CHAPTER SIX
Beau
I asked Beau once if he was ever going to have a family…or a serious boyfriend, at least. He said Mom and I were all the family he needed. Maybe it was something I didn’t get…there are things I don’t get, but to me, that sounded sad. I thought Beau deserved better. ~ Love, Kenny
What in the fuck was happening?
Without letting myself think about it much, I tossed money on the table.
“I was supposed to get the bill.”
“You can get it next time,” I told Ash, who looked up at me with glassy eyes.
“Next time?”
“According to you and Linc.” I nudged him with my arm. “Come on, let’s go.”
To my surprise, Ash didn’t argue. He stood, and we walked out of Fever Pitch together. Nodding my head toward the parking lot, I said, “I’m over there—Red Tundra.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets as we walked. There was something different about him… Well, I was sure there were a lot of things different about him, but the most noticeable one was that he seemed sadder. That made sense—it wasn’t a secret that he hadn’t gotten a contract for another team.
We got into the truck, and as Ash struggled to buckle himself in, he said, “Sorry. I’m not usually like this. It’s just…been a few tough months. Not sure why it’s hitting me all of a sudden.”
With a sigh, I helped him buckle in, took care of my own, and started the truck. “Where are you staying?”
“Home,” he replied.
The answer made my pulse run circles. “How?”
Someone had purchased the house right after Ash’s parents had passed. We never knew who it was, and no one ever moved in, but cleaning and yard workers came. It had always struck me as odd, but Ash wouldn’t have had to buy it; he would have inherited it. And what would he have needed with a house in town he never saw?
“It’s mine. It’s always been mine. We just made it appear otherwise so it didn’t look like Ashton Carmichael’s home was empty.”
I looked over at him, felt the corners of my mouth tip downward.
“Stop frowning at me.”
Shit. “Stop being psychic.” Or maybe I was predictable. That’s what Linc would say. “It’s not you. I frown at everyone.” Other than Kenny, I guessed.
“Yeah, but you do it to me more.”
“How would you know when we haven’t seen each other in ten years?” Did he remember the kiss? Had he ever thought about it? Wished he still knew what I tasted like?
“Call it a good guess.”
“I don’t hate you,” I found myself saying. But I wanted to. Part of me wanted to hate him now, and I’d definitely wanted to back then. Maybe because even before I’d admitted it to myself, I’d known I was gay and that I was attracted to Ash. It wasn’t something I struggled with anymore—the out-and-proud part. I loved being gay and wasn’t ashamed of that, but back then I likely had been.
“Okay,” Ash replied, and we were quiet the whole way back to his house.
When we got there, I realized he had his head against the window and had fallen asleep. What in the hell was going on? Who was the man with me? When he first arrived, he’d been just like the Ash I remembered. He still was in many ways, but there was something else twined in; the sadness, yeah, but I thought maybe even more than that.
“Ash,” I whispered, reached for him, almost brushed the back of my hand against his cheek. “Ash?”
His thick lashes rested on his cheek, but after I said his name again, he startled and his eyes jerked open. “Shit,” he groaned. “I don’t feel so great.”
This was where I wanted to give him hell about drinking, make some kind of sarcastic remark, but then the last time we’d been together when Ash drank, he’d kissed me.
And…there I was, back at that again.
“Come on, I’ll help you inside.”
“Okay,” he replied. “But only because I don’t want to go in there alone.”
My chest got tight, and I forced myself to hold back a frown. Was it just because he wasn’t used to being alone? Always had someone there? Probably a woman. The thought made my skin itch, and I hated that Ash had that effect on me, that I cared either way how he spent his life or who he was attracted to.
I got out of the truck and walked around just as Ash opened his door. He stumbled slightly when he got down, and on reflex, my arm went around him. He was strong, solid, his muscles hard and defined. Ash was about two inches taller than I was, not quite as stocky but equally muscular, if not more. Questions ran through my head. I wanted to ask him why football hadn’t been enough to keep him happy. Why all the partying? If it had all been a joke to him.
If he remembered that night…if it had been a first for him or if it ever happened again.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I had no fucking business thinking that way. Not about Ashton Carmichael.
“Dude, I’m going to be so embarrassed in the morning.”
Not when he called me dude.
He fumbled his keys out of his pocket, and I took them. The moment we stepped into the house, it was as if we’d walked into the room ten years ago—the same furniture, the same photos on his walls, his past completely intact.
Ash had been adopted. That wasn’t something he’d ever kept a secret. We’d all known that, and it had always been one of the things I respected him for. He’d obviously loved his parents, felt like they were his, and seeing the house now, I saw how he’d tried to honor them. Maybe that wasn’t the right word, but Ash’s love for them was apparent everywhere…as was their love for him.
Ash didn’t speak, just pulled away from me and walked down the hallway. For a moment I considered leaving, but instead I tossed the keys on the table and followed him down the hallway of the one-story ranch-style home.
I turned into a bedroom just as Ash went face-first onto a bed, his legs hanging off the side.
A chuckle fell out of my mouth as I saw the room covered in posters of women in bikinis, cheerleaders, and football players. Ash’s old room…his old double bed. With all the money he had, he hadn’t even changed that.
Who the fuck was he?
Why did I care?
“Shit,” I mumbled as I walked over and began untying his shoes. The asshole was going to owe me for this. The last thing I ever thought I’d be doing was taking off a twenty-eight-year-old Ashton Carmichael’s shoes because he was too drunk to do it himself.
“Thank you,” he groaned into his pillow. “Christ. Embarrassed.”
“I’m not sure he’s embarrassed,” I teased, but didn’t get a sound out of him.
“Fucking alcohol. Always makes me do dumb shit.”
It was said offhandedly, with a slur on the end for good measure, but still it was like a punch to the gut. Did he have to keep reminding me he had been drunk that night? That he hadn’t wanted to kiss me?
“Don’t worry. You’re not my type anyway.”
A soft snore was my only reply. I made it to the door but stopped, thought about the call we’d gotten a few years ago from someone who had been drunk and aspirated in their sleep. Grumbling, I walked over to the beanbag chair, which was better than the desk chair, and fell into it. Looked like I was sleeping there.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice laced with sleep. Apparently, he was coming in and out of it.
“Don’t want you to die, is all,” I replied. “Can you imagine the shit I’d get if I left football legend Ashton Carmichael to die in a drunken stupor?”
“Not what I meant.” He rolled over, put the pillow over his head. “For treating me like you always did…for not asking.”
About the kiss or football? Or hell, maybe he meant both.
Fucking Ashton Carmichael. Somehow, he was wreaking havoc on my life again.