8. ashton #3
“If you’re sure.” Brooks rolls the truck to a halt and turns to me, shifting almost sideways in his seat and fixing me with his piercing gray gaze.
The afternoon sun glints off the silver ring in his nose, and with his face half in shadow, he’s even more handsome than I remember him being.
His scent even more intoxicating. “You know you can talk to me, right? Any time. Anything you need. It’s just me, Ash. ”
“I know.” I smile awkwardly, still fiddling with the almost-empty lip balm tube.
He so rarely uses my name these days, it throws me for a loop.
He’s still the same Brooks I grew up with: the one who calls me devil at just about every opportunity, the one who laughs at fart sounds and poop jokes.
He’s still just as much my big brother as my actual flesh-and-blood brother.
But seeing Jody again for the first time in a little over a year hasn’t got me tied up in knots the way seeing Brooks has.
Somehow, the fact that I’ve known him my whole life, the fact that we grew up together, right here on the ranch, means nothing anymore.
And the fact that he’s my brother’s best friend means everything.
“Okay. Well, you need anything at all, you call me. Middle of the night, whatever. I’ll be there. That’s what family does, right?”
“Right.”
Brooks nods, uncertainty clouding his features but seemingly satisfied nonetheless.
There’s a brief moment of pause—a tense, quiet beat—before he exhales, then shifts the truck back into drive and we continue along the road, bypassing The Village, where his cabin is.
The Village is a sprawling cluster of cabins and dormitory buildings that house most of the live-in ranch hands.
Even some of the transient crew stay here while they work.
We roll to a stop beside the creek, right outside my front door.
Despite this truck being absolutely gargantuan, the cab feels small, suffocating, and I throw the door open almost before the wheels have stopped turning.
“Thanks for the ride, demon.”
I dash for my door and push it open easily. The last thing I hear before tires crunch on gravel is Brooks’s growl through his open window.
“Lock your goddamn door, Tanner!”
After a morning of working horses and an afternoon on search party duty, I’m absolutely wiped.
I’ve missed this burn, this ache in my muscles from a day’s work.
I love being in kitchens—although I’d rather work at my own pace, rather than at top speed while a Michelin-starred asshole yells in my face—but cooking a six-course meal isn’t nearly as satisfying as mucking out stables, working horses, rounding up cattle.
Although, baking a perfect batch of cupcakes and frosting them with elaborate decorations? That definitely comes close.
This ranch is my home.
Home. That’s what runs through my head, what runs through my veins as I strip my clothes off and head for the bathroom.
I set out everything I know I’ll want—a loofah, my razor, an enormous fluffy towel on the heated towel rail—light a palo santo candle, and then take my time showering, breathing deeply as the shower melt dissolves at my feet and the warm, steamy air fills with the scent of patchouli.
The luxury of an everything shower simply cannot be overstated, and by the time I’m done, my legs and bikini line are smooth and hairless, my hair is silky soft, and my skin buffed and exfoliated to within an inch of its life.
A fresh pair of pajamas and clean bedsheets are the final ingredients to a perfect night.
I treat myself to my favorite comfort meal—mac and cheese, with three kinds of cheese and a little of Mom’s leftover pulled pork on the side—and make it through an episode and a half of some kind of procedural drama before I find myself both exhausted and restless.
There are too many things on my mind. Too many thoughts, too many voices. With the TV and all the lights off, I crawl beneath my clean sheets. But I still can’t settle. I feel too wound up by my racing thoughts, too on edge to let myself relax into sleep.
There are only two things I can think of that might ground me right now. One has a mane and four legs, and is almost certainly snoring away in his stable stall. And the other… is largely inaccessible, unless I take matters into my own hands.
I pull my favorite vibrator from its charging station inside the drawer of my nightstand and push it between my legs greedily.
This release has been a long time coming, and as I grind down over my hand, a low moan escapes me.
When I finally fall over the precipice, it’s not Declan or Jessa I call out for.
Their names have been the ones I’ve cried lately—sobbed, even; the pain of losing them still raw and unhealed—but this time, it’s different.
“Brooks.” The name that falls from my lips is the one that belongs to an enormous cowboy with a shit-eating grin. A cowboy with a heart of gold. A cowboy who, I’m starting to realize, might just have held part of my heart captive for nearly twenty years.