I’d thought I’d never have to deal with his ass again.
“Wait till you see the RV Fox bought,” Mom said. “Greg and I are calling it the palace on wheels.”
“Nicholas Fox purchased an RV?”
“Not just any RV. A King Aire. Probably cost a fortune.”
Mom said the words like she was describing some mythical creature.
“What’s a King Aire?”
“Oh, you’ll see,” she said. “I can’t wait to tour that thing.”
“I can’t believe he got one,” I said.
“Just for this trip,” Mom said. “Says he wants a break from New York City life. He only finally confirmed for us last night that he’s coming. You know how Fox can be.”
One of the front doors of the tavern swung open and Red popped his head out. “Five minutes past break,” he said to me. “I sure hope you’re not having phone sex.”
“Much worse,” I told Red. “I’ll be back in right away. I gotta go, Mom.”
“Get back to work, hun,” she said. “And believe me, Fox won’t give you any trouble. I can’t imagine a city boy like that is going to love the road, so maybe you two can bond over that.”
“No bonding. Zero bonding. And I love you, Mom,” I said before we hung up.
Not only did I just agree to a road trip, but I agreed to one with my fucking stepbrother.
I already needed a drink.
2
Fox
I pulled my rental car up to the front parking lot of Red’s Tavern, gazing over the storefront.
What in fresh hell am I doing here?
It was a small brick building with an awning over the front doors, small string lights, and not much else. But I’d only been back in Amberfield for one day and already I was questioning every decision I’d ever made that led to being here again.
The small town may as well have been an alien planet to me. I knew I’d needed a break from New York City, but… this? The place I’d bolted from the moment I turned eighteen was still exactly as I’d left it. There was a reason I hadn’t come back since I left, choosing to fly my dad and stepmom out to visit me in the city every couple of years, instead.
Being back home also reminded me of my mom.
We’d grown up in a nearby town, and she’d died when I was just eleven years old. Seeing the rural streets and fields didn’t just remind me of my childhood—it reminded me of everything I’d lost. I still missed her more than anything in the world. Being here turned that low ache into a fresh wound all over again.
Why couldn’t my strange wanderlust have brought me to Paris or Tokyo or New Zealand, instead?
A thread of curiosity drew me in, though. This bar was where Sam Hartman worked. My stepbrother had always seemed destined for Broadway plays, but ten years after high school, he was still right here in Amberfield, bartending. And also apparently posting daily pictures to Instagram, mostly of his muscled body. Sam and I hadn’t spoken since high school, not that he talked to me much back then, either.
But he was the only person around my age I knew in this town. And I knew I’d never satisfy my curiosity until I went in.
I slid out of the car and slowly walked toward the front, my boots crunching lightly on the imperfect pavement. On my way here, I’d driven past a cow, just standing there on the side of the country road.
People said weird things happened on the streets of New York City, but clearly, they’d never been to Amberfield, Kansas.
I swung open the double doors to see plenty of people inside, drinking, dancing, and chatting. It was nothing like the gleaming nightclubs I was used to in the city, but at least something was going on in here.
It was easy to spot Sam. Black tank top, snug as hell. Tight black athletic shorts that seemed designed to show off his ass. In a gay bar like this, I was sure he must get a metric ton of tip money. He looked exactly like he did in all his Instagram photos, behind the bar at the far end.
I took a seat at the opposite end of the bar. Sam was facing away from me, talking to an older bartender who was decked out in cowboy boots and western wear.
“I think I would rather have six root canals a day for three weeks than spend a road trip with Nicholas Fox,” Sam was saying.
I snorted, draping a hand in front of my mouth to cover my chuckle.
No. Sam Hartman hadn’t changed one bit.
Sam reached up to the top shelf, grabbing a bottle of whiskey. Damn, the awkward theater kid really had filled out over the last ten years. He’d always had a sort of cute look to him, and definitely always expressed himself with his clothes, but twenty-eight year old Sam was something different. He looked like a young man, no longer a gangly teen. His sandy-blond hair was messy, but I knew he must have spent ten minutes in front of a mirror perfecting its messiness.