Page 60 of Emmett
“And you’re a menace.”
Nash settles behind me with a laugh, resting his hands on my shoulders with a squeeze. I scroll through the website in front of me until I find a drink that sounds decent which we can make with what’s already stocked out here before I set the phone down and hand Nash the lime.
He takes the fruit and cuts it into thin slices, occasionally glancing over at me with the ghost of a smile on his lips. I put away the alcohol that we won’t need and pull out two drinking glasses and a shot glass, setting them onto the bar in front of us.
“Two shots of this into each glass,” I tell him as I give him a bottle of spiced rum. I study him as he follows my instruction, carefully pouring the rum into the shot glass. “Do you ever tell them thank you?”
“My staff?” Confusion crosses his features before he answers my question with his own. “Why would I thank them for doing their jobs?”
“Because they’re people and they’re helping you,” I tell him. “You don’t ever give them a quick ‘thanks’ when they do something for you?”
“I give them a paycheck.”
I laugh with a shake of my head as I pour cola into each of the glasses, topping them off while Nash drops the slices of lime into them. I clink my glass against his as we each take a sip and the perfect blend of sweetness and spice dances on my tongue.
“You and I grew up very differently,” I tell him as we start down the path that leads back to the water.
“Yes, we did.” Nash’s arm snakes around my waist while we walk. “I was born into generational wealth and devout Catholicism, and—”
“I grew up broke with a dad in the service industry who gave me one hundred percent of his attention one hundred percent of the time.” His fingers flex against my bare skin and I wrap my arm around him in return. As we dip back into the water, I take another sip of my drink before asking, “Are you still Catholic?”
He seems surprised by the question, and he goes quiet for a long time. I watch his eyes move to the space ahead of him as if he’s looking for the answer to the question before he blows out a breath. “Yes,” he finally answers, “I suppose I am. I still believe that God exists, but I’ve been so angry with Him for so long that I wish that He didn’t.”
“That’s probably harder than if you didn’t believe in it at all anymore, huh?”
“Yes,” he answers, the smile on his face almost looking as if it’s plastered over heartbreak, “it is.”
Resting my drink on the lounge wall, I move behind him and bring my hands to his shoulders, massaging my thumbs into his muscle. I press my lips to the skin just behind his ear and he brings a hand to rest on top of mine.
“Would you go back to it?” I ask him. “If you ever stopped being pissed, I mean.”
His answer is immediate. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry that something you loved so much hurt you.”
“He wasn’t the first, pretty boy,” he tells me. “And He certainly wasn’t the last, either.”
I wrap my arm tightly around his chest and press a kiss to the crook of his neck.
I think if I could, I would fight God for him.
“Come with me,” he says, taking hold of my hand.
I follow his lead into the house, through the mudroom and up the stairs. His staff mills about the house, but none of them pay us any mind. We may as well be invisible to them.
Nash’s bedroom is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The walls are painfully white, save a thick slab of marble that sits behind the bed’s quilted leather headboard. The mattress is massive, topped with an oxblood comforter that spills over each side of it and pools onto the floor below. Other than the few accents of gold around the room, the comforter and its matching pillows are the most colorful aspect. A massive window sits at the side of the room which faces the foot of the bed, overlooking the city with a beautiful view.
I drop onto the cushion of the bed with a flourish, falling backward with my arms out at my sides. Nash steps toward a gold rolling cart tucked into the far corner of the room, using a crystal decanter to fill two glasses. He brings them over, putting one of the glasses into my hand while he takes a sip from the other.
“I have a question,” I tell him as I bring myself to a sitting position. Nash gestures as if to say‘I’m listening.’“Why do you and my dad hate each other so much?”
A loud laugh pours from his chest, his hand reaching up to cover his mouth. “Because we were a pair of competitive little shits with no one to rein us in.” He pulls another drink from his glass and settles onto the mattress next to me. “When I came back from myvacation, your father was already into the investing game. He did well for himself there; he must have for my grandfather to actually take notice of him, but Henry Montgomery was an old man. His mindset was progressive, but his methods were outdated. I only took in a little of what he taught me. Your father taught me the restwithout his knowledge,” he chuckles into his glass. “He didn’t appreciate that I was following what he and the Texan—”
“Davis,” I correct him.
“That’s what I said.” He takes another drink, trying not to laugh at the glare that I shoot in his direction. “We weren’t buddies; we were competitors. None of us were interested in changing that. Fast forward a decade or so, and what was once a small thing became a snowball that spiraled into what it is now.”
“I’m sure the whole prison thing and the brothels haven’t helped,” I add.