Nash Brothers Box Set

by Carrie Aarons

  So, for the past week and a half, I’ve been working on it around the clock. From sketching in the silence of my new apartment, to rendering concepts on the design software Forrest bought me for Christmas, to spending time out in the barn, picking out the perfect materials. The vision for it consumes me, and all I want to do is work on it.

  I have a deadline of five months from now, but I feel like, with all the creative energy flowing through my veins currently, I could get it done in a week. I know that’s not possible, there are mechanics to be worked out, and models to be shown and metal that will be welded over its frame … but I’m just so fucking happy to be doing something I love and showing it to our town.

  There wasn’t a question where I wanted to bring Ryan for our first official hangout. I’m calling it that, because if I say the word date, I feel like she’ll freak the fuck out. But I want to show her a side of me that not many people see up close, so that she feels more comfortable.

  That isn’t to say I’m not nervous as fuck as I lead her into the barn I use as my workshop.

  “So, this is it …” I say, my voice wavering with struggle as I shove open the red, metal barn door.

  Ryan insisted on driving here herself so that we didn’t ride over together. She can tell herself all she wants that this isn’t a thing. But, we both know that the minute I helped her out of her driver’s seat, and our hands touched, there was an electric current that sprang up between us and hasn’t stopped since. My flesh can feel its proximity to her, and I don’t miss the way she keeps rubbing the goose bumps off her arms.

  “Wow, Fletcher …” Her face, so foxlike in its shape, alters into an expression of awe.

  While she’s gazing at my pieces, I take the moment to study her. Her lashes are impossibly long, making her look utterly female, but with those sharp cheekbones, you know there is bite under the surface. She’s wearing a fire engine red T-shirt and paired with the black shorts and her jet-black hair, she looks like hell on wheels. But there is a softness there, too, one she’s only let me get glimpses at.

  “You built all this? I’m … well, damn I’m so impressed. You’re really good.”

  Ryan moves around the barn without permission, though she doesn’t need it. Once I let someone in here, they can look at whatever they like.

  Her delicate hands run over a few chairs I’m in the process of staining, she takes a look at the drawings for the clock, has a glance at some tiny soldier figurines I’m making for the boys, and then moseys around just taking it all in.

  “It’s a true talent that you can do this. Most people have no creativity in their brains. Me included.”

  I wave her off. “I’m okay at working with my hands.”

  It comes out as more of an innuendo than I meant it to be, and Ryan’s gaze is pinned to my hands.

  Quickly, I recover. “People’s brains just work differently. Some would say what you do is an art. I’m hopeless with computers, Forrest keeps trying to get me to set up a Facebook page and it scrambles my mind.”

  Ryan’s lips stretch into a smile. “I guess you’re right. Take Lily for example, I’d never have the patience to put up with annoying library patrons all day.”

  “I can second that.” I nod.

  A ringtone chimes up between us, and Ryan reaches hastily into her pocket. One look at the screen and she silences it.

  “So, can I play with a saw?” The expression she wears is downright trouble.

  But damn, is she sexy. “I think we’ll start with sandpaper. I didn’t bring you here to have any fingers cut off.”

  We focus on one of my chairs, sanding the rough edges.

  Her phone begins to ring for the fourth time since we came out here, and her face gets tighter with every call.

  “Do you need to get that?” I ask, wondering if it’s her ex.

  The way she’s staring at her cell, as if it might jump out and bite her, I’d bet it is. No one gets that look if it isn’t someone who has scorned them or someone they deeply don’t want to talk to.

  “No. It’s just my mother.” The way Ryan says this, you’d think it was the grim reaper calling her.

  “Are you two … close?” I’m not trying to pry, but it seems like the next logical thing to ask.

  She shakes her head, her eyes distant. “No. I grew up in foster care.”

  Shock works its way from my chest to my gut. “I … didn’t know that.”

  I’m not sure if I should tell her I’m sorry? I’m not really sure what to say, because I’ve never encountered someone who grew up in foster care. For all of its good qualities, Fawn Hill is not exactly worldly. The majority of the residents are made up of heterosexual couples who have two kids and the white picket fence. We don’t have a lot of crime, or outsiders, and for that, I do feel I’ve missed out on a lot of the world. It’s a wholesome place to live, but it doesn’t detail the experience of many people living in our country.

  “Yeah. I don’t talk about it much.” Her voice is clipped. “Anyway, what is this?”

  Ryan is changing the subject, and we both know it, but I let her. If she doesn’t want to open up about it, I’m not going to force her.

  Moving to see what she’s looking at, I find the piece I’m trying to design for Mom.

  “It’s a family tree for my mother. I’m trying to make it a little abstract, for a large wall over her couch that she’s kept empty since she moved in.”

  “It’s really beautiful,” Ryan says quietly.

  I’ve whittled and carved a large oak tree from a beautiful slab of oak. All the branches have a member of our family’s name on it, with wooden leaves carved for the offshoots of their individual families.

  “You don’t have anyone on your branch,” she points out.

  I shrug. “Never met anyone to carve into it permanently.”

  “Why is that?”

  I knew this question was coming, but the potential pitfalls of the answer leave me anxious. I haven’t bothered to get close to a woman in five years, so admitting the disgusting ways of my past is something I haven’t had to face. But, if I want Ryan to put stock in our connection, if I want her to feel able to talk to me, I have to talk to her.

  “I started drinking from the age of about fourteen and didn’t stop until I was forced to go to rehab by my family. In high school, it wasn’t all the time … until probably senior year. I’d show up drunk to class, to baseball practices, and if I wasn’t at those places, I was loaded. But, as I came to find out, I’m an alcoholic. A highly functioning one. I could have five shots of tequila and talk to you as if I was as sober as a priest. No one thought anything of it, at first; my friends and brothers just thought I partied harder than them. But then, it started consuming my life. I couldn’t get out of bed without drinking a beer. I couldn’t make it through a day without ten drinks under my belt. After high school, I just lapsed into this junkie lifestyle. I was messing around with drugs, though alcohol was always my wife. She was the love of my life, and I was blacked out for the early part of my twenties. I’m not even sure who I slept with, or where I ended up at the end of the night. Half the time I had it, I wasn’t even really conscious of having sex. That sounds disgusting, horrifying … but it’s true. I was so wasted, I don’t even remember those girls’ faces.”

  Ryan bites her lip, and I wonder if she thinks I’m a monster.

  But, I continue. “When I finally got sober, they tell you in AA that you’re not supposed to start a romantic relationship during your first year in the program. The focus is supposed to be on recovery, not a relationship. So I followed the rules, to the letter. I cleaned up my life, made amends to my family and those I’d hurt, started showing up for work and saving my money. And then … I don’t know. I just kind of let that no romance rule bleed into the second year, and then the third. I figured that eventually, if I was into someone enough, I’d break the dry spell. But that person never came, or maybe I just wasn’t open to it. I focused on my family, my job, and my dream o
f turning all of this into a full-time gig.”

  When I finish, she’s looking at me with a curious expression on her face. “So, when you mean dry spell … you mean, you haven’t …”

  “I haven’t had sex in five years.” I nod, fully aware of how pathetic that sounds.

  What she does next right about bowls me over.

  Ryan steps into my space, presses her palms to my cheeks, and pulls me in for a kiss. As if it’s a Pavlovian response, my hands seek her hips, pulling our bodies as close together as they can be and then running up the length of her slim torso. I feel her shiver, and I walk us backward until I can lean against my workbench, the hottest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on pressed up against me.

  “You are captivating …” I whisper into her mouth, seconds before our tongues meet.

  Ryan purrs with delight as our mouths dance. You can kiss anyone, it’s just an action that most grown adults are practiced at. But for it to matter, for there to be passion, the person on the other end has to incite wonder in you.

  And that’s what this woman does for me.

  I’m about to let my hand wander under her shirt, chancing my luck to see if I can move us any further, when Ryan bypasses all the bases and sinks to her knees.

  “What are you—”

  The words that come out of my mouth are hoarse and cut off when she deftly unbuckles my belt, unbuttons my shorts, and pulls down my zipper.

  “Holy fuck,” I murmur, just the sight of her before me enough to have my dick ramrod straight in two seconds flat.

  Ryan’s long lashes sweep up, those whiskey-colored eyes intoxicating to me. There is a bit of a devilish smile twinkling in them, and I’m seeing the temptress side of her. Everything about this woman is arresting, and now that I see her in the midst of her sexual prime …

  I can see why men fall at her feet.

  She keeps her eyes glued to mine as she pushes my shorts past my hips and then reaches into my boxers. The second her fist grips me, I feel my knees buckle. It’s been so long since someone other than my right hand grasped my cock, and the feel of her silky smooth fingers is enough pressure to make me come.

  “Ry—” I want to tell her I’m not going to last even another ten seconds, but before I can get the words out, she tests out her grip and pumps a small stroke.

  Her eyes go wide as they take my dick in, the length of me swollen and ruddy. The muscles in it twitch and make my appendage bob … it’s probably damn excited it’s getting some attention after all this time.

  “Wow,” Ryan deadpans, and I have to puff out my chest a little.

  Yes, back when I used to get action on the regular, I did have a little reputation. Or a big reputation, I should say.

  “I mean …” She trails off again, bringing her hand up to rub across her jaw.

  “You’re killing me, Ryan.” My eyes go skyward, because I’m about to pass out with how hard my heart is beating. “If you don’t want to, I didn’t bring you here thinking anything would—”

  “You haven’t been with a woman in five years, Fletcher. I think you’re way overdue for a good blow job.”

  I swear, I could blow my load just from her words alone.

  When she wraps those plump red lips around my cock, though … sweet lord have mercy. I might just die on the spot. Go into heart failure from the single greatest sensation I’ve felt in my entire life.

  Ryan bobs up and down, sucking and pumping in a rhythm that makes my ears start to ring. I feel like I might fall over, and I’m trying to count to ten or tighten my ass cheeks to keep from coming too soon. I’ll be mighty embarrassed if I can’t last more than ten seconds.

  But then she pulls me out of her mouth and runs her tongue along the underside of my shaft while kneading my balls in her other hand, and I know I’m a goner.

  The minute she swallows me again, my cock halfway down her throat, I make a garbled attempt to tap her on the shoulder.

  “Ryan, I’m going to, fuck … I can’t … fuck …”

  It feels like my whole body is exploding as I empty into her mouth, this woman just patiently taking my come instead of moving to the side to jack me off. Euphoria runs through my veins, and I have to white-knuckle grip the table behind me to keep from collapsing. The goddess before me has completely undone me, mind, body, and soul.

  She can’t know how wholly she just blew my mind. What she did was selfless, it showed care for me in a way not many others did. Some might laugh at that assumption, because she’d just sucked me off, but it was, in fact, a significant gesture. She felt serious enough about me to take care of me, to give me something I’ve been depriving myself of.

  And I was serious enough about her to let her do it.

  Ryan stands, a cocky smile on her face, and I grab her, pressing my lips to hers. It might be a shock because she goes rigid for a minute. The thought that she’s probably been with assholes who won’t kiss her after a blow job crosses my mind. But I’m not that guy, and she just made me feel incredible. I want to thank her for it.

  “That was not a nice blow job,” I choke into her hair, still unable to feel most of my extremities.

  “Way to make a girl feel good.” I can feel her pout against my neck.

  Air still evades me. “That was fucking spectacular. World ending.”

  Ryan pulls back, grinning from ear to ear. “Now that’s more like it.”

  21

  Fletcher

  Molly gurgles as I bounce her gently on my knee.

  “Her neck is so freaking strong, dude. Look at her holding it up,” Bowen tells me this as if I know when babies are supposed to do this.

  But he looks so proud, I nod. “Yeah, man, she’s the most advanced baby in the game. Aren’t you, little fart machine?”

  My niece cracks a half smile, one of those adorable baby almost-grins, as she lets out a massive fart in my lap.

  “Holy crap … literally.” I have to hold my breath, because it smells like a bomb just dropped in Bowen’s living room.

  “Ah, man, we might have an explosion.” He quickly takes the baby from me and carts her off upstairs to deal with whatever is in her diaper.

  I lean back on Bowen and Lily’s couch, looking around the house that my brother used to live in alone, but has now given design control of to his wife. Their house is what I’d want, if and when I settle down. It’s all neutral colors and comfy furniture, with pictures of the family everywhere. Presley and Keaton’s house is a little more whimsical, what with her taste in eclectic art … and Fletcher and Penelope’s house is a mix of turquoise and yellow, with more pops of color. I feel like I’m on a funhouse ride in their house, but they love it.

  My big brother comes back downstairs, Molly in his arms, sucking on her pacifier.

  “Never thought I’d get satisfaction out of counting another person’s shits for a day, but I guess that’s fatherhood.” His smile is dreamy when he looks down at his daughter.

  “Do you like taking care of her when Lily isn’t around?”

  The girls are having a ladies’ night tonight, leaving all the men at home. Ryan had joined them; I think they were going to the Goat for drinks.

  “Hell, yeah. It’s fun. And it makes me feel useful, being able to care for her all on my own. Plus, makes me look like a badass to the wife. Then she wants to kiss me even more.” He winks at me, and I find it hilarious how Lily has turned him into a lovable Mr. Mom.

  “Well, I’ll plan to get out of your hair then, before she comes home.” I snicker.

  “So, what’s up? Why are you hanging here and not at Forrest’s?” he asks, flicking the TV on and turning to the baseball game.

  I check the score on the screen. “What do you mean? He’s not the only brother I like.”

  “Yeah, but the whole twin thing, you guys are psychic butt buddies.” Bowen says this as if it’s fact.

  I guess it kind of is. “Whatever. I wanted to hang with you. My big Bowie.”

  The nickname jab is because he c
alled us psychic butt buddies, and I get the response I want when my older brother growls.

  “Don’t call me Bowie. And cut the shit. Tell me why you wanted to come over, other than to snuggle my adorable daughter.”

  Shit, he does see right through me all the time. See, Bowen and I are similar in a lot of ways. While Forrest is my twin, he’s also very unlike me. Forrest is a grade-A brain and loner, he can spend days not talking to another person. He’s always been on the outside of things, doesn’t like sports much, and if he has a problem with something, he will confront you about it.

  Bowen and I, we’re much more internal with our feelings. Bowen more than me, but we keep things bottled up. To the point that they fester and begin to infect us with rage or hurt. I saw him do it with Lily; he lived in this bubble of anger for a decade and wouldn’t get out of his own way to solve his pain.

  Before I got sober, I was the same way. I used partying and being social as a cover for the larger problem that was eating me whole. And since giving it all up, I’ve used celibacy as a crutch. If I don’t have the turmoil of a relationship, I don’t have to worry that a fight or a financial commitment to someone will escalate into me having a drink.

  I decide to broach the subject with Bowen, though I know he may crack some wiseass remark.

  “How did you, uh … stay away from Lily? Or when you knew you wanted to break your whole sullen and damaged routine to get her back … how did you do that?”

  “You’re sleeping with Ryan, huh?” Bowen doesn’t even bother looking at me.

  “What the … no!” I try to sound offended or surprised, but I know my older brother is looking right through this defense.

  “Don’t lie, Fletch. You’re shit at it since you got sober.”

  I can’t argue with him there. “Fine. We may have … done something, but we’re not sleeping together.”

  “You want to sleep with her, though, right?” Why does he have to be all up in my business?

  “Yes,” I grumble reluctantly.