “Fraid I don’t share.”
“Not a problem.”
Nash sat next to Patrick, knee close enough that Patrick could feel the heat radiatin’ from Nash. Patrick pulled his lighter from his shirt pocket and lit his cigarette. The first inhale filled his mouth and seeped down his throat, spreadin’ the taste of burley and molasses across his tongue. Tiltin’ his head back, Patrick took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew the smoke into the night sky.
“God fuckin’ damn it,” Nash grumbled, flickin’ the hell out of his lighter.
“‘Ere, use my lighter,” Patrick said around his cigarette, holdin’ the end of the lighter in Nash’s direction.
Nash nodded and grabbed it. His eyes flickered down to the small white and black lighter. He opened his mouth like he was about to say somethin’, but kept whatever it was to himself and lit his cigarette. Nash brought it from his lips, holdin’ it between two fingers, and grinned as he held the lighter out to Patrick. Patrick’s eyebrows knitted together. “What’re you grinnin’ for?”
“Forget what your lighter says?” Nash teased, wavin’ it tauntingly.
“What’re you on ‘bout?” Biting on the butt of his cigarette, Patrick snatched the lighter from Nash and looked at it.If you wanna fuck, smile when you give me the lighter back. He looked off to the side as he tucked it into his front pocket. “Hell, Nash, damn lighter don’t mean nothin’.”
“Then why’re you all red, huh, Baby?” Nash teased, knockin’ his knee against Patrick’s.
“Didn’t I tell you not to be callin’ me that?” Patrick stood, his face burnin’ hotter by the minute. “‘Sides, ain’t you married?”
Patrick didn’t need Nash to tell him that he was; it was something he reminded himself of frequently when Nash crept into his mind late at night. Patrick Dillard was no homewrecker.
Nash leaned back against the stairs, cigarette hangin’ lazily between his fingers. “Natty knows I ain’t loyal. She don’t mind so long as it don’t come home and I don’t cause no trouble.”
“You’re nothin’ but trouble.”
Nash, lazy grin never leavin’ his lips, pointed at Patrick, and all Patrick could think was that God really did know how to make a damn handsome man. “But you like it, don’tcha, Baby?”
“I told you to stop callin’ me that,” Patrick warned.
“I know”—Nash took a hit from his cigarette—“I just like seein’ someone as tough as you blush.” Smoke billowed from his mouth as he spoke. “Reckon how far that red goes down?” He lifted his eyebrows as his eyes drifted from Patrick’s face to his body.
“Fuck you,” Patrick spat and flicked his ashes towards Nash’s boots.
“When and where, Baby?”
That shit eatin’ grin was gonna be the death of Patrick.
“I ought to wring your fuckin’ neck”—he pointed his finger at Nash—“call me that one more time, and I’ll lick you good, you hear?”
“C’mon now, don’t be like that…Baby.”
Nash pushed his luck too far. Patrick dropped his cigarette and grabbed Nash by the collar. He never lost that smile. Not even with Patrick madder than a hornet two inches from his face. Nash brought his cigarette away from his mouth and tilted his head to the side, blowin’ smoke by Patrick’s head. “Ain’t you handsome all riled up.”
“You don’t ever stop, do you?” Patrick said, givin’ Nash a shake.
