Voices filtered through the fog as Nash jerked awake in the recliner. At least he’d finally managed a little sleep after tossing and turning half the night. His hand shook as he reached for the beverage and two Tylenol tablets on the table beside him.
He paused his movement, not wanting to tip the glass, and brought the chair forward to a sitting position. He took a deep breath as perspiration dripped down his face, and reached again, but his hand still shook. The only upside was that at least they’d dropped Mom at the airport two days ago before this crap started, so she didn’t have to witness it.
“Here, let me.” Fingers that didn’t belong to Emmitt picked up the pills and held them out. Nash presented his palm and looked into the face of a smiling Dylan Rieder lookalike, complete with the scruffy hair and facial stubble that probably took anything but the casual effort it was meant to appear. Smiling bastard even had tattoos on his lean, muscled arms.
Nash tossed back the pills, and the man handed him the glass of water Emmitt had mixed with some lemon, orange, cucumber, and electrolyte drops. The walking wet dream said, “Hi, my name is Percy. I’m a home health aide. I’ll be staying here to help you and your boyfriend’s grandfather for the next few weeks.”
Nash narrowed his eyes at Mr. Average-Height-but-Nonetheless-Gorgeous, lest he get any ideas in Emmitt’s direction. “Fiancé.”
“Sure.” Percy grinned…not at Nash, but at Emmitt as he approached with a damp washcloth.
Emmitt ran one hand through Nash’s hair, brushing it back from his forehead, and patted his sweaty face with the cool cloth. “I’m going to leave soon to pick up Grampy. You doing okay? You got a little rest, anyway.”
“Yeah, I guess. Damn, I’m a drug weenie. It shouldn’t be this bad.”
“Everybody’s different. It doesn’t take much for some people to build a mild dependence.” Emmitt used the kind of patient voice that people generally reserved for dealing with unreasonable two-year-olds.
Nash squeezed his eyes closed and counted to ten before reopening them. “I’m not addicted.” He bit out the words.
“I know you’re not.” Still with the patient tone. “There’s a difference between ‘dependence’ and ‘dependency.’”
Nash knew that, of course. He was being stupidly defensive. It was that fucking Percy’s fault, standing there looking fucking perfect. Smirking bastard. Nash glared in his direction.
His agitation and irritability were also symptoms of the Oxycodone withdrawal. Understanding it and being able to control it were two very different things, though. He so didn’t need Mr. Exquisitely-Good-Looking here to give Emmitt a side-by-side comparison of what he might find himself stuck with versus what was being offered to him on a silver platter, his for the taking.
Nash’s gut churned, and he grimaced. “Excuse me,” he muttered as he pushed himself to stand. Apparently feeling like a clammy bitch wasn’t enough of a challenge for Nash to overcome as he desperately tried to be the more appealing option in the room for Emmitt.
The roiling in his intestines wasn’t urgent enough, thankfully, that he’d need to detour to the nearest bathroom, so he managed a reasonably dignified walk upstairs to the master bath.
He avoided looking in the mirror, not wanting to see the dark circles framing the eyes in his flushed, perspiring face, and flipped on the exhaust fan as he entered the nearer toilet cubicle.
His collection of elastic waist track pants had mysteriously expanded in the past two weeks. Maybe not so mysteriously—he knew darned well Emmitt must’ve checked the size of the one pair he’d previously owned and bought out the Nike outlet store on his behalf—even though Emmitt hadn’t actually said anything, and the pants had simply appeared in the closet.
“Thank you, Emmitt,” Nash whispered as he pushed them down with his one good hand. “And thank you to the genius who invented elastic,” he added for good measure. When he was done using the toilet, he decided the marketing prodigy who’d come up with the idea for adult bathroom wet wipes, and whoever’d invented Ozium, deserved a few props as well.
He washed his hand at the sink and debated with himself. Should he be the gracious person his mother had tried to raise him to become and go back downstairs where he could greet Grampy when he arrived, or should he flop on the bed to ostensibly try to take a nap, but in reality avoid making himself available for an easy comparison to the flawless dreamboat?
Good manners and kindness are always in fashion. Mom’s words of wisdom echoed through his mind. Goddammit.
“Fine.” Now he was talking to himself, too. He’d go downstairs and play nice. Or try to, anyway. Percy had best concentrate his efforts on Grampy and leave Nash the hell alone. Although, Nash got the feeling treating Grampy well might be the most direct route to Emmitt’s heart. It was a no-win situation. Why couldn’t the service have sent them a female aide?
“Fuck it.” Nash opened the bedroom door and went downstairs. All was quiet except for the soothing music Emmitt had put on while Nash was napping. Percy looked up from his chair and cracked another of his winning smiles. Fucker. It didn’t look at all forced.
“Myles has gone to pick up his grandfather.”
“I figured.”
Percy got up and walked to the kitchen island. He extracted a pill from a box on the counter. “He said you should take this when you came downstairs.”
Nash bristled. “Fine.” He held out his hand as Percy approached. “But just so you know, I can take care of myself. You’re here only because I can’t take care of Bernie if he has any trouble right now.”
“I know you can.” Percy’s reply was good-natured, as if Nash wasn’t giving him an unmistakable snub. Fucker. Mr. Sexy wasn’t stupid, so he knew he was being rebuffed. “But as long as I’m here, I might as well help out any way I can, right?”
Nash stopped himself from telling Percy where he could shove his Mr. Nice-Guy act. Problem was, Nash knew damned well it wasn’t really a put-on. Mr. Delightfully-Fetching was probably a genuinely pleasant person, which was all the more reason Nash was in trouble if Emmitt took a good comparative look at the two of them.
He ignored the question and swallowed the damned anti-diarrhea pill with the remaining electrolyte water in the glass he’d left in the living room. Nash eased his aching body into the recliner and closed his eyes.
Fuuuuuuck. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Just when life was looking up, it had to throw him another curveball. This past week had been pretty sweet. His arm had maintained in the three-zone, and he and Mom had taken several outings during the day while Emmitt worked.
Evenings had been even better, getting to know his fiancé, and discovering they had a lot more common interests than he’d had with Sam. Nights…oh, man, the nights had been surprisingly wonderful. The surprise was because it had been so…sensual, although sex had certainly not happened.
Plenty of making out had happened, though. He smiled thinking of it, until the vision of Home-Health-Hottie smiling at Emmitt pushed to the front of his mind.
Fucking Oxycodone withdrawal. After having dropped to a solid two, his pain was back to three without it. Tolerable, he supposed. More so than the withdrawal symptoms, anyway. He could handle a level three pain in his arm better than the shitty-ass mood, constant sweating, shakes, diarrhea, and nausea.
Shuffling noises and the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing interrupted his thoughts. Then there was a light tick of a glass being set on the table to Nash’s right, and he knew Mr. I-Might-As-Well-Help-Out had refilled his flavored electrolyte water.
He’d probably have liked the persistent bastard in different circumstances.
Nash opened his eyes and looked at Percy smiling as he sat in the other recliner. “Hey, what did you mean when you said you’d be ‘staying here’? You’re just here for an intro today, right, then days only during the week.”
“Oh, no. I heard that was the original plan, but Myles changed it because he was concerned about the times he’d be on call. So, I’ll be here ’round the clock until your cast is off, but I’ll be off duty, technically, when Myles is home.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Nash hadn’t actually meant to say that aloud. Even with the damned mood-swinging withdrawal effects, he knew that was uncalled for. He closed his eyes again, groaned, then reopened them. “Sorry. I’m not usually a total ass, but I fucking hate this.”
Percy’s smile faltered for a moment, but he rallied, the cheerful do-gooder. “I understand completely.”
Doubtful, but points for saying it. Nash sighed. Emmitt would like this guy. Nash would’ve if he wasn’t feeling so unsure about his position in Emmitt’s heart. Nash closed his eyes yet again and pushed back in the recliner.
He and Emmitt hadn’t said “I love you” to each other yet. Well, no doubt they had, but his fiancé was tactfully waiting until Nash either remembered that, or said it first, since he was the one that needed to come back to the feeling.
Did he love Emmitt? What was love? Loving and being “in love” were two different things. He’d figured that out in the past two weeks. He still loved Sam, but he was no longer “in love” with his former fiancé.
It no longer hurt to be away from Sam. Now Nash found himself missing Emmitt when he was gone. It wasn’t for lack of company, either. Nash’s friends had all visited again, and his mother had been there until recently. But he looked forward to being with Emmitt, specifically. He missed him right now.
Simple love was different. He loved his parents, he loved his brother, Aaron. He even loved Aaron’s wife, Rachel, and of course, his nieces. And yes, he still loved Sam. They had a good history, and Nash would be terribly upset if something bad happened to him.
Would he be distraught if something bad happened to Emmitt? Would life without Emmitt crush him now, the way he’d felt when he’d first realized Sam was no longer his?
Nash’s eyes popped open, and he sat up again. He found himself staring at the photograph of Emmitt’s teenaged self, grinning like he didn’t have a care in the world, and the realization hit him. Yes, he would be devastated if he lost Emmitt now. Utterly and completely destroyed.
The door to the apartment clicked open and Emmitt walked in, preceded by Grampy.
Nash smiled at the sight of the older man. “Welcome home, Grampy!”
Grampy chortled in the unique way Nash had become familiar with over the past week. “Good to be home!”
Then Emmitt peered over Grampy’s shoulder, and his face looked so much like the carefree young man in the photo Nash had just seen, Nash burst into tears.
Why, he had no idea. What must Emmitt think? And Grampy? He turned away, mortified, and caught a glimpse of wide-eyed confusion on Mr. Smokin’-Hot-But-Not-Sweaty’s face and jumped up to escape the room.
He stumbled toward the stairs. Not fast enough, because Percy caught up with him. “Nash? Let me help, please.”
Fucker sounded sincerely concerned. Nash shook him off and trudged, sobbing, up the stairs. He slammed the bedroom door shut behind him.
At least he had the presence of mind not to throw himself on the bed, because that would’ve been excruciating. He did sit and roll onto his right side, though, then curled up into a pathetic sniveling hot mess of a ball.
Everyone would hate him now. Grampy would think Nash was upset about his coming home.
Emmitt would think the same, and he loved his Grampy more than anything in the world. Percy…well who the fuck cared what Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes thought?
Emmitt, that’s who. Fuck.
Nash jerked when Emmitt’s warm hand touched his side. He hadn’t heard the door snick open over his snuffles.
He pinched his eyes tightly closed, but, no shocker, the world didn’t go away as a result. His body gently rocked as the mattress depressed behind him with Emmitt evidently climbing onto the bed.
Emmitt didn’t say anything. He simply tucked his body in behind Nash’s and quietly petted him as the shuddering sobs eased. Nash closed his eyes and finally, reality disappeared, and he slept.
* * * *