Must Love Hogs (Must Love Series Book 1)

by Xavier Neal

  “Never thought I’d be jealous of a hog,” Ford teases sweetly.

  If only he knew I would willingly bath him, hand feed him, and then let him fall asleep with his face between my legs…

  Princess Pinky squeals in what I assume is joy. “Doesn’t a nap sound great? You love the heating blanket!”

  After just a couple more minutes, he stops the water and motions his hands towards it. “Should be a good temp. Put her in whenever you’re ready.”

  I look back down at the unhappy pink creature still quivering. “Nice and easy, okay?”

  My attempt to place her in the drawn water is ten times worse than Ford’s efforts of holding her in it. Before I can even get her close, she manages to slip out of my grasp, land on the tile with squeak of pain, and bolt out of the room.

  A huge sigh of frustration jumps out of me. “Damn it!”

  Ford pins me with a mischievous grin. “Your downstairs neighbors are about to hate you.”

  As I stand to my feet, I declare, “They already do.”

  He lifts his eyebrows in curiosity at the same time he comes to his.

  “I will show you exactly why after we catch ourselves a pig.”

  “Hog.”

  His correction is followed by a chuckle and the two of us rushing to catch the pink bandit hell bent on escaping.

  “You really suck at this game,” I tease from my spot on the couch beside Ford. “I thought you were a cowboy. Aren’t cowboys supposed to be good at shooting?”

  Ford misses the shot and a zombie successfully takes a bite out of his neck ending the game. He growls his frustration at the same time he snaps his face my direction. “First off, the aim of this thing is nothing like a real shotgun.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And second of all, I never said I was a cowboy.”

  “Cowboy…Farm boy…Same thing, right?”

  A look of dismay darts his eyebrows down. “Absolutely not.”

  The look of unhappiness rushes me to defend, “Is there really a difference or is this the pig versus hog argument all over again?”

  He tosses the controller onto the coffee table. “There’s a difference in those too.”

  My hand mockingly waves side to side.

  “Google confirmed it!”

  Enjoying the fluster, I continue, “Did it really?”

  Ford abandons one fit for the other. “Yes. There’s a difference between cowboys and men who farm or ranch. That’s like asking me is there a difference between a gamer and a geek.”

  I gasp in a highly offended fashion.

  “Exactly.”

  Ford offers me a warm grin and I instantly relax back against the couch, thankful Princess Pinky didn’t wake up during my startled movements. After eventually catching her, I bit the bullet and got into the tub to insure she didn’t escape a third time. Ford spent most of the time making inappropriate bestiality jokes, and I sophisticatedly countered with several splashes of soapy water to his face that only looks even more delicious when wet. Talk about backfiring. By the time we were finished, we were almost equally drenched. While I changed, Ford dried and fed our stubborn pig. To my surprise, the entire thing was not only fun but felt easy to do together. The kind of easy I’m not used to. Most people I know have a difficult time being around me for long periods of time, never mind actually enjoying my company, but Ford treats me like I’m his oldest and best friend. No questions asked. No expectations shoved in my face. It’s refreshing. He’s refreshing…

  He reaches for his glass of whiskey. “So, you drew the characters in the game?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like all of them?”

  With a nonchalant shrug, I repeat, “Yeah.”

  His eyes bulge behind the sip he’s having.

  “The four main leads were simple because I was given descriptions. The city sketches were based on a couple major cities I just fused together. And the zombie you just got eaten by, well, they were really just one type I designed with slight modifications to make them appear as different ones, like hair color, skin color, shirts. Nothing too special.”

  “That’s incredible you did all those things.”

  Uncomfortable with the praise, I deny, “Not really. I mean once I’ve got a sketch and recreate it on the computer; it’s pretty much a walk in the park. Not a big deal at all.”

  “It’s a huge deal,” he corrects with promptness. “Stop selling your talent short, Ollie.”

  I guess I never realized how much I do that. To me, it’s not a big deal. Maybe that’s why I have a hard time thinking it is. “I don’t…I don’t mean to. It’s just…drawing is what I do. Like breathing. Or eating. I pick up a pencil and doodle. Even when I go out to eat, I draw cartoons on the napkins…which is cute when you’re a kid but heavily frowned upon at twenty-nine-er-thirty.” Ugh. Thirty. My new least favorite number. “I guess I forget anyone else might consider it something special.”

  Ford gives me a crooked smile. “You are special and while nobody should have to tell you that, the man in your life should’ve made you feel that.”

  Daryl never did, yet here’s a man I’ve known for less than 48 hours making me feel like he’d hang the moon for me because he swore I pulled up the sun for him.

  He clears his throat as if uncertain his comment was well received. “And I’ve always been shit at video games. My hands are better with real guns like when we go huntin’. Oliver, my middle brother, he was always good at this stuff. Still is. He’d always rather be inside than outside.”

  “Sounds like we would get along great.”

  A solemn look flashes in his green stare.

  His discomfort tugs at my tangled heart strings. Why on earth would a joke like that bother him unless…well unless…unless I’m not as crazy as I am trying to chalk myself up to being. “So, how many are there of you anyway, Farm Boy?”

  “Five.”

  “From the same two people?!”

  Ford’s laughter bounces around the room loud enough to stir the sleeping pig in my lap. He tries to dial it down by hiding it behind his balled fist. Once his composure is collected, he answers, “Yeah. My parents were high school sweethearts. Started at 18 and quit with me at 25…”

  Hearing him speak of his family fondly encourages me to ask more questions, “And you’re really the smallest?”

  “Oh yeah. My oldest brother William Jr. or Big Foot as we all call him, is 6’6, beating out Pop who is only 6’5.”

  “Holy shit!”

  He chuckles, yet continues, “Then there’s Edward or Eddie, he’s 6’5 along with Oliver and Blake. I’m only 6’0, so…a runt in comparison.”

  Completely baffled by the information, the only thing I’m capable of is allowing my mouth to bob around.

  The sound of his chuckles swells my heart once more preventing me further from speaking.

  I wonder how wrong it is to completely love hearing someone else laugh as much as I love hearing him do it. I mean like hearing him do it. I mean enjoy hearing him do it. Yeah. I think I need another drink.

  “Are both of your parents related to the Jolly Green Giant?”

  He shakes his head, smile never ceasing. “Mama’s only an inch or so taller than you.”

  “That’s crazy…”

  “Only way to live a good life is with a little bit of that in it…or least that’s what Mama says.” All of sudden, he takes me off guard again, “What about you? Siblings? Short parents? Possibly members of the Lollipop guild?”

  Pleased the conversation is never one sided, something else I am not accustomed to, I reply, “Only child with average sized parents.” We share a snicker. “They were both only children and never saw any reason to change the pattern.”

  Ford nods his understanding. “What about you? Do you want kids some day?”

  His question starts an unexpected ramble, “I-I-I-I-I don’t know. I don’t even know if kids like me. Hell, men don’t even like me long enough to really get that train of tho
ught to leave the station.” The awkward confession heats my face with shame. “Besides, if raising kids is anything like raising Princess Pinky, I will probably suck at it and probably shouldn’t do it. Save the world some stress and destruction. My gift to society….”

  He lets out a short laugh. “You’re not nearly as awful at things as you think you are. Your problem isn’t with the actions, Ollie. It’s with the confidence.”

  Definition of my life. And yeah, I know self-confidence is an inside job. That’s something Camilla croaks at me at least once a month. But it’s not an easy one. It damn sure isn’t one I always feel like putting the effort into. Then again, like everything else, around Ford it just feels natural to do things differently.

  “Alright, Farm Boy,” I swiftly change subjects. “Pick your western of the night.” Just as he reaches for the remote I declare, “But I think we should turn it into a drinking game.”

  There’s no objection. “Rules?”

  “Anytime there’s a horse on the screen.”

  Ford shakes his head. “We’ll be drunk ten minutes into the movie.”

  “Not sure I hear a problem…”

  The smile I am becoming more and more enamored with is presented again. “How about every time Clint Eastwood rides his horse.”

  “Deal.” His brightened grin ignites mine. “But if he only rides the damn thing twice I’m gonna be pissed.”

  We share another round of laughter, which Princess Pinky pops open her eyes to. Ford offers to take her off my hands to do the next round of feeding. Glad to be sharing the responsibility, I transfer her over, and head to the kitchen to gather her things. Once she’s been fed, played with, and successfully gone potty, she’s wrapped back up in her heating blanket where she immediately drifts back to sleep. The two of us try to quietly consume luke-warm pizza in hopes she doesn’t wake up to repeat the cycle.

  As soon as we’re certain she’s truly knocked out, Ford starts A Fistful of Dollars, his favorite Clint Eastwood western. From the minute the movie starts, the liquor is pouring. While the game rules are the ones we agreed upon, we decide it’s alright to sip a little extra. It doesn’t take long for a little extra to become a lot extra. Between the whiskey and Ford’s amusement flowing smoothly, it’s only a short matter of time before I am tipsy on two very different things. And the more I try to resist the latter, the more intoxicated I become.

  I place a hand on my mouth to stop the giggle from escaping. “Why the hell is this your favorite movie?”

  “Of all time,” he corrects. When I give him a pointed look he playfully commands, “You have to the say the whole thing just like I do with our hog’s name.”

  Rolling my eyes, I brace myself back against the couch, realizing we are sitting closer than I think we were when the movie started. “Fine. Why is this your favorite movie of all time?”

  His triumphant chuckle excites me in ways it shouldn’t. “’Cause Clint’s the anti-hero.”

  “What?”

  “He had been known for basically being the good guy up until this point. You know, the good cowboy who saves the day. Who does the right thing. Who lives an honorable way…” Our eyes lock. “But not in this one. In this one…he’s an asshole. He’s selfish. He gets what he wants…” Ford’s eyes drop down to my lips causing them to part. My breath thoughtlessly hitches as my heart begins to race a little faster. “For once…Clint took on a role where he wasn’t playing it safe. I guess I always liked the idea of that being me some day. Not necessarily an asshole, but more comfortable doing things…differently.”

  The silence that settles between us softly sings to both of us to scoot in a little closer. So we do.

  Ford drapes his arm around the back of the couch. “Carol Ann hated westerns.”

  Her name ignites a sneer. “Clearly she has terrible taste if she left you for Daryl.”

  Pride along with lust begins to fester in his gaze. “I think the same thing about him…”

  What are we saying? What are we doing? How wrong is it to spend the weekend together like this? Am I really hot and bothered because he does something for me no one else has or is this revenge for being dumped just rearing its ugly head? Or is it just the damn good whiskey we’ve been slinging back? What are the chances that maybe out of a terrible situation for the two of us something beautiful just might be created?

  “Daryl hated whiskey,” I add to the bashing. “He was a red wine or nothing type of man.”

  “So, a snob?”

  “Extremely.”

  “Carol Ann hated pizza.”

  She’s fucking crazy…

  “That’s un American.”

  Ford winks. “My thoughts precisely.”

  “She probably should’ve been shot for her treason.”

  His laugh sweeps the room.

  “Oh! Daryl hated cheese.”

  Yes. He was also fucking crazy and definitely should’ve been shot for treason. See. Perfect country betraying pair.

  “Carol Ann hated spending this much time away from her phone.”

  “I don’t even know where mine is,” I quietly confess. His light chuckle sways my body to brace itself against his. “Daryl hated to cuddle…”

  Ford lowers his arm to my shoulder and tugs me in closer without hesitation. “I enjoy the hell out of it.”

  An overwhelming inability to breathe tumbles through me. His green eyes hold my brown ones captive, while his arm flexes around me tighter. Slowly, he leans a little closer and I thoughtlessly whisper, “You’re not gonna kiss me, are you?”

  For a moment he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

  Shit! I shouldn’t have said that! I should’ve just rested my head on his shoulder and watched this stupid movie! God, I’m like the world’s worst flirter! I have no business flirting with him and if I’m going to defy all social norms than I should at least do it better. Gah. Come first thing…eh…more like third thing, Monday morning, Camilla is giving me some fail proof pointers.

  All of a sudden, Ford brushes a few strands away from my eyes before letting his touch drift down to my chin. “Not with whiskey on your breath Darlin’…”

  The comment instantly stops what I hope was an overreaction; however, a loud noise from the screen causes me to jump in my seat.

  “Relax, Ollie,” he declares, his snug hold increasing, “this is the best part….”

  Why do I have this feeling in the bottom of my stomach his reference wasn’t about the movie?

  My arms curl around the wiggling warmth and enjoy the pressure resting on my chest. Unsure of the last time I’ve slept in or all night for that matter, I merely keep my heavy lids closed and attempt to drift back off to sleep.

  “Ahhhhhhh!!!!”

  My eyes shoot open to the sight of Ollie staring at me. “Ahhhhh!”

  There’s a similar squeak from Princess Pinky who was still snuggled beside Ollie before the screaming began.

  She tears her body off of mine. “What the hell are you still doing here?!”

  “I-”

  “Did you sneak back away and sneak back in?”

  “What?”

  It only takes a brief moment for her to become confused by her own question as well.

  I give the side of my face a rub. “I…I must’ve fallen asleep during the last movie.”

  Funny thing is I knew I should’ve left before we even started it. I knew if I stayed where I was, come hell or high water, I wasn’t going to be able to force myself to go. Everything felt too good. Too easy. Too right. When Ollie fell asleep a third time pressed against me, wound so tightly in my arms I was afraid I was going to bruise her, I was done for. It didn’t matter if I was sober enough at that point to drive four blocks over to my cold, empty apartment. It’s not where I wanted to be. It doesn’t even feel like home. It never has. Not even when Carol Ann was there. But right here? Right here in this messy, unorganized, brightly colored apartment that looks like it belongs to a confused nineteen- year-old boy rather than a
thirty year old woman? I feel like it’s the only place I wanna hang my hat…metaphorically and literally. I didn’t mean to stay the whole night. I just wanted to hold onto that feeling for a little longer.

  Ollie tries to flatten down her fluffy curls. The same curls I ran my fingers through last night. The same ones I twirled around my finger while pretending she was my woman and this situation wasn’t as unorthodox as it is.

  “I apologize if I crossed a line. I would never intentionally hurt you, Ollie.”