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 the punk
LOST BOYS
BOOK THREE

KELLY FOX
 contents

Also by Kelly Fox

Before We Begin
1. Hendrix
2. Sawyer
3. Hendrix
4. Sawyer
5. Hendrix
6. Sawyer
7. Hendrix
8. Sawyer
9. Hendrix
10. Sawyer
11. Hendrix
12. Sawyer
13. Hendrix
14. Sawyer
15. Hendrix
16. Sawyer
17. Hendrix
18. Sawyer
19. Hendrix
20. Sawyer
21. Hendrix
22. Sawyer
23. Hendrix
24. Sawyer
25. Hendrix
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kelly Fox
Copyright © 2024 Kelly Fox
Cover illustration: Duy Phan, fiverr.com/phanduy

Developmental editing: Charity VanHuss, vanhuss.charity@gmail.com

Line and copy editing: Alicia Z. Ramos, aliciazramos.com
Proofreading: markedandread.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express
written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.
The licensed art material is being used for illustrative purposes only.
 also by kelly fox
SERIES
Wrecked
Guardians
Rebel Sky Ranch
Mobsters+Billionaires
Wild Heart Ranch
Lost Boys
Orpheum Avenue

STAND-ALONE NOVELLAS
Summer Makeover
Bee Cave Magic
Texas Detour
Roots and Sky
Liar’s Gambit

FREEBIES
https://www.authorkellyfox.com/freebies
 before we begin

It always tickles me to write a stoic character because my wife provides me with all the inspiration I could ever need. We’ve
been together since 2010, and there are still moments when I look at her and have zero clue what she’s thinking. Seriously,
don’t play poker with this woman. Her expression gives nothing away.
She’s the kind of person who does most of her talking through her actions, and a lot of Sawyer’s nonverbal displays of love
come directly from things my wife has done for me. Believe me, even when they’re quiet, both Amy and Sawyer are romantic
as hell.
Hendrix, on the other hand, shows his affection by incessantly poking at Sawyer. I had no direct inspiration for this character;
he is a complete figment of my imagination.
(My wife is watching me as I type this, and her smirk, while subtle, is very loud.)
So many of our Lost Boys have been looking in the wrong direction for love, and I adore this story because when our two guys
finally start looking at each other at the same time, sparks fly.
Finally, I continue to traumatize my editorial team with my Texas phrasing, inconsistent apostrophes, and steadfast refusal to
use the word "think" in the phrase, "you've got another thing coming." #sorrynotsorry
Content warning: Brief mentions of homophobia, transphobia, and general family bullshit.
 CHAPTER 1

hendrix

“… that’s why you’ll never love me,” I sang, holding on to the last note even though my voice was completely shredded.
The crowd of forty thousand plus at the Foro Sol had been amazing. Despite the blazing sun and my band being one of the first
acts of the day, the place was packed. Our fans sang along with every number, and when Robbie hit the song’s final riff, they
shook the stadium with their roar.
It made giving up the scheduled three-day break from our tour worth it. We’d been hesitant to accept at first, given how badly
we needed the rest, but when the largest traveling rock festival in the world asks you to sub in for one of their opening acts, you
do it.
We had barely unplugged our equipment in Prague when we were rushed to the airport for an overnight flight to Mexico City.
I’d been too amped to sleep—or eat, for that matter.
Twelve hours later, I was backstage meeting one of my rock idols as thousands of people poured into the stadium. When he’d
told me that the song I’d written about my high school shop teacher was one of his favorites, I’d nearly passed out right then
and there.
That may have been from the exhaustion, come to think of it.
Now, I swayed as the crowd went wild.
One more song. That’s all I had to do, then I could sleep for twenty-four hours before we had to wing our way back to Eastern
Europe for the last seven dates of the tour. I could do this.
I could do this.
Gripping my guitar pick with a shaky hand, I wiped the sweat off my upper lip as I checked the set list at my feet. We’d
changed a few things for the festival, and I was having a hard time remembering which song we’d chosen for the finale.
Looking down, however, made the stadium violently unstable. Not spinning, more like… swooping back and forth, like I was
on one of those… um. Carnival Viking boat things. Swings. With the lights and the piped-in music. Back and forth. Back and⁠—
I vaguely wondered if Mexico City was in the middle of another big earthquake. But Sago, our drummer, went right into the
opening beat of the next song.
Hmm. Maybe there wasn’t an earthquake.
We always ended our concerts with one of our old favorites, but I still couldn’t process which old favorite, and I had no hope
of reading the set list. I gave Sago the signal to repeat the opening, something I’d had to do more than a few times on this tour.
The crowd loved the edging and went wild for the extended intro.
I tried to widen my stance to stave off the vertigo or whatever, but the world kept swooping back and forth. It was a good thing
I hadn’t eaten anything today because I’d be puking for sure. Only thing in my belly at this point were the yellow pills our
manager handed me before I hit the stage.
Weirdly, I could focus on the row of unopened water bottles at my feet. Fuck, no wonder my voice was so wrecked. The sun
was… Dammit, I’d missed the intro again.
Robbie glanced at the crowd and walked over to me, strumming his guitar, concern forcing his brows together. “Dude, you
look⁠—”
That’s when everything went black.
Thank God.
At least the world had stopped swinging back and forth.

I knew where I was before I even opened my eyes. It was hard to miss the sharp smell of disinfectant or the rasp of shitty
hospital gown material.
“I know you’re awake,” Paul said, his voice rough and annoyed.
Cracking an eyelid, I noted that he looked about as awful as I felt. The bags under his eyes were amplified by his glasses, his
cheeks were red from drinking too much, and his stringy hair had been badly combed back over his bald spot.
I had no idea of the time or date. I’d regained consciousness at the stadium, then got rowdy in the ambulance. When they
refused to take me to the airport, I decided to take a nap. Which was not the same as passing out.
“What the fuck did you give me?” I asked, eyeballing my IV and the monitor clamped to my finger.
“Shh,” Paul said, looking around as though Mexico’s version of drug enforcement was right outside the door. “The usual.”
That was an interesting way to put it, since he’d only started giving me pills when we’d hit Eastern Europe. He had said they
were to balance me out, help me focus, and keep my energy up. I’d been too exhausted to care about the details. My buddies
back home in Texas had begged me to stay off the road, but I would have gone out of my skin if I’d stayed.
I didn’t know how to make it make sense. I loved being with my friends. I even liked what my hometown was becoming. But
being there felt like wearing a scratchy wool sweater three sizes too small.
Maybe it was the way my parents asked after each other, even though they’d been divorced for over ten years.
Maybe it was the way my friends were falling in love with one another—and how that underscored the fact that the one guy I’d
loved forever was never going to be mine.
Maybe it wasn’t the town. Maybe it was me.
Look what good running away did me. I’d made a deal with the Devil, and now I had to see it through.
My quiet reflection seemed to grate on my manager. “Look,” he said, fidgeting. “You’re not going to tell them about the⁠—”
“Tell them about the what?” Sago interrupted, walking in with Robbie.
Paul shook his head and sat on one of the bedside chairs. The cheap plastic and metal squealed under his slight weight, and like
everything about this place, it agitated me.
I didn’t answer, and Robbie filled in the silence. “He’s been giving you pills before each show,” he said, tilting his head
toward Paul. “What are they?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know what the pills were, I didn’t care, and I wondered if anything would ever feel good again.
“Are we even a band anymore? Or just a collection of exhausted, strung out guys on stage?” Sago asked, frustration and hurt in
his eyes as he set my overnight bag on the table to my right.
“Hell, maybe we’re just two fuck buddies and a singer,” I spit back. At some point on the last tour, those two had gotten
together. They thought I didn’t see it, but I did. Everyone I loved was finding a partner, while I was finding new and different
ways to debase myself.
Sago’s jaw muscles bunched, and he reached for Robbie, putting a possessive arm around his waist. “We’re way beyond fuck
buddies, Hen.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because we didn’t think you could handle it,” Robbie replied.
That was an interesting answer. They’d only ever seen me fuck randos and sex workers, so I would have understood if they’d
thought I wouldn’t respect their relationship or that I wouldn’t agree with it.
That they’d thought I couldn’t deal with it, however, was a wrinkle I had not expected.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Every time you come back from Seguin—” Sago started.
“What about Seguin?” I asked, my lips curling into a snarl.
“It’s hard to describe. On the one hand, you look about ten years younger, and on the other, it seems like someone’s just ripped
your heart out.”
Robbie bobbed his head in agreement. “Like, it’s the one place you can relax, but something—or someone—there has you in a
twist. Every time you talk about one of your friends falling in love, you say it like it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened.”
“No, I don’t.”
Robbie’s quiet look shattered in my chest like a bomb. I’d thought I had hidden everything so well, but the two guys who spent
more time with me than anyone else saw everything, apparently.
And suddenly I was so homesick I couldn’t stand it.
“I need everybody to get the fuck out,” I said, despising how hateful I sounded.
I couldn’t help it, though. I could feel the panic welling up, as though they were sucking all the oxygen from the room. I needed
space.
I needed Texas.
Robbie and Sago glared at Paul, then they approached me.
“Get some rest. And fuck this tour,” Sago whispered in my ear, glancing at the black leather overnighter that traveled with me
everywhere.
Robbie gave me an awkward hug. “Please. Please take care of yourself, Hen.”
His desperate whisper broke my heart. He and Sago didn’t deserve my shitty attitude. They always looked out for me, but I
never let them in. I never let them see the real me. Maybe that needed to change.
Lord knew something had to.
Whatever was going to happen, I couldn’t stay here a minute longer.
They drifted through the door, and Paul hovered near the side of my bed. “So… you’re not gonna tell anyone?”
Here I was, woozy as hell, my hip aching, with no clue what day it was, and Paul’s only concern was getting busted for
whatever fucking drugs he’d given me.
“No, Paul. I’m not going to narc on you. Now get the fuck out of my room.”
Paul moved quickly for a guy who treated his body like a trash can. I doubted he wanted to be here any more than I did.
As soon as the door shut behind him, I ripped out the IV. A small spurt of blood stained the sheets, so I quickly wrestled off my
hospital gown and wedged the cheap cotton into the crook of my arm, silently apologizing to the staff who’d have to clean up
my mess. I paused to regain my balance as I unzipped the bag and examined the contents.
Thank fuck. Bless you, Sago.
I’d always made it a point to travel with a clean set of clothes, my phone, and my travel documents in this bag, but I’d been so
erratic this trip, I couldn’t remember if I’d kept up the habit or not. I’d bet real money Sago had taken over that responsibility.
I owed him an apology. And probably a bouquet of flowers.
Going back to the neat stack of clothing—definitely Sago’s work—I decided that underwear was too high a mountain to climb.
Skipping that step, I pulled out the old pair of jeans that had been skintight at the beginning of the tour, but when I put them on
now, they hung loose around my hips. I briefly wondered when I’d last eaten. The swooping sensation returned, but I couldn’t
stay in this room a second longer. Gripping the bed rail for dear life, I shoved my feet into my old Chucks and dragged the soft
Van Halen T-shirt, thin from years of wear, over my head.
At the bottom of my bag was—Sago, you are a godsend—my phone. I pulled up a rideshare app, verified that they served
Mexico City, and made my choices, hoping they were the right ones. As I passed the little sink and mirror on my way out of the
room, I was shocked by my own reflection. My cheeks were hollow, my skin was deathly pallid, and my eyeliner had smeared.
I didn’t want to risk being photographed looking like one of my grandmother’s calavera dolls, so I grabbed the strong antiseptic
soap by the sink, turned on the hot water, and scrubbed my face. When I finished, my skin felt like sandpaper, but at least it was
clean.
Had I ever gone out in public without eyeliner?
Didn’t matter—I had to hoof it because my rideshare was already approaching the hospital. I peeked around the door and saw
a nearly empty corridor. I figured if it looked like I knew what I was doing, no one would harass me, so I walked out of the
room and headed for a bank of elevators.
All the signage was in Spanish, and I thanked my high school Spanish teacher for her memorable lessons on directions.
Between those and a few helpful arrows, I put together how to get to the entrance. Down three levels, out to the left and then
right.
Emerging onto the street, I was blasted by bright sunshine. I checked my phone again, noting the date and time. Only a few
hours since I collapsed. Good. Maybe I could get out of town before this became a thing.
“Hendrix?” asked a man in a red Renault Kwid.
He was middle aged, paunchy, and kind looking. More importantly, he fit the description on the app.
“Tez?” I replied, and he nodded.
“¿Te encuentras bien?” he asked, his eyes darting between me and the hospital.
He wanted to know if I was feeling okay.
“Más o menos,” I replied. More or less.
Between his concern and my broken Spanish, I verified that I wanted to go to the airport. As he drove, I texted Paul.
Me: The tour is cancelled.
Paul: You can’t do that.
Me: I just did. Tell the board.
Ignoring the rest of his texts, I opened my airline app and found a direct flight to San Antonio taking off in a little over an hour. I
booked it as Tez pulled into the drop-off area. He hurried around the other side of the car and let me out, his eyes large.
“You no want to go back to el hospital?” he asked gently. “I no charge. Maybe not a good day for airplane.”
I swayed, gripping his shoulder to steady myself. “I want to go home,” I said, the words hitting deep, like a truth I could no
longer deny.
“Okay.” He grimaced, his eyes filled with worry. “Que Dios te bendiga.”
I thought about Paul, begging me not to tell on him for whatever he’d given me, and Tez, a stranger who inquired after my
health, then asked God to bless me.
Only one of those men had my best interests at heart, and it wasn’t the guy who’d known me since he’d recruited me back in
high school.
I dug into my beat-up leather wallet and fished out a hundred dollars, then thought better of it and doubled the amount, pressing
the bills into Tez’s palm. “Gracias por todo.”
Thank you for everything.
I walked off before he could protest and slipped into Mexico City International. This airport was always crazy, but it was a
manageable sort of crazy, especially with Global Entry and a first-class ticket.
I normally couldn’t make sense of paying five times the price of a regular seat, but today I needed every advantage I could get. I
laughed. Sawyer, my poshest friend, the one who nagged me more than anyone, would be so pleased with that choice.
Once I was through security, I pulled my hoodie up to minimize the risk of being recognized and made my way to the boarding
gate. The gate agent started the boarding process a few minutes after I arrived, and I went in with the first group. I took my seat
and leaned my head against the window.
I didn’t remember taking off.

“Sir? Sir?”
Startled, I took a sharp inhale. I blinked, trying to orient myself. The last thing I remembered before I’d passed out was firing
my entire management team as one of the flight attendants asked me to put away my phone.
“Where am I?” I asked the guy in a familiar flight attendant’s outfit.
“Sir, you’re in San Antonio,” he said, the line across his forehead deepening. “Are you… Are you Hendrix Cavanaugh?”
I nodded, letting him help me out of the seat and into the aisle. I’d started toward the exit when he stopped me again.
“Your bag, sir,” he said, holding it out for me.
“Shit, thanks.”
Looking around, I realized that I was the last person on the plane. “Sorry for holding y’all up,” I said, my voice a horror show.
“Not at all, sir. I, uh, saw about your collapse earlier today.”
“Fuck.”
“Sir, can I have our concierge arrange for a driver for you?”
The world was starting to swim again. “I need to get to Seguin. To my cousin’s place,” I said, reaching for my phone.
I found the right screen and handed it to him.
I didn’t remember much after that, not even the ride to Ozzie’s house. Blearily noting the pretty Texas sunset, I let myself in
with the key he’d given me years ago, then sat at the kitchen table and laid my head down on my crossed arms.
I was awakened by Walker’s rough twang and my cousin Ozzie’s lyrical voice. When I raised my head, there was just enough
moonlight coming in the window for me to spy them kissing. No, they were consuming each other.
Back in school, I’d never had the guts to tell Walker how much I fucking loved him. He had no idea that my biggest hits were
all about him; no one did. Not long ago, Ozzie’d asked me if I was okay with him pursuing Walker, and I’d said yes. Some
foolish part of me thought I was over him, or perhaps I’d said it because I’d been distracted by the hot guy about to go down on
me. Bit of both, probably.
If I was being brutally honest, though, I’d said yes because I hadn’t thought Oz had a chance in hell. Walker had only ever been
straight.
The evidence in front of me was incontrovertible, though. For years I’d imagined what Walker would sound like when he was
turned on, how he’d moan and say my name.
“Ozzie, baby, I⁠—”
His fuck-me voice was deeper and more sensual than I’d have ever guessed, and I had to stop them before they went any
further, if only to preserve my sanity.
“Uh, guys?” I said, hoping not to scare them. “Sorry. Figured I should let you know I was here before you started getting
naked.”
Ozzie turned on the light, and Walker—beautiful Walker—stood there, ready to defend my cousin from a dangerous intruder.
The second he recognized me, his face reverted to its usual sunny disposition, and the ache in my chest went deeper than it had
any right to.
This might have been a mistake.
 CHAPTER 2

sawyer

I was on an evening Zoom call with DB, my boss, as well as our finance guy when my phone went off. They were chatting
about a project I wasn’t involved with, so I unlocked my phone screen, wondering if my mom had gotten the results from her
cardiologist. She’d started having heart palpitations, likely harmless, but her doctor had ordered a battery of tests just to be
sure.
The notification, however, was from one of the Google alerts I’d set up for Hendrix. My stomach bottomed out as I read the
headlines.
Punk Rock Superstar Collapses in Front of Record Crowd
Hendrix Cavanaugh Rushed to Hospital in Mexico City
Cavanaugh Leaves Hospital AMA
“Uh, DB? A personal emergency just came up,” I said, opening my texting app.
DB immediately halted his conversation with Schultz. “Is this about your mom?” he asked, concern in his expression.
I shook my head. “It’s Hen.”
DB and I had always had a good professional relationship, but one night after a business dinner in Dallas that had run a little
too long, we’d started sharing our personal stories. Turned out he’d been in love with his now-husband for years but had held
off because of a misplaced sense of duty.
Hendrix was one of our clients, so even though DB wasn’t a fan of punk rock, he knew who Hen was. I’d admitted I’d been in
love with Hendrix since high school, even though he was in love with someone else.
Until then, my best friend, Major, had been the only other person who’d known how I felt about Hendrix. When I’d gone to
DB’s office the next day, I could barely look him in the face, and he’d called me on it.
“There’s no shame in loving who you love, Sawyer,” he’d said, right before introducing me to his husband, a gorgeous Viking
of a man with long blond hair and a trimmed beard.
I was sure DB had been trying to encourage me not to lose hope, but watching my hard-nosed boss go soft for his man had
made my morning eggs turn in my belly. I’d never have what they shared.
“Go, take care of him. Let me know how it goes,” DB said, bringing me back to the present.
I thanked him and logged out of the call, then fired off a message to Hendrix.
Me: Hendrix, I just saw the news articles. Where are you?
Me: Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you?
Fuck, I hadn’t even known that he was in Mexico City. He’d been touring in Eastern Europe, and he was supposed to have had
a couple of days off before the last several stops. I stared at my phone, willing the three dots to appear, but they never did.
Hen was many things, but he always responded quickly to my texts as long as he wasn’t on stage. After two minutes, I couldn’t
stand it and gave him a call. It went to voicemail, so I called again. And again. Then sent him another text.
Me: James Hendrix Cavanaugh, you’d better fucking respond to this damned text.
Nothing.
Seven eternal minutes later, I pulled up the group chat.
Me: Did y’all see that Hendrix collapsed on stage?
Tristan: Shit, no. Do we know if he’s OK?
Me: No. The article says he was taken to the hospital and then left against medical advice.
Me: I didn’t even know he was in Mexico City. He was supposed to be in Prague.
Ren: Mexico City? What was he doing there?
Me: I don’t know.
I pulled up Hendrix’s schedule to verify my understanding, wondering why Tristan and Ren were the only ones responding to
me. Where the hell was everyone?
Me: He’s supposed to be in the middle of a three-day break.
Ren: I’m reading an article that says that an early slot opened for them at the last minute. Apparently they’d been playing
a killer set until he collapsed.
Tristan: Looks like he was playing for the biggest crowd he’s ever played for.
Tristan: A bunch of the guys went out to Lupe to install the bunk beds and have dinner there, so they might not know yet.
That explained it. When we went out to Lupe, we tried to be as present as possible, which meant silencing our phones. After
another moment, it dawned on me that tonight was the night Major was going to ask Leo if he wanted to move into his spare
room.
Fuck. I’d wanted to go help out but had needed to be on the call that I’d abandoned. As I began to panic, Ozzie responded to the
group message.
Ozzie: Hendrix is at my house. He somehow got himself onto a plane and flew to San Antonio, and the airline concierge
helped him hire a driver to get here.
Thank God. But… I lived in San Antonio. Why the hell hadn’t he called me instead?
Me: Thank God. How is he?
Ozzie: He looks awful. He was basically passed out on the table, waiting in the dark for me to come home.
Ozzie: Walker almost beat the shit out of him until we realized who it was.
Me: I’m heading over now.
Ozzie: Man, he’s out. Rest up tonight and stop by tomorrow.
Me: I just need to put eyes on him. Won’t stay long.
Ozzie: Alrighta. Come on over.
Me: Hopefully we won’t have to tie him down to keep him from heading back out on the road as soon as he can stand up.
Ozzie: He did say he was willing to go back to the Paige’s cabin.
Me: Good.
I’d tipped my hand more than I normally would, but it couldn’t be helped. I’d been sitting by for too long as Hendrix ground
himself to a fine pulp. I knew Ozzie would take excellent care of him, but I couldn’t watch from the sidelines for a second
longer.
Normally, when I went to Seguin, I’d head straight to Major’s house, but I assumed Leo would be taking the guest room until
we got the spare fixed up. So, I carefully packed for the trip and called my mother.
“Sawyer? How’d you know I’d gotten the results back already?”
“Oh, I didn’t—what’d they say?”
Please be good news. Please be good news.
“I still have to go to the cardiologist so they can tell me the same thing I read online, but the notation called my palpitations
unremarkable. Can you believe that?”
“Unremarkable?” I brought my hand to my chest in relief. “It’s like they don’t know you at all.”
Her gentle laugh was music to my ears. “Right? That’s downright rude, if you ask me.”
“Agreed.” After a beat, I went in with the real reason for my call. “Hey, Mom. My buddy Hendrix had a health scare and is
back in Seguin. I’m coming into town for at least tonight, maybe a couple of days. Do you mind if I stay in your guest room?”
Her soft inhale told me how much this meant to her. “Of course you can. Your father and I would love for you to stay here.
You’re always welcome.”
I let out a sigh. Mom and Dad had not exactly been supportive when I’d come out to them in my first year of college, and we
had more or less stopped talking to each other.
Thankfully, Truman and Evangeline, my brother and sister, had my back, as did their spouses. When they started having kids,
they made sure I was welcomed to all family events. I began to visit Seguin more regularly, and after a few awkward
encounters, my parents and I began speaking again. The fact that we’d progressed to the point I felt comfortable asking to stay
at their house was huge.
Mom and I ended the call, and I hit the road.

Ozzie opened the door, concern marking his features. “Come on in. He’s in the guest room.”
Needing no further invitation, I made my way through his house, careful to be quiet. Hendrix was curled up on Ozzie’s guest
bed, illuminated by moonlight through the blinds. He looked so pale and small that my heart ached for him.
I went to his side and knelt next to the bed, watching his narrow shoulders rise and fall on breaths that smelled sour and
seemed too shallow. His normally shiny hair was greasy and overgrown. Nothing was more telling, however, than the ragged
condition of his cuticles and the chips in his black nail polish. Hen prided himself on a fresh manicure, and I’d never seen his
nails look like this before.
I brushed a kiss on his cheek and then walked back to the living room, where Ozzie was waiting for me.
“He looks like he belongs in the hospital,” I said, unable to keep the waver out of my voice.
Ozzie’s jaw clenched. “He wouldn’t let me take him.”
“I know a good concierge doctor. I’ll see if she can be here tomorrow,” I said, shooting off a quick text to my friend.
“Good.” Ozzie’s rough voice betrayed his emotions. “I know it’s stupid, but… did you see how bad his nails were?”
I bit the inside of my cheek, willing myself to keep it together. “Yeah. I’ll, uh… We’ll figure out his health, and then I’ll take
care of the rest.”
“Okay, and I’m calling Ren in the morning. Hen’s not fucking going back out on the road.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. “No,” I said, checking the screen. I showed Ozzie Dr. Ahmed’s confirmation. “He’s not going
anywhere.”
We said our goodbyes, and I headed to my parents’ house, haunted by the image of Hen, so fragile in that bed.
My parents were waiting for me on the front porch, and we exchanged hugs. It was late for them, but Mom insisted that we take
a detour to the kitchen for Dad’s homemade cowboy cookies and milk.
As I tucked into the delicious baked goods, I thought about how my mother had reached out to Hendrix’s mom, Portia, for
advice on how to be supportive of a gay son. I’d always thought that’d been a really brave move on her part.
Things with Dad had required more of a nudge. After Mr. Paige passed away, my mother had offered me her condolences and
invited me to lunch at our favorite Jim’s location in San Antonio. She’d surprised me by arriving with my father. A man of few
words, he’d pulled me into a hug and said how sorry he was for my loss.
That had surprised a few tears out of me. His eyes had also been suspiciously red, but both of us had kept it together, because
that’s what the Finch men did.
Still, the choice of restaurant had been a sentimental one. Both my father and I had lucrative careers. We could’ve easily gone
to any number of high-end restaurants, but I suspected Jim’s had been his suggestion because their waffles had been my favorite
ever since I was a kid. He’d gone with nostalgia rather than a big financial outlay.
That simple gesture carried a world of weight and healing. After, Dad had started emailing me his favorite recipes. We didn’t
talk or text much, but those recipes were his way of connecting with me.
I’d once mentioned that cowboy cookies were my go-to comfort food, and I was deeply touched that he’d made them for me. I
downed three as I gave my parents an abbreviated explanation of what was going on.
Once we’d caught up on Mom’s test results and had put a sufficient dent in the cookies, they walked with me to their guest
room. My mother’s love of florals and lace was evident, but the decor was carefully curated, and I kissed her forehead,
offering thanks as I accepted a brief hug from Dad. They seemed to pick up on the fact that I needed to be alone, and we said
our good nights.
I opened the closet to hang up my garment bag, and my mother’s myriad sewing projects flew from the shelves as if they’d been
spring-loaded. I organized them and put them back so they were visible but not a risk to innocent bystanders.
I should have left it at that, but her sewing notions were an entire mess. Kinda like my head. She had an organizer that she’d
ignored in favor of dumping gnarled-up spools of thread, all sorts of needles, and knotted piles of embroidery floss into a bin. I
spent half an hour unpicking everything, then placed each item in its appropriate section.
I then snuck down to the garage and grabbed a couple of large, flattened Amazon boxes that my father had neatly stacked in the
organization area of his garage, quickly putting them back together with the shipping tape he’d hung on his precisely outlined
pegboard.
Spotting his label maker, I grabbed it and went inside .
Once I’d affixed labels to the notions drawers, I pulled the clothes I hadn’t worn in over a decade out of the closet. I folded
them into precise squares and stored them in the boxes, which I set aside to take to Lupe the next chance I got.
“Your mother doesn’t like it when I try to organize her things,” my father said, startling me as I taped the last box.
“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” I asked, dusting myself off.
He shrugged. “You’re quiet, but our stairs never did allow for stealth.”
“True,” I said with a wry grin, thinking about how I’d had to get creative when I’d snuck out in high school. Gesturing to the
closet, I asked, “Do you want me to put it back the way it was?”
He shuddered, then shook his head. “God, no. I’ll sleep better knowing it’s been fixed.”
“I’m surprised you could sleep at all knowing that there was a closet in this house that wasn’t properly organized.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Your mother is patient with my fastidious ways, so a single messy closet seemed like a fair trade.”
“That’s a good way of thinking about it.”
We went quiet, neither of us much for small talk. After a long moment, my father asked, “Son, what are you really doing here?”
I hung my head. “I, uh⁠—”
“This thing with Hendrix is serious, isn’t it?”
I rubbed my jaw. We’d never discussed matters of the heart, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been referring to both
Hen’s health and my feelings for him. Either way, the answer was the same.
“Yes.”
“We love having you here, but I’m curious—why aren’t you staying with him?”
“He’s at Ozzie’s. They don’t need me underfoot.”
“Hmm.” He nodded to himself. “Your mom wants us all together for breakfast, but she’ll understand if you decide to spend the
rest of your time with him.”
I wasn’t sure which was more uncomfortable, waiting till after breakfast to return to Hen or having my father express his
understanding. “I don’t want her to think⁠—”
He held up a hand. “She knows.”
“Okay.” I let out a relieved breath. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Of course.” He knocked on the doorframe. “Sleep well. Also, if you don’t tell your mom about the closet, I won’t, either.”
“Fine, but when she finds it, I’m letting you take the blame.”
He chuckled, then left me alone with my thoughts. Despite the long day and the impromptu closet organization, sleep didn’t
come for a long, long time.
 CHAPTER 3

hendrix

I woke up early, earlier than I had in years. I was blurry as I watched the sunrise through half-open shutters. I didn’t know how
long I lay there, going in and out of sleep as the sky brightened. I knew I was in Ozzie’s guest room. I remembered that much. I
couldn’t remember the name of the guy who’d driven me to the airport, but he’d been solid.
I should probably send his kids to college or whatever.
I went to scratch my nose and ended up painfully tugging on an IV line in the back of my hand.
Following the tubing, I squinted, spying a banana bag hanging from an IV pole. Another bag, nearly empty, contained some kind
of creamy liquid. I followed the line from that bag to my nose and realized it was the cause of the itch. A feeding tube was
taped to my nose and cheek.
I swallowed, now aware of the tube that wound its way through my sinuses and down my throat. Shit was thoroughly
unpleasant.
My eyes went back to the IV in my hand.
“Don’t rip it out.”
I blinked slowly as Walker walked into my room. God, he was fine as fuck. I liked him better when he was all scruffy, but this
Abercrombie look Ozzie had him in wasn’t hurting my feelings.
“What the fuck is all of this?” I asked, gesturing to myself and grimacing when the IV shifted.
Walker unsnagged the line from a drawer pull on the bedside table, then leaned in close to examine where the IV entered the
back of my hand. “You were dehydrated and not getting any nutrition,” he said, toothpaste on his breath.
“How long have I been out?” I asked, vaguely remembering trips to the bathroom. I may have fought them on the catheter, come
to think of it. “Where’s Oz?”
Asking about Oz reminded me that he and Walker were officially a thing, and I was supposed to be happy for them. Thankfully,
I was too dead inside to muster much emotion, good or bad.
“Better part of three days,” he said, crossing his arms. “Ozzie had to go take care of something at the restaurant. He’ll be back
soon.”
I fucking hated Walker seeing me like this. “Who set this up? Did Paul…?”
“Paul? He that useless manager who let you drive yourself into the ground?”
I fussed with the tape holding the IV in place.
“Don’t,” Walker repeated, knocking my hand away and smoothing down the tape. He had the kind of veins that were visible
from the back of his hand all the way up his muscled arms. He was even more built now than he’d been in high school, and I
used to jack off to his veins at least once a day.
Which, now that I said it in my head, sounded kinda fucked up.
“We ain’t heard from Paul,” Walker said. “And he’ll stay the hell away if he knows what’s good for him. Sawyer hired a
concierge doctor to monitor you. She said the feeding tube was a precaution and you’d be able to get it taken out as soon as you
felt comfortable eating by mouth.”
I wasn’t surprised Paul had abandoned me, but of fucking course Sawyer would overreact. A concierge doctor? For fuck’s
sake. I just needed some sleep.
“Eating by mouth? Why are doctors always so weird? How the fuck else am I supposed to eat?” I groused, agitation working
my last nerve as the meddlesome harpy himself strolled into the now overcrowded room.
“I suggested a suppository”—Sawyer pushed past Walker to check my lines—“but Dr. Ahmed said she’d stick with the tube.”
It was damned annoying that I was in bed looking like trash while Sawyer, as always, looked like a GQ model. He had
perfectly styled dark hair, startlingly blue eyes, and a freshly shaved face. Adding insult to injury, he was wearing an expensive
button-down with the sleeves rolled up and, I was assuming, equally expensive slacks. Savile Row, I’d bet my guitar on it.
To be fair, he looked like a worried GQ model. But still.
“What, no tie?” I cracked, my throat dry as toast as he laid the backs of his fingers on my forehead. I batted his hand away,
tugging the damned IV again. “Ouch. Stop that. You’ve already hired a ridiculously expensive doctor who’s hooked me up to
all of these goddamned tubes. No need to further Florence Nightingale me.”
Ignoring me, he brushed his fingers through my hair. “How are you feeling?” he asked in that officious way of his.
“I’m fine, though I might have reconsidered coming home if I’d known you were going to mother me to death. Aren’t you some
genius network security something or other? Can’t you go be important somewhere else?”
He held up his phone. “I’ve been working remotely. I can be important from your bedside.”
Walker snorted, his eyes ping-ponging between me and Sawyer. “Wish I could stay and watch you two argue, but I’ve got to
pick up some supplies for Lupe.”
“Mind taking a couple of boxes of clothes with you?” Sawyer asked, adjusting a—was that a fucking cufflink? Cheese and
fucking rice, dude. “They’re in the trunk of my car.”
“Sure, man,” Walker replied affably.
“Take me with you,” I begged, using the sultry look that usually got me pretty much whatever I wanted.
“Oh, hell no. You are not up to going out. Plus, Sawyer here’s the only one who’s been able to get you to act right.”
My mouth dropped open. “You just said I’ve been asleep for the better part of three days. How have I not been acting right?”
Sawyer pursed his lips as he fished his keys from his inner coat pocket. His eyes sparkled with amusement, which I found
rather rude.
Walker shook his head, accepting Sawyer’s keys. “Your brief forays into consciousness included, but were not limited to:
trying to take out your IV, refusing to eat, fighting the doctor when she tried to take your vitals, making your mom cry, hitting on
your doctor, making your dad cry, hitting on me⁠—”
“I hit on you?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, flushing. “Pinched my ass and everything.”
I wanted to crawl under the bed and die.
“And on that note, I’ll say adios.” Walker tipped an imaginary hat. “Sawyer, I’ll leave these on the hook by the door.”
“Thank you.”
He then left me alone with Sawyer, who’d tilted his head to the side, examining me. I stared back at him, bored.
“You’re more awake today than you’ve been the last three days.”
“Wait. You’ve been here this whole time?” I asked, scratching my groin. I despaired as my eyes caught on my ruined manicure.
“Did I accidentally molest you as well?”
“I came over the second Ozzie said you were here. And no, thank the deities, you kept your hands to yourself around me,” he
said, refolding his shirtsleeves.
“Must’ve been torture, holding back that I told you so for three whole days.”
He smirked at me. “Nah. I whispered it in your ear every night before I went to sleep on the couch,” he said as something
whistled in the distance. “That’ll be the hot water for your tea.”
“Tea? You are such a fussbudget,” I muttered. I actually preferred tea, but I also enjoyed goading Sawyer. Win-win.
“Maybe fussbudget should be my FetLife username,” he countered as he left the room.
Fucking Sawyer. He could be funny sometimes, for a stick-in-the-mud. No way he was on a kink app. Psh.

My eyes fluttered open, and the light in the room had changed. Also, a very tall woman wearing a hijab, a white jacket, and
slacks was holding two fingers to the pulse point on my wrist. She had a stethoscope wrapped around her neck. I vaguely
recalled asking for her number, like a fucking asshole.
“Uh… hello?” I asked, pulling my hand away. “You’re Dr. Ahmed, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Cavanaugh. I’m your concierge doctor.” Gesturing at my setup, she explained, “I’m the one you can blame for the IV
and the feeding tube you hate so much. I’ve also been by a few times to check your vitals and to give my opinion on what
therapy might be most useful to you.”
“I’m not going back to the hospital,” I said, letting her guide me into a seated position. “Nor am I doing one of those twenty-
eight-day resort facilities for ‘exhausted’ celebrities.” I winced when I made the air quotes.
“Considering that you’ve already left one hospital AMA, then traveled—alone—across international lines while barely
conscious, I’m inclined to believe you,” she said, her delivery bordering on judgmental.
“Good.” I said, as she slipped a baby pink blood pressure cuff on my arm. “Is that a children’s cuff?”
“Yes, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she said, gesturing for me to give her my arm.
I paused, because I was a little shit, then complied. If Sawyer saw me giving the doctor a hard time, he’d crawl up my ass and
camp there.
She inflated the cuff while holding the stethoscope to my wrist, scowling at the number on the gauge.
“Not good?” I asked, knowing my blood pressure ran a little low to begin with.
“Better than I expected, considering what showed up in your blood work.”
“I didn’t even know what I was taking. What did show up in my blood work?”
“Ritalin, mainly. The hospital in Mexico City also suspected severe adrenal fatigue.”
“That what happens when you don’t sleep for days on end?” I asked casually.
“It’s kind of a chicken-and-egg thing. You don’t sleep, you get adrenal fatigue, and then you can’t sleep,” she said, injecting
something into my line.
“What the fuck was that?”
“Vitamin B,” she answered. Pressing the stethoscope to my back, she ordered, “Take a deep breath.”
I complied, but only because she was at least six inches taller than my glorious five four. Listening intently, she moved the
stethoscope a few times, demanding deep breaths.
“Anything wrong?” I asked as Sawyer walked in holding a steaming mug.
“No, thankfully. You had a faint crackling sound in your left lobe when I first came by. The beginnings of a lung irritation.
Maybe bronchitis. Thankfully it cleared up after a few days of rest.” She gave me a look that was both shrewd and warm.
“Your tour schedule is so rigorous I wonder who approved it.”
I laughed to myself, imaging how badly Paul would shit himself if he had to stand before her assessing gaze.
“He doesn’t work for me anymore.”
“Good.” She added a few notes to her iPad. “Well, whoever he was clearly did not have your best interests at heart. Honestly,
with the state you’re in, I’m surprised you didn’t collapse sooner.”
“I guess I’m just stubborn,” I said, shrugging. “When do you think I’ll be able to get back on the road?”
Sawyer made a rude noise. “Not any time soon.”
Dr. Ahmed chuckled. “I have to agree with Mr. Finch’s assessment. You need time to recover, both physically and mentally.”
Sawyer looked a little too smug as he held up the tea. “He’s good to drink this, right? It’s chamomile.”
“Anything you can get in him that isn’t alcohol or uppers would be great.”
“So, no coke or caffeine. Got it,” he joked.
I’d discovered early on in my career that cocaine and I didn’t mix, so avoiding that would be dead easy. But if they thought they
were going to get between me and my morning caffeine, they had another thing coming.
“On that note, do I have to have this damned feeding tube?” I asked. “It’s annoying as fuck.”
“I would much rather you ingest food the usual way, but you have to promise to actually eat,” she said, eyeballing me as though
she were trying to peer into my skull. “And I’m serious about you staying off the road.”
“Oh, he’ll eat,” Sawyer said, putting his hand on his hip like some kind of disappointed parent. “And he’s not going anywhere
anytime soon.”
“You do know that holding me here without my permission is a crime,” I noted.
“So is the way you’ve treated your body,” he shot back. “Call it even.”
Dr. Ahmed looked between us, amusement playing at her lips. “Your boyfriend cares very deeply for you, Mr. Cavanaugh.
You’re a lucky man.”
I laughed into my tea. “Boyfriend? Absolutely not. Can you imagine it, Sawyer?”
Sawyer looked away as Dr. Ahmed cleared her throat. “I apologize for the assumption. Allow me to correct myself—you’re
very lucky to have such good friends, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
“That I am, Dr. Ahmed. Even if they do tend to overreact.”
With an amused press of her lips, Dr. Ahmed faced Sawyer. “We chatted before about moving him, and I’m fine with that as
long as you’re not going too far.”
“The rental is less than fifteen minutes away.” Turning to me, he explained, “Ren has the cabin all set up. If you’d rather stay
here for a few more days, though…”
I’d already been enough of a burden to Ozzie, and I didn’t relish the thought of having to witness him and Walker getting all hot
and heavy with one another. “No, I’d rather get settled in.”
Sawyer checked his phone while Dr. Ahmed removed my IV and feeding tube. “These go back in if we can’t keep your levels
up,” she warned.
I saluted her, glad to be able to move freely. “Yes, ma’am.”
After she left, I turned to Sawyer. “So. This must be your every fantasy coming true.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
I tapped the side of my fist against his—yep, rock-hard—abs. “You’re going to boss me around and make me eat healthy things,
and there’s nothing I can do about it. I bet you’re in heaven.”
“More like hell,” he muttered, stepping back. “Though, yes. You will be eating, sleeping, and moving on a schedule that I will
arrange.”
“I don’t suppose if I told you I’ll be fine on my own you’d fuck off to whatever corporate synergy-slash-network security
meeting you have on the calendar,” I cracked, woozy as I stood up after three days in bed.
He touched his collar, likely mourning his lack of a tie, and narrowed his eyes at me. “Not a chance.”
“All right, Agnes. Let’s get this show on the road.”
His disgruntled mutter at the old high school nickname made me smile. If I was stuck with him, he was going to be stuck with
me.
 CHAPTER 4

sawyer

Hendrix was being combative, but I saw the way he wobbled, so I followed closely behind as he made his way from the
bedroom to Ozzie’s living room.
“Sit there,” I directed, pointing to the couch. “I’ll grab your things.”
“Fine, Agnes,” he said, dropping down, his thin frame enveloped by the overstuffed cushions.
“And stop calling me Agnes.”
“Not a chance,” he said, throwing my words back at me.
My lower belly tightened, and I tried not to imagine his bratty behavior under different circumstances. Healthier, less clothed
circumstances.
Sneering at myself, I grabbed his old leather duffel and gathered his things. I’d purchased him a few more items of clothing and
had them overnighted, then washed them along with his meager T-shirt and jeans. He’d be set for a while.
Once his bag was neatly packed, I moved to the closet, where I’d stashed my garment bag, along with other essentials. After
ensuring that the suits would not get wrinkled on the short trip to the rental, I walked into the living room with our things, ready
to go.
Hendrix’s eyes were closed, and he was humming a tune while tapping out a rhythm on the arm of the couch.
“I don’t recognize that song,” I mentioned as I grabbed the items I’d picked up from the grocery store, tucking them into a lined
chiller bag. “Is it new?”
He stopped his humming and drumming and turned to look at me, the tiny red veins in his tired eyes visible. “You know my
songs?”
“Of course. We all do,” I said as I made sure the bag of apples was properly sealed.
“Prove it. What’s your favorite?”
I rubbed my chin. “Depends on my mood. I keep your classics on heavy rotation because they’re nostalgic. But I’ve been
enjoying your more introspective work lately. The song about the bluebonnets is really good.”
“How do you know it’s about bluebonnets?” he asked, sounding faintly surprised.
I hummed the tune to myself, then sang, “You’re the purple-blue carpet of spring, at first a field of wonder, then gone like I
didn’t mean a thing.”
He was quiet, so I pivoted to see if he was okay. His head was tilted, making him look like a confused dog.
“What?” I asked, self-conscious.
“You just sang my song to me. Badly, but still.”
“There’s a reason I work with technology and not art.”
Had I really just tried to sing in front of him?
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Agnes. I wasn’t making fun of you, I was impressed,” he said, wobbling as he got to his
feet.
I rushed over to stabilize him, then gathered the various bags. “Hold on to my arm while we walk out to the car,” I snapped,
hopefully hiding my worry.
I expected a snarky comeback, but, miracle of all miracles, he complied. I made sure not to rush him, though I was surprised at
how slowly he was walking.
“Don’t look so worried, Agnes. I landed on my guitar when I passed out, and now my hip is sore as hell. It’s fine, though.”
“They x-rayed it in Mexico and didn’t see anything concerning. We can get an MRI or a CT if you want,” I offered.
“Jesus, Agnes. I said it was fine.”
I gripped the handle of my garment bag, refusing to take the bait. His hold on my arm was so weak I was tempted to pick him up
and carry him. If I did that, though, he’d kill me in my sleep, so I tried to be satisfied with the fact that he was up and about.
After gingerly situating him in the passenger seat, I packed the trunk carefully to ensure that nothing got jostled during the drive.
I texted Ozzie as I made my way around to the driver’s side.
Me: Hendrix wanted to go to the cabin, so I’m taking him there now.
Ozzie: Wow. Okay. There was no rush.
Me: I think he wanted to give you and Walker space.
Ozzie: Ah, man. He didn’t have to worry about that.
Ozzie: I’ll stop by tomorrow and check on him.
Me: Sounds good.
I got into the car and double-checked the instructions. Mr. Paige had inherited a property with three vacation rental cabins, and
it had provided a good supplemental income for him and Ren. Ren had made sure Hendrix had access to the best one, and I was
grateful.
Hendrix rested his head against the glass as I started the car, and he stayed quiet as I made my way through town. A few
minutes later we turned in to the property’s festively marked driveway, and I pulled out my phone as I drove up to the gate. The
code in Ren’s email was familiar, though I couldn’t remember from where. I punched in the digits, and the gate opened. Once
we went through, it closed automatically behind us, and we were confronted by three paved drives with small wooden signs
indicating the way to each cabin. I turned left toward cabin one, named Liebesnest.
“Quaint,” Hendrix noted as I pulled into the crushed granite circular drive.
It was quaint. The white clapboard bungalow had sharp, dark gray trim and shutters, a cheery red front door, and a small front
porch. The lawn and window boxes were well maintained, and the building sat like a jewel among winding oaks and knobby
cedar trees with the greenish-blue Guadalupe River quietly flowing behind it. The trees blocked out any indication of life
beyond this lovely plot of land.
“Stay here,” I told Hendrix before going to the trunk to grab our bags. I made my way up the porch stairs and entered the same
code to open the lockbox. After opening the front door and shoving our luggage inside, I hurried back to the car to help him out.
He smirked when I offered him my elbow, but he took it, still unsteady on his feet.
“Sit down,” I said once we were in the living room, which offered a comfortable camel-colored leather club chair and a
matching couch with a colorful throw draped across the back. “I’ll put away our things.”
“Yes, Agnes,” he croaked.
The property’s simple, refined look was reflected in the interior as well. The pitched ceilings, pine floors, white walls, and
massive windows gave the combined living room and kitchen a light, airy feel, and the fireplace would make the place cozy in
the upcoming chilly months. As much as Hendrix was pushing back against our help, the tension in his body seemed to release,
at least a little.
“I forgot how nice this place was,” he said, his rough voice trailing off.
I wondered why he hadn’t stayed longer the last time.
The short hallway in the back had two small rooms on one side, the door to the back porch on the other, and a generous
bathroom at the end. I set our toiletries in the bathroom, then put his bag in the room closer to the bathroom and mine in the
room closer to the living room. The bedrooms were essentially identical, each containing a queen bed with a low headboard to
fit under the windows that looked out over the private land. Each also had a simple wooden bedside table and a tiny closet
with an efficient storage system.
I laid his new socks and underwear on the shelves and hung up his T-shirts and jeans, then went to my room and unpacked,
relieved that my suits had survived the trip without any creases.
I came across the compass Mr. Paige had given me, rolled carefully in a pair of socks. Figuring I’d be here for a while, I
walked out to the living room and set the compass on the mantel, noting how perfectly it fit in with the rest of the elegant bric-
a-brac.
After arranging our food in the refrigerator, I brought Hendrix a glass of water, a sliced apple, and a few slim wedges of brie.
“Here. Eat this.”
“Jesus, Agnes. Give me a chance to catch my breath before you start nagging.”
“Shut it, Hendrix, and eat your food,” I snarled, aggravated by the state of his nails.
He sighed, glaring at the snack plate. “I can’t eat all of this.”
“Fine. I’ll share it with you.”
I sat and held out the plate, arching a brow at him. He took a sip of water, then reached out and grabbed the thinnest slice of
apple, crunching on it with an impudent look on his face.
“Take a piece of the brie, too.”
“Oh my God,” he muttered, selecting a small wedge. “Your turn,” he said, gesturing at the plate.
I took a slice of apple and a piece of brie, then pushed the plate back in his direction. He yanked the plate from my hands and
started eating.
“I’m only doing this to shut you up,” he mumbled through a chunk of cheese. “Don’t get a big head about it.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I replied, rising from the couch. I paused to push his hair back from his forehead. “Stay here.”
“Bossy motherfucker.”
I ignored him and went to the bathroom, where I selected a few items from the toiletry bag I’d put together.
He laughed when I returned to the living room and rejoined him on the couch. “Are we painting our nails?”
“No. I’m painting your nails. Ozzie wanted to take you to a nail salon, but we agreed to hold off on that until you were feeling
better.”
“Oh, you two agreed, did you? I’m so glad I didn’t even factor into that discussion.”
“Apologies, James,” I snarked back, using his first name as I soaked a cotton ball with the potent varnish remover. “We made
the decision as Dr. Ahmed was threading a feeding tube up your nose because you’d become delirious from lack of food and
sleep. You weren’t exactly in a position to comment.”
I held out my hand, stifling the urge to pull Hendrix onto my lap when he reluctantly slid his palm over mine. His polish was so
badly chipped I was able to remove all of it with just one cotton ball.
He snarled at me when I accompanied him to the kitchen sink to wash his hands, but he let me steady him without comment
when his knees threatened to buckle. We moved the rest of his manicure to the small breakfast nook, and I carefully applied the
base coat, color, and quick-drying topcoat, just like I’d seen on the YouTube video I’d reviewed. I had to use a Q-tip to clean
up the edges, but it was acceptable for my first try.
Hendrix wrinkled his nose at me while blowing on his nails. I held his gaze with practiced neutrality. “I figured you’d feel
better with your nails done.”
“I’d feel better if I could sleep for ten years, but this is a not-terrible first step,” he said, yawning.
Jackass. “Do you want to take a nap?”
“Probably,” he said, stretching his neck first to one side, then the other. He stood, then grabbed the edge of the table. Despite
cursing at the offer of my elbow, he took it and let me guide him to his room.
I tucked him in, and he slept till midafternoon, barely waking when Dr. Ahmed came to check his vitals. She was happy he’d
gotten a snack but emphasized his need for regular meals.
Ozzie and Walker were both busy for the rest of the day, though they checked in several times. I dragged a chair from the
breakfast nook into Hendrix’s bedroom and caught up on my emails while he napped again. I hated that he was so exhausted,
but, having never been given free rein to simply look at him without worrying about how many seconds were too many, I
indulged in the opportunity to take in his delicate beauty.
Even with the skin under his eyes the color of a deep bruise, he was breathtaking. As he relaxed into sleep, his hard edges
softened. He looked ten years younger, and I wished I could somehow give him that kind of peace in his waking hours.
I had given his parents my phone number, and we texted back and forth through the afternoon and into the evening, until he
roused again.
“You’re still here?” he complained, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Normally a sparkling cerulean color, today they were a flat
navy, devoid of shine.
“I’m here for the duration, Hendrix. Get used to it. I’ll try not to nag you too badly.”
He sat up and set his feet on the floor, swaying a bit. Yawning deeply, he stretched his arms out to the sides, revealing a strip of
pale, inked belly and too-sharp hip bones. I wanted to kiss him while spreading my palm across his warm skin, and then I
wanted to feed him until his ribs were no longer visible.
He put his hands down, as if to push himself up, but he stopped and looked at me. “Wait. Was that a joke?”
“No, it was a promise. If you cooperate, I won’t nag you.”
“Okay, fine, maybe I was being dramatic about the nagging. But you do like to tell people what to do. Don’t lie.”
Actually, I particularly liked telling him what to do, and that was part of our problem. Not only was I a buttoned-up fussbudget,
completely unlike anybody I’d ever seen him with, but I wanted to guide him—with his permission, of course. That dream was
doomed, however, because he loathed being given advice. Often to his own detriment, he would do the opposite of whatever
he was told to do.
I especially liked that about him.
“Not all people,” I answered truthfully, going to him as he pushed himself off the bed.
“I don’t need your help,” he said, batting my hands away only to nearly topple over.
“You were saying?”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “I have to pee like a fucking racehorse because someone insisted that I drink, like, a gallon of
water. Do you mind getting out of my way?”
I stepped aside, then followed him down the hall. He shot me the finger as he entered the bathroom on shaky knees. I listened at
the door to the sound of him peeing, and despite some cursing, he seemed to be okay. But then he growled “Shit” just as
something hit the ground.
I whipped the door open, terrified. He stood there, glaring at me, covered in powder as he clung to the sink. He’d knocked a
bottle of baby powder to the floor, and his oversized sweats, also covered in powder, were bunched around his ankles. The tip
of his cock swung limp below the hem of his T-shirt, and I averted my eyes, unable to help the spit pooling beneath my tongue.
The things I would do to him.
“Would you like some help?” I asked, staring at his knees.
“Fuck off. And yes.”
I grabbed a hand towel and gingerly brushed the powder off his thighs. He wobbled and started to fall back, so I reached out,
barely managing to intercept his fall with my extended forearm.
Since I’d rolled up my shirtsleeves earlier in the day, his small, bare ass rested on my naked skin, and the hair on the back of
my neck rose. He weighed practically nothing.
“Fucking fantastic,” he muttered, trying and failing to maintain his balance.
Kneeling on the heavily powdered floor, I pulled him against me. “Stop fighting me. Just fucking hold on while I get you
arranged,” I demanded, annoyed that he’d almost fallen again.
His talented hands gripped my shoulders. “Fine. Sir.”
A shiver of want went down my spine. I clenched my teeth as I slid the sweats up his legs and over his hips, pulling the
waistband out far enough that the excessive foreskin on his sweet little cock didn’t get caught up in the material.
Since Hendrix wasn’t careful with his choice of lovers, his impressive erection could be found on any number of sites. I never
sought out the photographs, but his Google alerts were a necessary bane of my existence. And yet they were incomplete.
Google hadn’t shown me, for example, how petite his cock was when he wasn’t aroused. Perfect for a sissy cage, my brain
unhelpfully supplied.
No.
None of that.
“There,” he rasped. “I needed you after all. Happy?”
Thrilled.
“No, of course not. I never want you to hurt yourself,” I said, getting to my feet while keeping a hand on his waist.
Reaching out with my free hand, I turned on the water, and he rolled his eyes at me in the mirror.
“Wash your hands,” I said, unable to help myself.
He did as I asked, even as he mumbled under his breath.
“What was that?”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
I dropped my gaze to his soapy hands. “You sure about that?”
He let out an annoyed grunt but continued washing his hands, a small grin on his face. I hadn’t seen him come close to smiling
in a long time, and I counted it as a win.
I batted the rest of the powder off him and myself. “You need to eat again,” I stated, ready for his protest. “Would you like it in
the bedroom or living room?”
“Are you actually giving me a choice?” he asked, aiming toward the bedroom.
“Don’t worry, I won’t make a habit of it.”
I got him settled back in bed and brought him a tray of shredded rotisserie chicken, red grapes, and crackers, which he ate
without comment.
“They’re in love, you know,” he said, out of nowhere.
“Who?”
“Ozzie and Walker.”
Ah. Yes. “I saw it happen. Not sure if they had any choice in the matter,” I said, hoping to soften the blow. He’d told Ozzie that
it was okay to pursue Walker, but I’d never fully believed he meant it.
“Hmm.” Hendrix chewed the edge of his lip for a few seconds. He started humming again, tapping his fingers on the duvet.
Finally, he lifted his gaze to mine. “It’s a good thing, right? Those two being together?”
“I believe so,” I answered, completely selfish.
“Besides,” he said on a sigh, “no one’s still in love with their high school crush at this stage, right?”
Caught off guard, I didn’t know what to say.
He continued before I could answer, clearly having meant his question to be rhetorical. “Though look who I’m talking to. I bet
you’ve never had a crush in your life.”
I stood. “You’d be surprised,” I said, taking his empty plate. “Get some rest.”
“’Kay,” he said, blinking slowly. “Night, Agnes.”
 CHAPTER 5

hendrix

I slept like the dead again last night, then got up early and made my way to the back porch so that I could watch the river while
the sun came up. The morning was chillier than I was expecting, but I was too tired to go grab a blanket.
Honestly, it was kind of nice to be able to feel something other than numb. I just wished I had my guitar on me. Maybe Sago or
Robbie knew where it had gotten to.
Thankfully, Sago had packed my notebook and pen, so I spent the early dawn listening to the sounds of life around the river as I
scratched out some lyrics I wasn’t sure about.
The melody from the other day came back to me, so I closed my eyes and drummed my fingers on the arm of the old
Adirondack chair. The weathered wood gave a pleasant heaviness to the beats, and I wondered what the song would sound like
without the drums and screaming guitars.
Stripped down.
Sago and Robbie often played around with different sounds as a thought exercise. I wondered if they’d⁠—
My mental meanderings were interrupted by Sawyer stepping outside carrying a breakfast tray, a blanket over one arm.
“Agnes, why are you dressed like a lawyer at six thirty in the morning?” I teased, then sighed as he set the tray on the table
between the two Adirondacks and spread the blanket over my legs.
That felt so good. Not that I’d tell him.
“Stop calling me Agnes,” he muttered. “And eat your breakfast.”
I picked up the mug, grateful for the heat, and took a deep sniff. “Is that licorice?”
He sat next to me. “I bought some Throat Coat for you.”
Who the hell thinks of specialty throat tea? “Know that I’m only drinking this because I don’t want to have to deal with your
nagging.”
“Hendrix, buddy, you have no idea how much I bite my tongue. If it had been up to me, you would’ve been off the road months
ago,” he said, picking up his mug. He pointed at the plate of scrambled eggs and toast and pursed his lips.
“See how you nag me?” I asked as I grabbed the fork and took a bite of egg.
Fuck, that was buttery and delicious. I paused to take a bite of what looked to be twelve-grain toast.
I stared at the toast, then glanced back at Sawyer. “Did you put honey on this?”
“Again, for your throat,” he said, automatically reaching for his tie. “Dr. Ahmed will be here a little before noon, so I wanted
to make sure you’d had at least one good dinner and a decent breakfast. Don’t want her to think I’ve fallen down on the job.”
As much as I made fun of the man, he was being really thoughtful, and I made a mental note not to bust his balls as much.
Gesturing to my notebook, he asked, “Am I interrupting your process?”
Kinda, but I don’t mind it so much.
“Nah. Just don’t judge me if I need to hum through the specifics as I write down the notes.”
He dropped his chin. “I would never.”
I snorted, taking another sip. “Yeah, sure. You look like you’re about to go into a courtroom. I look like I got dragged behind a
semi.”
“This is just how I dress. I’m not judging you, Hendrix. I never have.”
I rolled my eyes. “Bullshit. All you do is nag at me. I swear, if I let more than thirty seconds go without responding to
something on the goddamn group chat, you switch to private messaging me, all up my ass about it.”
“That’s not judgment. That’s concern,” he said, clasping his hands on his lap, his breakfast only half eaten.
I grabbed my phone and pulled up my notifications. “This you?” I asked, shaking the screen at him. “Missed calls, missed
texts? Using my government name? What the fuck?”
His jaw sharpened as he dug into his jacket pocket, retrieving the newest iPhone. Tapping the face, he turned the phone so I
could see the display.
“You set up a Google alert for me?” I asked. “I swear, you’re worse than my publicist.”
He made a face, then tapped the screen again, pulling up a video from the concert in Mexico City.
Someone close to the front of the stage had been recording my performance on their phone and caught everything. The way I
swayed, the way I missed the first and then the second intro to the song. The way I fell to the ground like a marionette with its
strings cut. My guitar, which was more for show than anything else these days, broke, sending a squeal through the speaker
system.
Fuck. I might not play much live anymore, but I’d owned that guitar—named Mary Ann—since high school.
Refocusing on the video, I watched as Robbie threw his guitar down and raced over to me, untangling me from my now-dead
instrument. He rolled me onto my back and checked my pulse and my breathing, sending a thumbs-up to the horrified crowd.
Seconds later, Sago was there, rolling his vest to place under my head while someone from the crowd was hoisted onto the
stage by security.
“He’s an emergency doctor,” Sawyer explained as I watched the guy order around the concert paramedics, who’d rushed the
stage from the side.
I handed his phone back, not wanting to see any more.
“I’m not nagging you. I’m not judging you. You scared the shit out of me. Out of all of us, really. We’ve been worried about you
for a long time, Hendrix.”
The morning’s cozy vibes vanished into thin air.
I set down my tea and wrapped myself up in the blanket, staring at the river. After a few minutes of icing out Sawyer, he took
the hint, gathered his things, and went back inside.

Dr. Ahmed was thrilled with my progress. “You look so much better than yesterday.”
I gestured at Sawyer. “Agnes here has been making me eat and drink. I blame him.”
Sawyer’s jaw sharpened at the nickname, and I felt a little guilty. I hadn’t liked being reminded that I had people in my life who
loved me and wanted me to be okay, if only because I was such a spectacular failure at being okay.
“Well, keep it up,” she said, her expression stern. “On top of that, Mr. Cavanaugh, you need rest. Deep rest. Lots of sleep and
good nutrition.”
“I hate sitting still,” I whined.
“Ah, poor thing.” She pointed at Sawyer. “We’ll chat about getting him on a strength training routine in a month or so, but for
now he needs to recover.”
I gaped at them. “Don’t I have any say in that?”
They looked at each other, then looked at me and responded in unison. “No.”
Jerks.
After Dr. Ahmed left, Sawyer tucked his tie into his shirt, rolled up his sleeves, and set about making lunch. He hadn’t tried to
speak to me since the morning, and it left me feeling kinda itchy.
Right as I was beginning to overthink his silence, someone knocked at the door. I got up before Sawyer could react, but I could
feel his eyes boring into the back of my head as I made my way—still hella unsteady—to answer.
I rocked back when I opened the door to my mother and father.
I hadn’t seen the two of them in the same room together since I was a teenager. Even though his hairline was starting to retreat,
my father was a good-looking man, and his sheriff’s uniform was, admittedly, impressive.
My mom, however, was on another plane of existence. I’d always thought she looked like a mash-up of Morticia Addams and
Marilyn Monroe. Her facial structure was delicate, and she had pale skin, huge blue eyes, and full lips, along with a fall of
stick-straight black hair past her shoulders. She refused to color her hair or wear more than minimal makeup. The thick white
streak that originated at her part and the crow’s-feet around her expressive eyes were newer, and they somehow made her even
more beautiful.
Today, even with her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a simple T-shirt and classic, worn-in jeans, she was elegant.
My father gulped as she brushed past him to place a kiss on my forehead. We’d all come a long way from when they split up,
but I didn’t think he’d ever get over her. She’d dated on and off since their divorce, but never anything serious. When they sat
on the couch, he put his arm around her waist and she set her temple against his shoulder.
I wasn’t sure if that meant anything or if it was simply a gesture of support between parents who probably had more to be
concerned about than most.
“Sorry for worrying you.” My voice cracked. “And, uh, for apparently making both of you cry.”
“Son, your voice,” Mom said, bringing her hand to her mouth.
Seconds later, I couldn’t miss the sound of the water faucet being turned on and the clicking of the stove. Agnes was making me
more tea.
“I know. I’ve been overdoing it. I’ve already canceled the rest of the tour. My manager is screaming mad, but I think I’m done. I
don’t think I want to do this anymore.”
I’d discovered a number of texts and voicemails from Paul. I was happy to let them go unanswered, but Sawyer had demanded
to read and hear them. After, he’d taken his phone and gone outside. I felt like a wimp, letting him handle what was no doubt a
tense conversation with Paul. I had a feeling, though, that Sawyer had made sure he’d never leave me another message ever
again.
My father’s jaw trembled, and my mother slumped against him, looking like the weight of the world had just been lifted from
her. She turned into his chest, and her shoulders started heaving. He raised his hand to stroke her back. “Son,” he said, his
voice unsteady, “your mother and I have been so frightened for you. That video… God, it was awful. You have no idea how
grateful we are that you already look so much better.”
“That’s because Sawyer is basically force-feeding me. Don’t let the fancy clothes fool you—he’s a drill sergeant under all of
his finery.”
The kettle went off, and seconds later Sawyer set down a steeping mug of Throat Coat.
“Would either of you like tea or coffee?” he asked my parents, far more nicely than he’d ever asked me.
They declined, but Sawyer insisted they stay for lunch. He went back to the kitchen to prepare the food while I was left to fend
for myself with the dueling guilt-trippers. My mother was still leaning against my father.
“I know I fucked up a lot of things,” my father confessed. “A lot. And I know some of this has to do with how I fucked up. But
I’m not gonna do that anymore. I’m here. I’m here to take care of you, and to support your mom. We love you so much, and
whatever is driving you to treat yourself this way, we have got to figure it out. Together.”
A snarky comment sat poised at the tip of my tongue, but I kept it to myself. When I was a teenager, I could be counted on to say
the most cutting, awful thing possible in any situation. Back then it had felt justified, given how much I’d thought my father
hated me. But the way he was looking at me now, I wondered if maybe he’d never hated me at all. Hearing him say he wanted
me to take care of myself was enough of a mindfuck that I might just listen to him.
I grabbed my mom’s hand as I answered my father. “The thing that fucked me up at the beginning of the year was sitting alone in
this cabin, going stir-crazy. This go-round, I need to make sure I have something to do.”
Sawyer walked in and set a glass of water in front of me, along with a tiny pile of supplements. “You won’t be alone this time.
I’ll be staying with you. And once you’ve rested sufficiently, I’ll make sure you have plenty to do. We’ve got to build some
muscle onto that frame of yours. No need to go around looking like a Dickensian orphan.”
I gave him the bird. “The Dickensian orphan aesthetic happens to be my bread and butter.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Besides,” I continued, “don’t you have your big tech job or whatever in San Antonio? You can’t stay with me.”
“I’ve got it all set up. I’ll be working remotely, which I’d already started to plan.”
“Really?”
Glancing at my parents, he answered, “I, uh, bought a piece of land out by my parents’ place last year. Now that my brother and
sister have kids, I don’t wanna miss anything. I’ve been working with an architect to finalize the plans, and then with the city to
get on the grid. It’ll take the better part of a year, so this just gets me into Seguin a little sooner.”
I tilted my head. “Am I the only one who didn’t know you were moving back?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t want to say anything until it was all in place. My parents and I have been steadily working on our
relationship for a while now. They’ve progressed so far in their acceptance of me that now I want to live closer by.”
“This? This is why I call you Agnes. You overthink every-fucking-thing.”
My father snorted. “He’s carefully considering his next steps while, I might add, taking care of you. Whereas you once set off a
cherry bomb under my police cruiser—in full mascot regalia—because someone dared you.”
Heh. That was a fun memory. What my father didn’t know was that doing it netted me a blowjob from a football player on the
down-low.
“So?”
“Being thoughtful isn’t the same as overthinking,” my mother said, looking into my father’s eyes before turning to me. “Just
something to ponder while Sawyer helps you to recover after you spent years flitting around the globe without any attention to
your personal well-being.”
Sawyer’s mouth twitched as he raised his damned brow at me, a nonverbal I told you so. Dick.
“Fine. I do tend to jump from one thing to the next. But I still maintain that he has no goddamned reason to be dressed like he’s
ready for court.”
Sawyer didn’t take the bait, though he seemed to relax a hair at my admission, which made me feel guilty. He was so being
bossy, but maybe I’d scared him more than I’d realized. Also—not that I would ever admit this to him—I understood his
wanting to come home, now that things were good with his parents.
My mom looked between us, tapping her nose the way she used to whenever she was trying to figure something out. “I think
Sawyer taking care of you is a good thing. You need someone who knows how to manage the details.”
I blew raspberries at the thought. It was strange, though. She’d always been the one to take care of me, and on some level I’d
thought she’d offer to take over. Yet here she was, feeding me to the wolves.
“Thank you, Ms. Cavanaugh,” Sawyer said, giving her a slight bow as he darted another haughty glance my way. Swear to God,
that eyebrow of his was a paid actor.
Side note: Sawyer sometimes tended to admit things when he was drunk, so I happened to know that he went to a professional
for both his perfect brows and his pubes, which was beyond ridiculous since—another drunken confession—he was also an
exclusive top.
I mean, I got my business waxed and bleached on the regular, but at least my smooth, perfect hole made some goddamned sense
—I loved being rimmed and fucked into the mattress. I’d bet my right nut he got a Brazilian every third week on the dot, and I
doubted that a mouth or a dick had ever been in the vicinity of his ass.
Truthfully, I’d never understood how Sawyer fit in with our group. I had frequently wondered if we were too much for him, but
he kept hanging out with us. Even now that we were adults, he still showed up. Given my current circumstances, I found myself
grateful for his stubbornness.
Things I’ll never admit out loud for a thousand, Alex.
“You know I’m the world’s worst roommate, right?” I warned. “I leave my clothes everywhere, I hate doing dishes, and I burp.
Very loudly.”
“And what part of that is news?” Sawyer picked a piece of lint off his dress shirt, giving me a bored look.
Mom laughed—traitor—as I rolled my eyes. “Fine. It’s your funeral.”
The smell of garlic perfumed the air, and Sawyer ducked back into the kitchen while Mom and Dad caught me up on their lives.
Dad kept his arm around Mom’s waist the entire time. It was something I’d typically call out, but I held back.
My coming out had destroyed my family, a fact that fucked me up whenever I thought about it. Mom, of course, would deny that
I’d caused their divorce till she was blue in the face, but I knew better. I loved my mother for her immediate, unbending support
when I came out… and God, it had hurt to watch her shut down her feelings for the man I knew she adored. If his arm around
her today was a sign that they were repairing something I’d torn apart, I wasn’t going to mess with it.
Besides, I’d missed my dad something fierce. I would never have owned up to that as a teenager because, ew, emotions or
whatever. As an adult, though, I could admit that I liked having him around.
I’d been a difficult kid, always getting into things and testing boundaries, but until I’d come out, I’d always thought my father
kinda admired my don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. He’d never encouraged my mischief, of course, but I could see it in the glint in his
eyes whenever I’d gotten into trouble.
Not that I’d thought through my coming out, at all.

“James Hendrix Cavanaugh, what the hell is this?” my dad said, holding a joint between his forefinger and thumb.
“Well, Dad, based on the way you’re holding it, you know exactly what it is.”
He tossed the joint into the sink and ran the disposal. “Son, I have a standard to uphold in this community. That kid from San
Marcos you’ve been hanging out with is a bad influence. You never even thought of doing something like this until you met
him.”
“God, Dad. Why are you acting like some 1950s ‘pot is the Devil’ activist? Jimmy is a good guy.”
Dad’s jaw bunched. “Look. I didn’t want to say anything, but you have to be careful hanging out with kids like him.”
“‘Kids like him’? What the fuck does that mean?”
“Watch your language,” he said as Mom walked into the kitchen.
“What are you two fighting about now?” she asked, her eyes dull, like she’d grown tired of our constant back-and-forth.
“He’s been hanging out with that Jimmy kid again, and I found a joint in his backpack,” Dad spat, pointing to the sink.
Mom let out a heavy sigh. Dad and I had been getting under each other’s skin for a while. The truth was, ever since Holden had
been beat to shit, I’d had a hard time keeping it together. Me, Holden, and Beckett had all been carrying the same secret, and
that assault put the reality of being queer in small-town Texas into sharp focus.
To his credit, Dad had investigated the incident thoroughly and presented the county attorney with enough evidence to put that
DeWitt fuck away for a good long time. Once the lawyers got a hold of it, however, DeWitt basically got a slap on the wrist.
“And why don’t we like Jimmy again?” she asked him, rubbing her head.
“He smokes pot and does who the hell knows what else⁠—”
“Dad. It’s just pot and beer.”
“Oh. It’s just pot and beer, huh? At your age? No, sir,” Dad said, putting his hands on his hips as he stood taller, trying to
exaggerate his height. “Besides, that’s not all. I have friends in the San Marcos PD, and they say he’s… you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” I fired back, not retreating as I should have.
“He goes into Austin,” Dad responded, distaste visible in the snarl of his lips.
The fact that he couldn’t come out and say what he meant fired up a rage in me that I couldn’t hope to control. Austin had
always been the blueberry in the tomato soup, the lone progressive spot in a state bound and determined to kill its queers. The
city had one of the nation’s highest per capita populations of LGBTQ+ folks, a statistic the rest of Texas just loved to point out.
By referring to Austin, Dad was calling Jimmy the F-slur without actually saying it. That kind of shit, along with the fact that
assholes like DeWitt never got punished, was the reason those who were in the closet stayed in the closet until they left Seguin.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been to Austin with him. Several times,” I spat back, vicious. I wanted to see him lose it.
What I got instead was a look so heartbroken and disappointed that it would haunt me for years.
Once those words left my mouth, there was a whole lot of “No son of mine” and “You cannot treat my son this way” between
my mom and dad. I was barely acknowledged, and I doubt they noticed when I left the room.
Mom found me a little while later. “Pack a bag,” she said. “We’re not staying here.”
I had what so many queer kids didn’t—at least one parent who stood up for them—but it felt awful. Everything about being gay,
pan, whatever, felt awful. I was a slut, I was indecisive, I was less than for loving to bottom, I was so many shitty things.
And I’d destroyed my mom’s life.

I blinked back to the present as Sawyer called us over to the small dining table to eat. I wasn’t expecting him to have made
tacos, but they were delicious, just like breakfast. Another thing I’d never admit was how cared for I felt whenever he fed me.
Fucking Agnes.
Dad sat close enough to Mom that their thighs were touching while we ate, and I swore I saw her squeeze his hand for a half a
second while Sawyer told them of his and Dr. Ahmed’s plans for me.
I yawned, suddenly exhausted by the conversation.
“Get some rest, son,” my mother said, kissing my forehead.
Dad stood and pulled me into a hug that lasted a long time. “We’ll visit again when you get settled in.”
We. Hmm.
I nodded, fighting back rogue tears. “I, uh. I look forward to it.”
 CHAPTER 6

sawyer

“So… how are things going with Hen?” DB asked as we wrapped up our weekly video check-in.
Hen was in the living room, swathed in black loungewear, bopping to something on his headphones, while I sat in a suit and tie
at the compact dining table. I ran my hands over my face, cursing under my breath.
“That good, huh?” DB asked, letting out a deep chuckle.
“Yeah,” I admitted, knowing better than to try and lie to a guy who discovered the truth for a living. “I swear that man is gonna
drive me to drink. It’s like he forgets that he collapsed just a few weeks ago.”
“Have you been stuck in that cabin with him the whole time?”
“Basically.”
DB widened his eyes at me.
“What?”
Lifting a hand, he answered, “I’m just wondering if he’s not the only one who needs to be reminded of his limits.”
I adjusted my earbuds, not liking where this was going. “What do you mean?”
“You haven’t left his side in three weeks, Sawyer. No one would blame you for needing some time away from him. Maybe go
visit a friend. Doesn’t what’s-his-name—Major—live in Seguin? Have you gone to see him?”
“He’s swung by to see Hen a couple of times. All of our friends have.”
DB tapped the camera as if he’d like to do the same to my forehead. “And how is that anything like getting out and giving
yourself a reprieve? I already said you could take off from work or shift your deadlines, yet you’ve made not one single
adjustment to your calendar.”
“I don’t want to get behind.”
DB’s get real glare packed a punch.
I checked to see that Hen still had his headphones on, then let out a long breath. “Fine. I guess I could give Major a call.”
“Excellent. And how are things with your mom?”
“Good. The doctor realized she’d been having palpitations during her cardio classes and asked her to take it down a notch.”
DB laughed. “In a shocking turn of events, the entire Finch family is too intense for their own good.”
“Pot, the kettle is calling.”
“I’d lie and say that wasn’t true, but Odd just walked in.”
His husband dipped into view and waved. “Hey, Sawyer. Don’t let this one give you any shit about anything. He put up with a
fucked-up artificial knee for years because he didn’t consider pain a good enough excuse to get it fixed.”
DB snarled. “That’s not true.”
Oof. Odd’s get real look was even worse than DB’s. Before I could come up with a good retort, my lap was filled with tiny
punk god. Hendrix pushed his headphones down to his neck and pilfered one of my earbuds. Inserting it, he leaned in toward
the camera. “Is this the legendary DeShaun Blaylock, man in charge of all of my digital safety?”
Hen had taken to draping himself over me at inconvenient times, and DB’s amused look only further irritated me. “Hen, get
off.” I pushed at him.
He sighed and settled in deeper, smelling suspiciously like my deodorant and shampoo. “I haven’t gotten off in far too long.”
Two sets of laughter filtered through the earbud as I willed my dick to stand down.
“Stop encouraging his bad behavior,” I grumped as my hands went to Hen’s hips.
DB’s husband waved at the camera. “Hey, Hendrix, I’m Odd. Big fan of your music.”
Hen leaned in and smiled, then fluffed up his hair. “Well, hey there, Odd. Name like that, your parents must be Norwegian.”
“That they are,” Odd said, a fact belied by his Texas accent.
“Last time I was in Oslo, I spent some time at that go-go bar. What’s the name of it?” His ass nudged my crotch, and I recalled
the pics he’d shared on the group chat. They were definitely not HR-approved, and I should get him off my lap and off this call
as soon as possible.
“Blaze,” Odd replied with a grin.
Hen wiggled happily. “Busted.”
Odd chuckled as DB narrowed his eyes. “What kind of bar is this, again?”
“The kind where the ladies don’t wear very much,” Odd said, then kissed DB’s nose.
“And some of those ladies have very accommodating boyfriends.” Hen sighed, biting his lip as he lay back against my chest.
“So very accommodating.”
“That’s my boss, Hen,” I reminded him.
At the same time, Odd grinned and responded, “Good to know.”
DB grumbled and smacked Odd’s ass. “Just so you know, dear husband, nothing’s being accommodated here,” he said, glaring
at me as he pushed Odd, laughing, out of view.
An entire HR nightmare.
“Don’t look at me like that, DB. I told you not to encourage his bad behavior.”
DB cursed under his breath, though it looked as if his eyes were tracking his handsome husband offscreen. We quickly said our
goodbyes, and something told me he and Odd would be occupied for the rest of the evening.
“That was fun,” Hen said as I belatedly moved my hands from his hips to retrieve my stolen earbud.
“For you, maybe,” I muttered, returning the earbuds to their case, glad my cock hadn’t given me away. “You can get off my lap
now.”
He complied, then snorted when I began returning my electronics to their specific pockets in my laptop bag. “Fine. But you
have to admit that I added flair to an otherwise boring meeting.”
“I will admit no such thing.” I crossed the living room to set the laptop case in the hall closet, then tucked my tie into my shirt
and rolled up my sleeves. “How do you feel about spinach tortellini?”
“Are you even allowed that many carbs?” he asked, following me into the kitchen.
I turned on the water and began soaping my hands. “I factored that into my other meals this week.”
“Oh my God.” He let his head fall back. When I didn’t respond to his theatrics, he straightened and shook his head. “This? Is
why I call you Agnes.”
“Not everyone treats their body like a fun house, Hendrix,” I replied as I rinsed and dried off.
“You do understand that fun isn’t a bad thing, don’t you, Agnes?”
“Stop calling me that. And of course I know that fun isn’t bad,” I said, grabbing the big pot from the bottom cabinet. I raised my
voice so he could hear me over the sound of the water as I filled it. “That’s why I put it on my calendar. Every Saturday at two
o’clock, I have to find something fun to do.”
“Oh, Agnes.” He dropped his head to my biceps, and I wished I could press my nose into his messy hair. “I know the line
we’re telling people is that I need you to stay here to watch over me, but I’m starting to think you need me as much as I need
you.”
You have no idea how true that is.
I pulled out my phone, distracting myself by looking up my father’s recipe for Alfredo sauce. “It’s possible. Though, if you
really wanted to be useful, you could grate some parmesan for me.”
“You could buy it already grated.”
“Or you could obey me for once,” I snapped, setting the pot on the big burner.
When I was greeted with silence, I turned to find Hen gaping up at me.
“What?”
“Did you just tell me to obey you?” he asked, his voice pitched up in disbelief.
Fuck, I had. I nearly groaned, visualizing Hen under me, obeying my every command… “Shut up,” I muttered, salting the water.
“Mm-hmm. I’ll cooperate, because I’m craving pasta after all the vegetables you’ve been shoving down my throat, but we will
be returning to this subject.”
“Just grate the parmesan, you menace,” I said, hip-checking him.
This man was going to be the death of me.
 CHAPTER 7

hendrix

I felt itchy watching Sawyer stand in front of the hall mirror, sliding into his beautifully crafted blazer as he prepared to visit
Major. Ren had come by yesterday to check on us and I’d overheard Sawyer grousing that his boss had spent the last two
weeks nagging him to get out more often.
I suspected that DB’s actual recommendation had been to take a break from me. Fair, but… ouch. Either way, I was tickled that
Sawyer was getting a dose of his own medicine, especially when Ren had agreed with DB.
“So, are you and Major a thing?” I asked, catching his eye through the reflection.
His laugh was almost bitter. “No. Major is one of my oldest and dearest friends.”
“But y’all used to fuck in high school, right?”
He sent me a sharp look in the mirror. “Not many people know that.”
“Caught y’all making out in his truck once, remember?”
“Right. I forgot.” Tensing his jaw, he said, “We were learning about our queerness together. But we quickly figured out that we
were better off as friends.”
I gestured at his expensive outfit. “Then why are you dressed up like you’re going on a date with him?”
He tugged at his collar, like maybe he wanted a tie. Honestly, I was surprised he was willing to leave the house without one.
“Saturday morning isn’t the time one goes on a date.”
“You’re a weird bird, Sawyer Finch.”
He glanced at me, smoothed down his lapels, and made his way outside.
I often had a hard time reading the man, but something about that line of questioning had bothered him. Actually, he’d been
bothered ever since I’d picked something up in that obey comment the night he’d made tortellini Alfredo.
Whatever, Agnes. Keep your secrets and go visit your old fuck buddy. I don’t need you here to harangue me.
Ten minutes into solitude, though, and I was climbing the walls. Luckily, the day before, Ren and Holden had dropped off the
junked-out truck Mr. Paige had used when caring for the cabins.
“It looks like shit, but it’s got a full tank and an engine that runs,” Ren had said before getting into Holden’s car.
Lending me the truck was a nice gesture, but I hadn’t thought much of it until I had to listen to the sound of my own breathing.
Grabbing the keys from the entryway table, I locked the cabin door and climbed into the rusting, mid-80s Toyota 4x4.
As Ren had promised, the engine fired up right away, and I briefly considered the fact that I hadn’t had an American driver’s
license in at least six or seven years. Ah, well. There were a few benefits to having your dad be the sheriff. Not exactly sure
where I’d end up, I pointed the truck toward downtown Seguin. I circled Central Park, admiring the new businesses that had
popped up around the tiny town square. Allie’s coffee shop caught my eye, and I found an open parking space half a block
down.
I walked past Joel and Ozzie’s bar and restaurant—both still closed for another hour—and let myself into the Seguin Bean. It
was starting to rain, and the cozy, inviting interior was a welcome change. When Allie noticed me, her mouth broadened into a
big smile. “Hen! It’s so good to see you.”
“Hey, sweetheart,” I said, kissing her cheek. “How’s business?”
She gestured to the square outside. “That Syrup project that Ozzie and Joel have going is really helping. Getting more
businesses downtown sends more people my way.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said, searching the extensive chalkboard menu behind her. “You still make that drink with the chai and
three other kinds of tea?”
“Oh, the Orgy? Absolutely,” she said, unsubtly selecting a massive ceramic mug instead of a to-go cup.
I grinned and found a booth in the back. I recognized a lot of the other patrons, but everyone kept their distance. I wasn’t sure if
they didn’t recognize me or were respecting my privacy. Either way, I’d take it.
A few moments later, Allie appeared at my table holding the mug full of chai, white, green, and black tea goodness. In her other
hand she carried a small plate.
“Is that your coffee cake?” I asked, grabbing for it. “I haven’t had this in forever.”
“Well, there’s more where that came from. Eat up. Looks like you could use it.”
I sent her the best smile I could manage and went to town on the coffee cake. Inside, I winced at her comment, though. I
generally didn’t like it when people pointed out how skinny I was.
Still, Allie’s coffee cake covered a multitude of sins. I was dragging my finger through the last morsels on the plate when I
sensed another presence.
“Hendrix?”
I looked up to see a couple I guessed to be in their late fifties. They seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite put a finger on where I
knew them from. “Yes?”
“We’re the Finches. Sawyer’s parents.”
Oh. Oh shit.
Sawyer didn’t talk much about his mom and dad, but I knew they’d all worked hard to build their family back up again. I knew
exactly how delicate that could be, and I didn’t want to do anything too Hendrix and fuck things up.
“Hey!” I said, hopping up to give Mrs. Finch a hug, which she returned effusively.
Mr. Finch didn’t seem like the hugging type, so I offered my hand. He shook it, and I awkwardly pointed to the open seats
across the booth. “Want to join me?” Please say no.
Sawyer’s dad hesitated, but his mom grinned. “Oh, that’d be lovely,” she said, sliding in. Mr. Finch reluctantly joined her, and
they both stared at me.
Before I could think of something uncontroversial to say, Mrs. Finch pointed at my mug. “That looks divine. What is it?”
I chuckled. “It’s called the Orgy because it has, like, four kinds of tea. Allie denies it, but I’m pretty sure she named it after
me.”
Her eyes widened, and I slapped one hand over my mouth, then another. Why was the first thing out of my mouth a reminder that
I was basically a whore?
“Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Finch,” I said as I lowered my hands. “Agnes says I should not be allowed out in public, and… he might
be onto something.”
“Agnes?” his mom asked, confused.
Fuck.
“I, uh… It’s my nickname for Sawyer.” Their stunned silence made the anxiety crawl up my throat and spill out of my mouth.
“S-sometimes I call him a fussbudget. He once said that he was going to make that his FetLife username, but I’m pretty sure that
was a joke.”
She blinked at me.
“I did double-check the app. If he’s on FetLife, it’s not under that name.”
Oh, God. What the fuck was I saying?
Kill me. Kill me now.
“Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Finch. Just… sorry.”
I covered my eyes and made plans to flee the country. After another beat of silence, though, a loud, deep laugh interrupted my
self-flagellation. I looked up. Mr. Finch’s eyes were amused half-moons, and his laugh continued to build. Mrs. Finch smacked
her husband’s arm, then let out a giggle like tinkling glass.
Sawyer’s dad stuck out his hand again. “Horatio, but my friends call me Ray. Nice to meet you for real, son.”
“Hendrix Cavanaugh,” I said, grateful that this handshake was warmer than the first.
“Cordelia,” Mrs. Finch said, sending me a wave.
I shook my head. “I really don’t mean to be a menace. It just occurs naturally.”
Still chuckling, Ray said, “I can see why my son likes you so much. He gets too far into his head, and I’m guessing you help
with that.”
Agnes likes me? That’s news.
I spread my hands. “I was just telling him the other day when we were making tortellini that he needed me as much as I needed
him.”
“Bet he hated that,” Ray said, his eyes sparkling with humor.
“Did you like the sauce? It was my husband’s recipe.” Cordelia’s cheeks were rosy.
“Wait,” I said, pointing at Ray. “You’re the one helping me get back up to fighting weight?”
He lifted his shoulder in a self-effacing way that looked far too familiar. “My son’s been asking me for my best recipes. I’m
glad they’ve come in handy.”
“He’s annoyingly bossy, your son, but it’s all worth it for the home cooking. You’d think a guy with a body like that would be
all unseasoned chicken and broccoli, but he’s got skills.” I grimaced as I played back my words. “Fuck. I did it again, didn’t
I?”
“Hendrix?” Cordelia said.
“Yeah?”
“You’re fine.”
“Okay, thanks. If I had to go back to that cabin and tell Agnes that I’d offended his parents, he’d have me doing burpees till the
end of time.”
She reached across the table and gripped my hand. “My son has only ever said that you are a good, supportive friend.”
“Eh. A half-truth, but I’ll accept it.”
“See that you do,” she said, patting my hand. Ray then slid out of the booth and she followed him. “We won’t take up any more
of your time, just wanted to stop by and say hello.”
I rose with them, accepting another big hug from Cordelia. “Mind if we take a selfie?”
“Not at all, honey.”
Ray was game as we gathered for a quick picture, then he surprised me with a hug of his own. “Take care, Hen. I hope your
recovery goes well.”
“Thanks, Ray.”
I sat down and watched them head out to the street, then laughed as I sent the pic to Sawyer. That went better than I thought it
would.
 CHAPTER 8

sawyer

Major stepped aside and let me into his house. A lot had changed since the last time I’d been here. Leo had only moved in a
little over a month ago, the same day Hendrix had shown up on Ozzie’s doorstep, but his presence was already felt. A backpack
sat slumped on the couch, and a huge jacket, too big even for Major, hung from the hall tree. Massive, smelly tennis shoes sat
by the front door.
“Eau de teenager,” I said, walking into one of Major’s big hugs.
“You don’t know the half of it. Leo’s a good guy, pretty neat for a teen, but he and I had to have a man-to-man conversation
about the funk he’d been bringing into this situation.”
“It’s cool he’s getting to live with a grown-up. I know they did a good job mentoring him at Lupe, but there are things he
probably missed out on.”
“For sure,” Major said, giving me a look.
“What?” I asked, not defensive in the slightest.
“Are we going to continue to talk about Leo, or do you wanna discuss the hangdog expression on your face?”
I rolled my eyes and moved the backpack aside to take a seat on Major’s modern-yet-comfortable olive couch, sinking into the
soft cushions.
“I only see you when I visit the cabin.” He settled himself in the recliner across from me. “How’s it going, living with Hen?”
God, I hated that question.
I avoided it for a moment, taking in the familiar lines of Major’s gorgeous house. The living room’s cozy furnishings and high,
vaulted ceilings were soothing. A dramatic balcony overlooked the living area and kitchen, and⁠—
“Stop staring at the ceiling, Sawyer. Answer the question.”
I sighed. Busted. “Can I assume that Leo is nowhere around?”
Major nodded. “He’s over at Wild Heart with Lovett.”
“Are they…?”
“They’ve held hands, and Lovett says they’ll share a kiss on graduation day.”
I put my hand to my heart. “That really is kind of precious.”
“I see what you’re doing,” Major huffed. “Stop trying to change the subject.”
I curled my lip. “What was the question, again?”
He raised a brow at my attitude. “What’s it like living with Hen?”
I let out a sigh and toed off my shoes. This had been much easier to answer when DB had asked me. Major was going to want
details. I tried tucking my legs under my ass, the way I usually did when I sat on this couch, but it didn’t work in my suit pants. I
gave up and sat normally, looking at my socks.
“Better and worse than I thought it would be,” I finally answered.
Major tilted his head, taking me in. “How so?”
“He’s not going stir-crazy like I thought.”
“That’s good, right? I’m guessing he appreciates having your company.”
“Yeah, mostly.” I sighed, gathering my thoughts. “He’s also a lot quieter than you’d expect. Not that this moment is an accurate
representation of the man, but you know the big personality he puts on for the stage, right?”
“Of course. Way over the top. And the crowd loves it.”
“Exactly. I guess I hadn’t realized he was also putting on a show for us.” I ran a hand through my hair.
“In what way?”
“He still makes fun of me, of course, but unless I’m trying to force him to eat or sleep, he’s quiet.”
“Does that impact the way you feel about him?”
I shook my head, wishing for once I had a different answer. “I always wondered who he was behind the smiles and the jokes. If
anything, that’s making things worse.”
“Go on.”
“I’m more in love with him now than I ever was,” I confessed, pulling on my collar. “Seeing him with his parents? It was like
watching the blown-apart pieces of him being stitched back together. And I just… I want to be there for him as they figure out
how to be a family again. I want to be included in it.” The words were almost too painful to say aloud.
Major nodded, his expression contemplative. He was never quick to give his opinion. He was kind and thorough, and for the
thousandth time, I cursed myself for not being able to fall in love with him. He was my dearest friend, and I loved him
unimaginably. I would give him any organ that he needed, but my heart could not and would not let go of James Hendrix
Cavanaugh.
After all these years, I’d stopped hoping it would.
“Do you think there’s a possibility that he might be open to something with you?”
I hated that question even more because I knew the answer in my bones. I knew with more certainty than I knew my own name.
“No.”
“Why?”
Lifting a shoulder, I responded, “It’s a combination of things, though I don’t know if I could explain it.” I bit the inside of my
lip, and Major remained quiet, patiently waiting for me to think through my reasons.
Finally, I sighed and told him the truth.
“Based on the way he acted around Walker while we were at Ozzie’s house, I’m pretty sure he’s still in love with the man. He
at least loves the thought of him, and more than he’s ever let on.”
“But he told Ozzie⁠—”
“He lied.”
“Why?”
The answer was so simple it hurt. “Hendrix loves Walker but doesn’t think he’s enough for him. And he loves Ozzie so much
that he’d rather Walker be with someone who he considers a better man. Someone who deserves Walker.”
Major cursed under his breath. “That does sound like Hen. I swear, I love his parents, and I’m glad that they’re on friendly
terms now⁠—”
“Maybe more than friendly,” I muttered.
“Really?”
“Sheriff Cavanaugh had his arm wrapped around Portia’s waist the entire visit. And she kept putting her head on his shoulder.”
Major made fists with both hands. “Look, if they’re able to repair their relationship and come back together, that’s great.
Fantastic, even,” he said, far too dryly. “But Hen never got over tearing them apart.”
“That wasn’t his fault.”
“I know,” Major snarled. “I’ve always known that. Hendrix, though… remember what he called himself when they got
divorced?”
I grimaced. “The destroyer of love.”
“And who would think they could fall in love and make something last while believing that about themselves?” he asked, far
too reasonably.
I clenched my jaw, hating the harsh buzz behind my nose and eyes, the one that signaled tears. Having emotions this close to the
surface was frustrating as hell. I took a few slow breaths, only looking at Major when I knew I could hold it together. “Even if
he thought he was worthy of a relationship, it wouldn’t matter. I’m clearly not his type.”
“How could a man who’s never opened himself up to the possibility of a relationship know his type?” Major asked. “He’s pan.
He’s on the record, both with us personally and in public, saying that he’s only ever interested in a person’s vibe.”
I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it, not sure I wanted to continue with this conversation. After a moment, Major
asked, “Can we talk about the fact that it’s a Saturday morning and you’re dressed like you’re about to go into the office?”
Touching my naked throat, I shook my head. “I always wear a tie to the office.”
Major shook his head. “Between this and the unrequited roommate situation, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re not a masochist.
You can’t even relax properly. Hell, I used to make fun of your high-end athleisure wear when you stayed here, but that was
better than whatever this is.”
“Nobody says anything when Beckett wears his collar every-fucking-where,” I grumbled.
“That’s because being a preacher, a spiritual leader, is in his bones. Now, I know you’re way more fashionable than me”—
Major gestured to his T-shirt and sweatpants, which I thought looked just fine on him—“but even fashionable people relax.
What is going on?”
That painful feeling in my nose returned, and a single stupid tear tracked its way down my cheek. I couldn’t speak for a few
minutes, but Major waited.
Finally, the words came to me. “I do dress casually when I’m home by myself. But living with Hen is so much harder than I
thought it would be, and the clothes remind me not to let it get too personal, you know?”
“And why don’t you want it to get too personal?”
“He calls me Agnes,” I said.
Major chuckled. “Yeah, I heard him do it the other day. Pretty funny.”
I blinked, and a few more tears escaped.
“Unless it’s not,” Major said, moving onto the couch next to me. He held out his hand. I grabbed it, and he squeezed my fingers
gently.
“It’s another sign that he won’t ever think of me in a romantic way. And I knew if I let him see the less rigid side of me, he’d do
that thing he does, and I can’t⁠—”
“What thing?”
“That thing. You know, when he sort of flirts with all of us? It doesn’t mean anything, it’s not serious. He has that smirk, you
know?”
Major rubbed his beard. “He’s never flirted with me, intentionally or otherwise. I’ve never been on the receiving end of his
smirk, I can tell you that.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to do with that information. “When I get a smirk from him, it makes my heart and head do very stupid
things. As long as he’s calling me Agnes, though, maybe I can hold on to the last remaining shred of my dignity.”
Major considered my words. Scooting back, he angled himself to face me. “So you’re saying if you allowed yourself to relax
around him, if you allowed him to see you, to do whatever this flirty thing is… you’d give in to… what? The temptation to flirt
back?”
“I’d have him bent over the couch in two seconds flat,” I admitted far too quickly. “And he’d let me. Just the one time, though.”
“What do you mean? You’d fuck him, and he’d kick you out?”
I lifted a shoulder. “He’d be nicer than that, but basically, yeah, I think that’s exactly what he’d do.”
Major tapped my forehead. “Do you really think he’d throw out the guy who’s taking such good care of him?”
“He fights me at every turn, Major. If he let me stay after that, it would be because I’m the only person available.”
“Portia works from home. And the sheriff’s schedule would no doubt allow him to check in on his son throughout the day. So
why is Hen not staying with one of his parents?”
“Who wants their parents to take care of them? Besides, now that they might be getting back together, it’d probably feel pretty
weird for him.”
“Okay, that makes some sense. But why aren’t any of us surprised that it ended up with you and him at the cabin?”
“How the hell would I know that?”
“I’ll tell you why. You’re the one who keeps after him the most. If he doesn’t respond in the group chat, you get on him. Every
time he’s in town, you examine him like a mother monkey examining her baby, and you comment when you think he doesn’t look
like he’s had enough sleep.”
“Which is why he calls me Agnes.”
“He does, but he still lets you take care of him, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then. All I’m saying is… maybe it’s not as hopeless as you think.”
I shook my head. “I can’t afford to think like that. It hurts too much.”
“I understand. But I’m gonna ask you to do me a huge favor.”
“What?”
“Be careful with your heart, Sawyer, but maybe stop guarding it so much. Go change into something more comfortable, and just
live in that goddamn cabin. Even if nothing romantic comes of it, at least figure out who you are.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he kept going. “You might have the other guys fooled, but I know you, and this corporate attire
bullshit you’ve got going on is a lie. Sure, you love a good suit. Who doesn’t? But you look like you’re about to go out of your
skin because you’re not wearing a tie. You’ve crossed the line into ridiculous, and I say enough. Enough.”
I dropped my face into my hands, annoyed when my fingers encountered wetness. “Okay.”
“Am I interrupting something?” Leo asked as he walked in.
I dashed away the tears while Major said, “No. Just having a sensitive conversation.”
“Oh, is Sawyer upset because you told him how you feel about Ren?”
Both of us gaped at him for a moment before I turned to Major. “What is he talking about?”
Major shook his head. “Not a clue.”
Leo snorted. “Okay, fine. If you’re not in love with him, why do you keep giving him your strawberry preserves?”
That brought Major up short. He shifted uncomfortably. “I’m being nice.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’ve never given me a jar of your preserves.”
Leo snorted, and Major rolled his eyes. “Oh, Jesus. Not you, too.”
Another random document with
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 jour ney eight leaped

(f ish) (l og) (st ream)

w ish ed fr og s d ream ed

On the steep hillside grew a tall ash tree.

Right on the bank of the rushing brook it grew.
Its branches spread far out across the little stream.

Its leaves looked down into the flashing water.

There, when the sun shone brightly, they saw leaves looking up at
them.
They called these “water leaves.”
The little tree leaves wished to go to the water leaves.
Many of them had already fluttered down.
But one leaf, very young, could not let go her hold of the twig.
At last a raging wind tore away the little leaf.
Over and over she turned.
Down, down, down, she fell.
She was so afraid the wind would carry her away.
But the friendly stream leaped up the rocks to meet her.
It bore her away, swiftly but gently.
The little leaf was afraid. She was lonesome.
The dear little “water leaves” were nowhere to be seen.
“Don’t be afraid, little leaf,” murmured the kind brook.
“I will give you a fine ride.
And I’ll talk to you all the time.
I’ll tell you all about the things we pass.
Here we are, already in the meadow.
Now I don’t have to hurry.
See the pretty flowers peeping over my banks.
They all love me.
I give them cool water to drink.

Here we go past the old mossy log.

Just see the frogs on it!
They are all in a row.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, of them!
They love me, too.
When anything makes them afraid, they leap into me.
They hide in some of my deep pools.
Here is the shady woodland.
Now I glide more slowly.
Soon I shall meet the great river.
I will not carry you into it.
For there you would be afraid.
I will land you here with lots of other leaves.”
And the stream pushed her gently upon the low bank of sand.
“Good-by,” he murmured; “good-by, little leaf.”
And the little leaf lay quietly thinking.
How many different things she had seen!
She never dreamed there were so many things in the whole world.

SWEET AND LOW

 west ern (p ea)
roll ing s ea
fa ther br ea the

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west,
Under the silver moon;
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

—Tennyson.
 SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP!

(dr ess)
gu ess
shep herd ess

Sleep, baby, sleep!

Thy father watches his sheep;
Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree,
And down comes a little dream on thee.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!

 The large stars are the sheep;
The little stars are the lambs, I guess;
The gentle moon is the shepherdess.
Sleep, baby, sleep!

— From the German.

STARS AND DAISIES

(t alk) di a mond
w alk

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are,
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.

Do you know what daisies are?

Do you know what stars are?
I will tell you what I think.
At night we see the stars shining in the sky.
There are so very many of them, more than we can count.
I think the sky is a beautiful meadow.
And the stars are little white daisies growing in the sky meadow.

Sometimes the moon comes into the meadow.

She is a beautiful lady.
All night she walks among the flowers.
She gathers the little sky daisies.
In the morning we cannot see the stars.
Where are they?
In the meadow near our home are many bright-eyed daisies.
There are so very many of them, more than we can count.
How did they get there?
Where did they come from?
Daisies look like stars, you know.
 So I think the lady moon threw them down from the sky.

LADY MOON

rov ing pale

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?

Over the sea.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me.

Are you not tired with rolling, and never

Resting to sleep?
Why look so pale and so sad, as forever
Wishing to weep?

Ask me not this, little child, if you love me;

You are too bold;
I must obey my dear Father above me,
And do as I’m told.

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?

Over the sea.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me.

—Lord Houghton.
With Nature’s Children
 THE LITTLE SHEPHERDESS

soft awoke (s eek)

taste lost ch eek

Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep

And can’t tell where to find them;
Leave them alone and they’ll come home
Bringing their tails behind them.
 One morning a pretty little shepherdess drove her flock of sheep to
the meadow. There she watched them while they ate the fresh,
green grass. How sweet it tasted to the hungry sheep!
A large dog went with the shepherdess to help care for the sheep.
He was the shepherd.
The shepherd let no lamb go astray. If one got too far from the
flock, Mr. Shepherd ran after him.
“Bow-wow! Go back!” cried the shepherd.
The shepherdess took good care of her flock, too. She led them
where the grass was greenest and sweetest.
When noon came all the sheep had eaten enough. So they lay
down quietly in the cool shade of some old oak trees. Little Bo-peep
lay down too, with her good shepherd dog beside her.
How cool and still it was there! Little Bo-peep could hear only the
gentle rustling of the leaves overhead. She could feel only the soft
wind on her cheek.
The wind blew more and more softly; the leaves rustled more and
more gently. Soon little Bo-peep was fast asleep.
“Bo-peep, Bo-peep, where are you?”
“Bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow-wow!”
“Bo-peep, Bo-peep!”
 Little Bo-peep awoke with a start. She sat upright, her eyes wide
open. Not a sheep could she see. Her dog was not beside her. It was
dark; the stars were twinkling overhead. How frightened the little
shepherdess was!
“Bow-wow!”
“Bo-peep, Bo-peep! Where are you, child?” Surely that was her
mother’s voice.
“Here, mother, here I am, under the big oak tree!” called Bo-peep.
Up rushed the dog, and mother followed close behind.
“Where are my sheep, mother? I fear they are lost.”
“Where is my little Bo-peep? I feared she was lost.”
“Here is your Bo-peep, dear mother. How long I must have slept!”
“Your sheep are all safe at home. Old Rover drove them in long
ago.”
This is the way Bo-peep lost her sheep; this is the way she found
them. And this is the way Bo-peep was lost; and this is the way she
was found.
 DISCONTENT

(l azy) (b ear) (g ather)

cr azy w ear ing r ather

swal lows (g ave) per haps

s ave
to geth er br ave ly hon est

pleas ant June pas sion

dull er col or

Down in the field, one day in June,

The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one, who tried to hide herself,
And drooped—that pleasant weather.
A robin, who had flown too high
And felt a little lazy,
Was resting near a buttercup,
Who wished she were a daisy.

For daisies grow so trim and tall;

She always had a passion
For wearing frills around her neck,
In just the daisies’ fashion.

And buttercups must always be

The same old, tiresome color,
While daisies dress in gold and white,
Although their gold is duller.

“Dear robin,” said this sad young flower,

“Perhaps you’d not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me
Some day, when you are flying.”

“You silly thing,” the robin said,

“I think you must be crazy;
I’d rather be my honest self
Than any made-up daisy.

You’re nicer in your own bright gown;

The little children love you;
Be the best buttercup you can,
And think no flower above you.

Though swallows leave me out of sight,

We’d better keep our places.
Perhaps the world would go all wrong,
With one too many daisies.

Look bravely up into the sky,

And be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup
Just here, where you are growing.”

—Sarah Orne Jewett.

BELLING THE CAT

sn ug life st eal
d ug pounce m eal

aw oke h ole g ood

sp oke st ole st ood

fam i ly warn ing straight

A family of rats had their home in a barn.

They made many snug nests in the warm hay.
They dug holes through the hay from nest to nest.
 They ran in and out and all about the barn. They had nothing to
fear.
When they were hungry they could always find nice grain in the
stalls. They became very fat.
And they were as happy a family of rats as one could wish to see.
But one day a big black cat found the rats’ barn.
That was a sad day for the rat family!
This cat was not fat and he was not happy.
He was very thin, very cross, and very hungry.

One thing he liked to eat best of all things in the world—rats.

How he did love nice, fat, happy rats! At last he had found them, a
whole big family of them!
This hungry, greedy cat now had rat for breakfast, rat for dinner,
and rat for supper. And sometimes he had rat between meals.
Very soon this cat began to grow fat and happy.
But happy cats make unhappy rats. While this cat grew fat, these
rats grew thin.
 Yet in the stalls there was just as much grain as ever. But it was
only a very hungry rat that dared go for it. For no rat could tell when
the cat might pounce upon him.
That sly cat stole about without a sound.
The most watchful rat could hear nothing, could see no living
thing.
Then, pounce! The wicked cat’s claws held him fast.
So, many a poor rat went to the stall, and never came back. And
the rat family was growing smaller day by day.
At last the wise old rats saw that something must be done. So they
called a meeting of the whole family of rats, as many as were still
alive.
When all had come together in a safe place and were still, the
oldest and wisest rat rose up on his hind legs.
He stood up very straight, very tall, and very thin.
“My dear brothers and sisters, my dear children and
grandchildren!” began the wise old rat.
 “You all know the one fear of our lives.” Every rat trembled.
“That wicked cat has grown fat and sleek feeding on your brothers,
your mothers, your wives, and your children.
No one of you knows when his turn may come to make a meal for
that ever hungry monster.
He steals upon you without warning.
He is never seen, he is never heard, until it is too late.
But you were not called together to hear what you already know
only too well.

You were called here to do something to make your lives safer and
happier.
What can be done? Who has a plan?”
The old rat waited.
All the other rats looked from one to another, but no one spoke.
“Well, then,” said the wise old rat at last, “listen to me.
If we only knew where the cat was, we could not be caught. If we
could only hear him coming, we might get out of his reach.
Now, my plan is this. We will hang a bell to that cat’s neck.”
“The very thing! Hurrah! Hurrah!” cried all the rats together.
“Why haven’t we thought of that before?
 No more of us will go to make dinners for that old cat.
Now, for all the corn we can eat!”
And away sprang the hungry rats for the stalls.
“Stop! Stop!” cried the wise old rat. “Back to your places!
The bell isn’t on the cat’s neck yet.”
Slowly and sadly the starving rats settled back.
“Now,” the old rat went on, “who will tie the bell around the cat’s
neck?”

“Not I! Not I! Not I!” squeaked the poor frightened rats.

And they trembled all over at the very thought.
Then they sat very still and looked at each other.
Oh! how hungry they were! How sweet that yellow corn in the stall
would taste.
One by one they began to steal away softly.
Where do you think they were going?
Rat families still live in barns.
Cats still feed upon them.
But no rat has ever tried to make life safer by belling a cat.