Chapter 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’ Patrick Baby any time they interacted, brown eyes sparklin’ with mischief 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.
“‘Fraid not, but”—Nash leaned against Patrick’s fist, who could feel Nash’s heart thump through his chest—“I know you like it.”
Patrick wet his lips, stomach twistin’ into knots from how close they were.
What was he so scared for? Wasn’t like anybody could see them.
Ain’t nobody for miles and miles. Closest neighbor was a fifteen minute drive.
And with it being the dead of night, no visitors were bound to roll up unexpectedly.
“You’re a real sonofabitch, you know?” Patrick breathed. “I can’t fuckin’ stand you, Nash Colby.”
“Maybe you should get on your knees then,” Nash taunted.
Patrick’s body burned in all sorts of ways.
His thoughts were a mess, and his stomach wouldn’t stop knottin’ tighter.
He shoved Nash backwards, hopin’ the distance would make it easier to think.
To breathe. Nash got his balance before he landed on his ass, never droppin’ his cigarette.
Patrick watched Nash bring the butt of it to his lips and take a long, slow drag.
The cherry glowed red against the dark night.
Nash dropped it to the ground while blowin’ out enough smoke to rival a chimney then crushed the cigarette beneath the heel of his ratty cowboy boots.
Patrick wished he could do the same to his thoughts. Thinkin’ ‘bout another man the way he thought ‘bout Nash wasn’t right. But, damn it, if Nash Colby wasn’t the prettiest li’l thing Patrick had ever laid eyes on.
Nash walked up to Patrick. The mischievous sparkle was gone from those deep brown eyes, replaced by a coldness that froze Patrick in place.
Nash grabbed Patrick by the front of his coat, yankin’ him forward so they were no more than a few centimeters apart.
“Look here, cowboy, you can smart off and talk big all you like. But you ain’t about to push me ‘round, you got that?”
Every memory of being grabbed up like that rushed to the forefront of Patrick’s mind. Old ranch hands tellin’ him to grow a pair, men down at Broken Spoke hollerin’ in his face to stay away from their girl. “You best let go of me.”
“Or what? You’re nothin’ but talk. Ain’t a lick of fight in that big ole body of yours. All that muscle is good for is haulin’ feed and lookin’ pretty.”
Patrick went to grab Nash again, but he was smaller and quicker on his feet.
Patrick hit his knees before he could even comprehend what happened.
Pain radiated up through his thighs from the sudden, harsh impact.
Nash stood behind Patrick with a foot on either side of Patrick’s legs and a hand fistin’ his hair.
Nash pulled Patrick’s hair, forcin’ him to tilt his head back 'til he was lookin’ straight up at Nash.
The position, as humiliatin’ as it was, stirred somethin’ inside Patrick that made his jeans tight.
“Like I said, you ain’t pushin’ me around, cowboy. I’ll take the occasional slap on the head or quick lipped comment, but you ain’t gonna start nothin’ with me that you can’t finish. You understand?”
A near instinctual desire to say yes sir bubbled up inside Patrick almost as if his entire being knew it was in his favor to roll over and show his belly. The same feelin’ he used to get when he was scolded by the older ranch hands for doin’ something wrong or for tearin’ up on the job.
Nash yanked on Patrick’s hair when he didn’t answer, causin’ him to suck in a sharp breath and clench his teeth. “Cat got your tongue, cowboy?” Nash leaned down, a wicked grin curlin’ the corners of his fine pink lips. “Or are you not used to bein’ put in your place?”
Patrick bit his tongue. A side of him wanted to finish the fight he half-assed started.
To prove he wasn’t all hot air. But another part of him—one he pretended didn’t exist and did his best to forget—ached to submit.
Submission had been beaten into him as a child then criticized as softness as he got older.
Women didn’t like soft men. Softness was weakness, and Patrick worked too damn hard to not be seen as such, just to play coward the minute someone bested him.
The tension on Patrick’s scalp disappeared, and the warmth from Nash’s close body vanished.
Patrick’s stomach dropped, panic quickly floodin’ his mind and silencin’ any other thought.
His chest felt tight like it was lassoed by someone who was pullin’ the rope tighter.
Nash stepped in front of Patrick then crouched so they were eye to eye, his eyebrows drawn together.
His face softened, and he reached towards Patrick, causin’ him to flinch.
“Hey,” Nash murmured, gently cuppin’ Patrick’s face. “What’s wrong?”
Patrick blinked hard and fast only to realize the reason for Nash’s concern was because he was cryin’ like a baby. Patrick cleared his throat and swiped at his face, pushin’ Nash’s hand away in the process. “‘M fine.”
“Are you—”
“I said I’m fine,” Patrick snapped.
Nothin’ felt right inside. Everythin’ was a twisted up tangled mess and too damn much to try to figure out with Nash right there, looking the way he did with his pretty brown eyes all tender-like and his golden hair fallin’ just right.
God damn it all, why didn’t Patrick’s father listen when he said not to hire nobody?
Patrick could’ve handled the ranch by himself.
Then he would’ve never met Nash or thought ‘bout him in ways a man shouldn’t think ‘bout other men. He wouldn’t have to confront the fact that despite how hard he’d tried to get away from the wretched crybaby nickname it was stuck to him like cowshit on the bottom of his boot.
Patrick got to his feet, keepin’ his eyes down to avoid lookin’ at Nash because he knew the minute he did, he’d start squallin’ again.
The last thing he wanted was to give Nash the reason why Patrick was called Baby.
All he wanted was to be left alone to sort himself out.
Nash didn’t say a word when Patrick started towards the house, but deep down, somewhere in the middle of all the confusion inside, Patrick wished Nash had.