Page 73 of Sweet Like Whiskey

“Nuh-uh,” I non-answer, giving Starlight a gentle kick toward the stables. “I’m not talking to my brother about ass stuff.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he whines. “I’m curious.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you now?”

My question flies right over his head. “Bet Remi would tell me.”

“You really wanna hear specifics of our little brother’s sex life?”

Colton grimaces. “All right, I see your point.”

“Mhm.”

He’s quiet for a minute. But only until we reach the barn doors. “What’s frotting?”

“Jesus fuckingChrist. You’ve got Google!”

“You really think I wanna look that up?” he asks, voice getting quieter as I rush on ahead of him. “I mightseethings, Jackson.”

Shaking my head, I swing off Starlight’s back and lead him over to his stall. We’ll be going back out, so I don’t bother washing him down yet. But I do take off his gear and give him a quick brush to remove the dirt caked on his legs.

When I step back into the hall, Colton is looking at his phone, his hand partially concealing his eyes.

“Ah, fuck,” I mutter, heading to the mini-fridge and grabbing a couple carrots. “Colt.”

My brother looks up at me.

Pointedly, I hold up the two carrots before pressing them together from base to tip. I die a little inside as I rub them together. Committed, and wishing I wasn’t, I wrap a hand around the root vegetables and give a single jerk.

“Frotting. Got it?” I ask.

He nods, eyes wide.

“Never again,” I say adamantly, feeding the carrots through the bars of Starlight’s stall. He chomps them down. “And we don’t talk about this.”

Colton’s choked laughter follows me as I trudge out of the horse barn.

My brothers, I swear to God.

Pulling off my hat, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and make my way across the property. Ranching is dirty work, no matter the time of year. Sometimes, it feels as if this place is baked into my pores. I don’t mind it, but it does make me wonder what Ash thinks of this lifestyle. He said he enjoys it here, but will that pass? Will the novelty wear offeventually?

I try to ignore the tightness circling my chest, but it’s no use. Otto said he’d stay. He didn’t.

Ash isn’t Otto, I remind myself. And I let Otto go, didn’t I? Even as it burned. Even as it cracked and blistered, I let him go.

What does that say about me?

My sullen thoughts come to a halt the moment I reach the petting farm, as do my steps. Ash is inside with Virginia, the pair of them spread out on yoga mats, laughing their heads off as baby goats climb on their backs and legs. Haley, the attendant, has a smile on her face as she watches them.

“Afternoon,” I say to her, getting my feet into gear and heading inside the fenced corral.

“Afternoon, boss.”

“What’s going on here?” I ask, my pulse hopping as Ash falls onto his stomach, his back shaking with laughter.

“Yoga, I guess,” Haley says in amusement.

“Jackson,” Ash calls, having spotted me. He pushes upright, sitting with his legs in a pretzel and brushing his hair back. “How come you guys don’t do goat yoga?”

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