by J. P. Oliver
It was my favorite season, fall. I’d spent too many autumns in Centennial Park or riding my sweet Harley around the parkways on the outskirts of town, all in a subconscious attempt to get a taste of what home was like, I figure.
But nothing compared to the real thing, the smell of it; the churned dirt and bark and the Tennessee air. I didn’t think I was homesick for it till I turned up, till it was all around me.
I glanced at the Harley, figuring I could unload her later.
Up a couple steps, and my hand hovered; should I knock? Felt weird to knock on a place I used to live in, so instead I just nudged the door open enough to let myself linger in the doorway, calling, “Mom? Pops? You all around—”
“Adrian?”
Yup. They were around.
Mom was upon me first, eyes wide. The age around them made me feel strange, as much a reminder of how long I’d been gone.
“Jesus, Adrian,” she huffed, pulling me into a tight hug. She was a petite thing, my mother, May Cole, but she could hug a gas line shut if she wanted to. “I heard a vehicle coming up the driveway, but I didn’t even know—God, what are you doing here?”
“What?” I asked. “Can’t stop by to say hey?”
“You could,” she laughed, adjusting her glasses; complete shock. “But the drive’s a long one from Nashville to North Creek.”
I shrugged, unzipping my leather jacket. “You all were always bugging me about moving back home, right?”
“So you’re moving back?”
I shot her a smile. “I didn’t say that.”
Mom pulled the rag off her shoulder and whipped it lightly at me. “Oh, stop. Good thing I made more than enough pasta—well, more than your father and I should be eating.”
“Oh, come on.” I nudged the front door shut behind me with my foot, pulling my mom into a side-hug. She only came up to my shoulder, and she still smelled like I remembered: like lilac hand lotion and a little bit of hairspray. “You look like you lost weight, Mom.”
She huffed, smiling as she pushed her glasses up her tiny nose.
“Pops home?”
“Out back,” she said, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Won’t he be surprised.”
We walked like that through the kitchen; this was the home I grew up in. It wasn’t much—my folks never had more than they really needed, nothing like the richer families in town; just a little split level on a couple acres in the woods, all white vinyl panel on the outside. The inside was just as white—not pristine in the way museums were white and clean, but a worn sort; lived-in. My mom had a thing for “dusty pink,” always thinking of it as more of a lifestyle than a color, so it was pervasive: dusty pink sofa, dusty pink welcome mat, dusty pink bathroom fixtures, dusty pink mugs and placemats.
She tossed the dusty pink rag back over her shoulder as she separated from me, detouring toward the stove where a tall pot was throwing off steam. “Out back. The shed. You know.”
I nodded and set my duffel down by the aluminum back door, which screeched as I pushed it open. The sound of it signaled to him, a form bent over in the open door of his shed.
“May?” he called.
I crossed my arms, leaning against the threshold, grinning. “It’s not May.”
He whipped around, literally dropping the toolbox in his hand, recognition sweeping over his face.
“Adrian?”
“Hey, Pops.”
He bounded across the lawn. It was the smooth sort of jog dads over fifty do, that’s just as much of a bounce as it is a step. He moved with pep and laughed as he pulled me in for a strong-armed hug.
Robert Cole wasn’t my biological father.
It was pretty obvious looking at us. He looked nothing like me or my mother. My mother was very short with glasses and stark black hair. We both had the same pale skin and green eyes, lean builds and small noses. Robert was stocky and thickly built. He had a long nose and was prematurely graying and had tanned skin from a childhood spent in sunny Florida.
My biological dad was some asshole I barely knew, a man of mystery even when he was around, which wasn’t often—and that was fine by me. When he was around, he made it his personal mission to make my mom’s and my life hell. Robert came after him and was more of a father to me than he’d ever been. A stepdad who stepped up, who raised me, who treated my mom right. The day my biological father left was the second-best day in my life; the day Robert came into it was the first.
“Hey, Pops,” I said again, hugging him back. “Long time no see, huh?”
He barked a laugh, patting me hard on the back. “Look at you. What are you doing here?”
I shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood.”
Pops shook his head, stepping past me inside. “Get your ass inside. Your mother’s made dinner and we’ve got plenty to talk about.”
My parents had a habit of talking.
Not in a rude way, but they were a couple of Chatty Cathys, practically made for each other in that respect. True silence was rare in my house. Tonight was no exception. They sat me down with a plate heaped high with pasta and Robert’s homemade sauce and dove into a police-style interrogation.
“What are you doing here?” they both asked.
“Is the business all right?” Mom asked, face twisting in concern. “Do you need money—”
“No, Mom,” I huffed, amused. “I don’t need money. The business is doing perfectly fine—”
“Is it all right that you left it, though?” Pops asked. “Nashville’s a long way away.”
“My business partner’s taking care of it. He’s a capable guy.” I realized just how little they knew about all that, about my entire life in Nashville. “We opened a second tattoo parlor, actually. We’re based in Brooklyn, but this one’s uptown. It’s doing even better than the original shop, actually.”
Mom laughed, clasping her hands. “Well, that’s fantastic.”
I easily spotted the question: if you’re doing so well there, then what are you doing here?
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I chuckled, setting my fork down on the empty plate. “I’m just here for a bit of an extended vacation, that’s all. I just wanted to get out of the city, and what better place than North Creek?”
Pops laughed, shaking his head. “You could have just said so, son. A call, even.”
“It’s a long drive, too,” my mother hummed. “Just for a vacation—you must have driven, right, with your Harley?”
“You brought the Harley?” Pops asked. Once I confirmed, he clapped and nodded approvingly; that was something we had in common: a love for a good, reliable ride, motorcycles in particular. “That’s my boy.”
“How long is this extended vacation?” Mom asked.
“Undetermined,” I said. “My partner’s fine with it. I’m just taking it easy; needed a break from everything. Is it fine if I stay here?”
“Of course,” my mother laughed, shooting me a look. “Hon, you never need to ask. You’ve always got a place here.”
She stood to gather all our empty plates, but I stood quicker, holding out a hand to stop her.
“Adrian?”
“I got it, Mom. You cooked.” I took the plates from her arms carefully. “...And I could have called.”
“I could get used to this.” She hummed happily as I took the dishes to the sink and started scrubbing. “Hon, if you keep this up, you can move right back in permanently.”
I got to work scrubbing the dusty pink plates as my mom and Robert chatted quietly, intimately at the kitchen table, like they probably did every night. As I listened to their low, happy voices, guilt needled gently in my chest.
Truth be told, I had money for a house or apartment, but staying at home seemed like the best option. I knew North Creek; gossip would spread all over town that I was back and buying up would only make my profile… bigger, which seemed like the wrong move if I was trying to lay low.
Probably, they deserved to know why, especially if I was hiding away
in their home. My folks always took such good care of me, always told me that being truthful was important—that our small family was a place of trust and honesty. But it felt impossible to tell them the truth plainly: that I was hiding out from a motorcycle gang called the Raptors, waiting for a certain misunderstanding to die down so I could show my face around the city safely again. Yeah, no, that would take some serious explaining.
“Adrian,” my mom called.
I turned to look at them where they sat beside one another, hands held over the tabletop.
I couldn’t tell them everything. I wouldn’t even know where to start.
“I was going to run out to the store to pick up a few things,” my mom said, her hand reluctantly untangling from my father’s. “Is there anything you want?”
“I’ll run down for you,” I said.
Mom cocked her head. “Really?”
“Yeah. I’ve got shit to pick up—”
“Language, Adrian.”
I shot her a look this time, which had her laughing and patting my arm.
“Hon, just because you’re thirty now doesn’t mean you get a free pass to swear under my roof, all right? You’re still my baby boy.”
“Yeah,” I huffed, drying my hands. “Your baby boy with two full sleeves and his own business…”
“You forgot about a hundred piercings and a Hot Topic dye-job,” Robert said.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He winked at me. “No problem, son.”
“Here.” My mother shuffled over with her dusty pink purse, passing me a handful of bills. “Get what you need, hon, it’ll be on the house, hm?”
“Sure.” I pressed the bills into my back pocket as I swung an arm into my leather jacket. It was old and worn soft, black and littered with patches. “And I’ll get something to make for dinner tomorrow, too.”
There were a few grocery stores in North Creek.
It was one of the only businesses that there were multiples of in the county. My family had always gone to one in particular—the cheaper one off the main drag that stayed open a little later than all the others, so it was just an old habit to go to that one instead of any other.
The crowd was thin considering the time of night. My folks were early eaters, so by the time I got down to the grocery store, most regular households were just starting dinner. Mostly it was uneventful. I was several aisles in and successfully unrecognized—or, at the very least, not approached by anyone interested in reconnecting—when I heard my name being called from the far end of the cereal aisle.
The man at the end of the aisle was approaching me with a small basket on his arm—his very capable-looking arm—and pointed at himself. “It’s Victor. Victor Savage.”
I set down the Count Chocula, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
“Hey,” I huffed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yeah, Victor. What’s up?”
“Not much,” he said, voice smooth and confident. “I thought I saw you when I came in.”
“Good thing it was me,” I huffed, grinning. “Otherwise this might’ve been embarrassing for you.”
He hummed, and the noise immediately did something for me.
Victor Savage had always been hot. Most of the Savage men and women were particularly hot—they had a reputation around town for owning about half of it and flirting with the rest—but I remembered him well from high school. He was a man twelve years my senior; I’d catch glimpses of him while running around with his younger brother, Zach, and their cousin, Wyatt Cross. In middle school, he intimidated me. In early high school, he confused me. In late high school, well, I would have gladly let him rock my world. He had always sort of been my teenage fantasy.
Dirty blond hair and brown eyes as deep and dark as coffee. He had a few good inches on me, all lean muscle in faded jeans and a button-up with the top few buttons loose—his end of the day, I just clocked out look, I guessed. He aged well and still looked as absolutely fuckable as he always looked, except—
“Nice sleeve,” I said, nodding to his left arm.
“Oh, yeah?” He lifted it, grinning. “It’s taken a while to get done, but…”
“Looks good,” I said.
I could have said any number of things, like telling him I was a tattoo artist, what a coincidence! I love tattoos and body art! Literally anything, but being around him so suddenly, and having it all go down in the cereal aisle at seven at night was… surreal. I was thrown off my game.
“Thanks,” he hummed. “You’ve got a few, too.”
“I do, yeah.” I pulled up the sleeve on my jacket to show off the most accessible one.
“Is that a—?”
“A ghost,” I huffed, grinning at the simple ghost on the web between my thumb and index finger. “Yeah. First tattoo I ever got. Was a dare in art school.”
Victor laughed, and then the silence settled in. It was time for one of us to talk, but there was only the dim overhead music and the occasional beep from self-check-out. It was just long enough to be awkward.
“So… you’re back in town?” he asked. I could literally see him grasping for something to talk about.
“Yeah, yeah.” I gripped the handle of the cart. “Not permanently. Just visiting. Extended vacation.”
“That’s good,” he said. “I bet your family missed you in DC.”
“No. Just Nashville, actually.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Again, the silence. The agonizing silence.
“Well—”
“I’d better—”
We both started speaking at the same time, and then both shut up at the same time.
I tried my hardest not to cringe.
“Sorry,” he exhaled, grinning.
“It’s cool. You’re good.” I pushed the cart back, nodding to him in recognition. “I oughta get going. My mom’s waiting on her chamomile tea. She can’t watch the eleven o’clock news without it. You know how it is.”
“Don’t I know it,” he hummed, backtracking the opposite way. “I’ll, uh… see you around, though.”
“You definitely will.”
We were both content to leave it at that, but as I turned back to my cart, he caught my attention one final time.
“Hey, Adrian.”
I glanced over my shoulder in time to see him give me a full once-over with his eyes. It was almost as tangible a feeling as having his hands run along my body, warmth blooming in my chest. Immediately, as I looked into his dark, kind eyes, I tried to remember when the last time I got laid was.
“Welcome back,” Victor said.
He turned, not even waiting for a response, and I let myself linger, eyes following that ass of his as he walked away. Forty-two, and he still absolutely had it.
I shook my head.
Stop it, I scolded, grabbing the Count Chocula off the shelf stealthily. You don’t need to be getting involved with anyone right now—not when you’re in such deep shit with the Raptors.
3
Victor
“Beth told me this place has been nuts.”
Kat scoffed, green eyes wide as she looked at me, incredulous. With the graceful flair of a practiced bartender, she poured a double whiskey on the rocks for me. “Fucking tell me about it,” she said, taking a sip—and not caring that I clicked my tongue disapprovingly, invoking what she insisted were ‘cousin privileges.’ “It’s great all these tourists are here—” and she whispered the word, so as not to offend any of the dozens and dozens currently packed into the Speakeasy, “—because, hey, it’s money, but Jesus Christ, I didn’t think I’d be the one bartending them.”
“Yeah,” I frowned, taking my drink. “What’s up with that?”
“Normally, I’d never think of stepping foot back here because you know I did my time, but Judy’s out sick and I’m covering until the replacement bartender gets in.” Someone waved a fiver at her down the bar and she shot me a pitiful look. “I’ll be back. This isn’t funny, quit laughing.”
I held up my hands in surrender, still laughing. “Sorry, sorry.”
It was late afternoon, so the rush was pretty impressive. I looked around the Speakeasy, seeing just what Kat had been talking about; business was booming. Just about every table was occupied with both familiar and unfamiliar faces; tourists and locals cohabitating and sharing in the spirit of the bar.
I couldn’t exactly blame the tourists. North Creek had a certain irresistible charm to it, and the Speakeasy was a natural magnet. A legitimate speakeasy, straight from the twenties, unchanged since then, a relic you could drink the night away in? Who could resist?
While all of this was new and exciting to them, this was home to me. I grew up running around the distillery and the town bars. I loved everything about it: the lacquered wood bar top, the little Mason jars of fresh garnishes, the soft evergreen of the vinyl seats and the chalkboard specials, the Prohibition poster and soft string lights.
“Christ,” Kat sighed, returning from the customer. “I’ve spent too much time in the office managing this place and the hotel. I’m not used to being on the floor anymore.”
“You’re losing your touch, Kat.”
“Fuck off,” she laughed, pouring herself a little shot. We clinked our glasses and she took it down easy, smooth. “Mm, speaking of managing, though—did you get my orders?”
The easiness I was starting to feel ebbed. “I did.”
“I know it’s a lot. More than usual, since the whole historical status leaked.”
“Yeah.” I shot her an apologetic grin. “I’m working on that. We’re expanding, but… it’s gonna take some time. And money.”
One of the tourists swept up at my left, sliding their empty glass across the bar.
“Excuse me,” they called to Kat politely. “Could I get another glass?”
Kat winked at me as she put on her customer service voice. “Of course, hon.”
It was a brief exchange that allowed me a brief respite, a moment of silence to let my eyes wander across the bar, across the sea of happy, chattering faces in the lowlight—catching the swinging door of the Speakeasy’s entrance. Maybe it was just luck. Maybe it was coincidence. But seeing Adrian Cole twice in the past twenty-four hours felt noteworthy.