Chapter 2

Bryan Gillespie despised having his picture taken. As a child, he'd hated posing for Christmas cards with his parents and brother because all of the forced holiday cheer and dumb matching outfits. He'd abhorred getting dressed up once a year for school pictures and forcing a smile when he'd rather be in gym class kicking ass at floor hockey. His first publicity shots had been another kind of nightmare best left unremembered. Forget the mugshot that had haunted him from the time of his arrest to his sentencing hearing—not that he'd posed so much as glared in various directions.

Posing for pictures was exactly that: posing. Being false, presenting something inauthentic. An image for the rest of the world to see and judge that had nothing to do with the real him.

Just like the state ID photo he'd just taken for his new North Carolina identification card. His old Tennessee license had expired while he was in prison, and he needed some sort of ID other than his passport to move around the state while he got his life back together. There was no reason to go for a full license when he had no car, no liability insurance, and no plans to get on an airplane anytime in the near future. Or the distant future.

His days of traveling across the US and parts of both Europe and Asia with a one-hit-wonder, country rock band were over. Over, under, and buried beneath years of regrets.

The lady who helped him through the process of getting his ID had given his information a long look, and then she stared at him long enough for him to wonder if she recognized him from his band days. She didn't bring it up or ask, though; she simply told him to face one side of the partition wall, focus on an X and wait. No warning, so he had no idea what expression he'd be making on his new ID. Whatever. He'd always hated his picture, no matter what.

His younger brother Patrick had dropped him off thirty minutes before his appointment time, and he'd offered to sit with him. As much as Bryan would have loved the company, he didn't need them both hanging around the NCDMV for an unknown amount of time, bored out of their skulls. So Bryan texted when the process was finally done and listened to music on his phone, earbuds in, while he waited for Patrick to return.

Bryan had offered to take a ride share both to and from the DMV, but Patrick insisted he didn't mind playing chauffeur today, since he didn't have a substitute teaching job. Between subbing in multiple districts and a few music tutoring students, Patrick was usually busy five days a week and some evenings. And even though Patrick and Bryan were neighbors, sharing a large rental property, Patrick had a son and boyfriend to go home to every night.

Each minute Bryan got to spend with his baby brother was a gift, even if it was doing something as simple as driving across town.

The February afternoon air had a bite to it but Bryan wasn't cold in his fleece hoodie, a Christmas gift from Patrick's boyfriend Russell. Most of the clothes Patrick had stored for Bryan during his five-year incarceration were too small or had gotten mildewed, thanks to a small leak in Mom's old storage unit. Bryan had spent a lot of time in area thrift stores the first two weeks after his release, trying to recreate a small wardrobe that was only mildly outdated.

Maybe his ex, Tracy, had hated wearing the same outfit twice while performing, but Bryan had never been more at home than in his faded Levi's and a soft t-shirt. Exactly what he wore today under his hoodie.

His cell buzzed. Bryan checked the text from his boss, Otis Gates, reminding him their crew was working on a different house tomorrow. He'd hated taking the afternoon off to get his ID squared away, but Otis was the softest hard-ass Bryan had ever worked for. An ex-con who'd worked his ass off for twenty years to prove himself, Otis was a fan of giving people just out of prison second (and once, third) chances. He'd cuss your ass out if you made a mistake on-site, and then he'd sit with you in the emergency room if you accidentally nailed your hand to a stud (not Bryan, but he'd heard the story).

Otis also worked Bryan's schedule around his twice-monthly check-ins with his parole officer, as well as any random urine tests Bryan was required to take. And each one had been clean, thank you very much. Alcohol had only ever gotten Bryan in trouble, and he had no desire to go back to prison for any reason—except maybe in defense of his loved ones, like the first time.

The Reynolds DMV office was just off a busy, four-lane thoroughfare, with a private parking lot that bordered a neighborhood favored by students from nearby Reynolds College. Which meant bars and burger joints, liquor stores, cheap retail shops, and folks hustling everything street-side from loose cigarettes to illegal drugs to their own time and bodies. Bryan paced on the side of the lot farthest from that area, disinterested in any temptations.

He still had two months left of his six-month probation. And even after he was free of check-ins and urine tests, Bryan knew how much he had to lose.

Some kid in a green sweatshirt and no obvious acquaintance with a hairbrush ambled across the parking lot toward the office's main entrance. Bryan only half-paid attention to the teen, until he veered suddenly in Bryan's direction, hands deep in his pockets, eyes a little too wild for comfort. Bryan tried to wander away without being too obvious, heading toward a strip of mulch and young, leafless trees between this lot and an empty one. He even pretended to text.

The young dealer didn't take the hint, and even over the music on his earbuds, Bryan plainly heard him ask, "Hey, man, you need anything?"

"Nah, brother, I'm cool," Bryan replied automatically, hating the reaction. But in prison, ignoring a direct question was considered disrespectful, and he'd earned a few unwanted beatings by trying to keep his head down. Then he'd learned to defend himself, not only physically but verbally.

"You sure? Winter nights get lonely."

"I've got company at home. Not interested." A familiar flash of blue entered the parking lot, and his knot of anxiety loosened. Patrick. "Gotta go, ride's here."

The kid kept his distance while Bryan climbed into the passenger side of Patrick's car, out of the cold and into stifling heat, and he was glad for the barrier of a steel and glass door. Less against the distraction of either the drugs or sex the stranger was offering, than against the temptation of an hour with another warm body naked against his.

It had been too fucking long since he'd experienced any true intimacy and he missed it. Craved it, actually, but it seemed like the only place to meet anyone in Reynolds was a bar, and Bryan was avoiding bars at all costs right now. And he was still too good a friend with his own left hand to stoop to hookup apps.

"Hey, everything good to go?" Patrick asked. Six years younger and skinny as a rail, he did not look like a twenty-eight-year-old music teacher and father of an almost-eight-year-old. He didn't look much older than the guy who'd just tried to sell Bryan something, but Patrick carried a hell of a lot on his shockingly strong shoulders.

"Yeah, they'll mail the ID in a few weeks," Bryan replied. "Guess it's a good thing I still had an unexpired passport from my touring days to go along with my social security card, so I could get my job now, instead of having to wait."

"And you've got just enough gray in your hair that you won't be carded in a bar." Patrick's grin disappeared as he navigated the parking lot. "Sorry, bad joke."

"I mean, you aren't wrong about the gray." Just about him making any purchase that required carding. "Don't worry, you'll get yours as soon as Robbie is a teenager."

"Thanks for reminding me." Patrick paused at a stop sign before making a right onto the main drag through town. "You mind if we swing by a bakery on the way home? I need to order Frog's birthday cake. Meant to do it after I dropped you off but I got distracted."

Bryan smirked at the dashboard. The distraction was likely a text from his boyfriend Russell that had led Patrick right back to their shared home, into the bedroom, and Patrick had only managed to extricate himself when Bryan texted to be picked up. Not that he cared that his little brother was getting laid regularly by a pretty terrific guy who loved Patrick and Robbie equally, because Patrick more than deserved it.

When Bryan was arrested six years ago for assault, Patrick had been an anxious kid with a baby to care for, who was unable to stand up for himself. Now Patrick was a confident dad with a partner, a burgeoning career, more music talent in his pinkie finger than Bryan had in his entire body, and Bryan couldn't be happier for him. Maybe he was a tiny bit jealous, but definitely happy.

"We can order the cake, no problem," Bryan replied. "Honestly wouldn't mind a sweet treat after sitting an hour in that stale waiting room."

"Did the agent get you to smile for your ID photo?"

"I had no idea when she was taking it, so my expression is either one of utter boredom or slight discomfort. My ass hurt from sitting on those plastic chairs for so long."

Patrick chuckled. "Can't wait to see it then."

"You are never seeing it. No one is ever seeing it unless absolutely necessary by law."

"Spoilsport. Russ says this place we're going to makes amazing kolaches and made me promise to bring some home."

"Kolache? Is that anything like a Tamagotchi?"

"Oh, yeah, absolutely alike, except one is a Polish pastry filled with fruit, and the other one is a digital keychain pet that went out of style when I was in elementary school."

Bryan shrugged and watched the sprawling college town whiz by. "Sorry, my knowledge of Polish food is lacking, beyond those potato-filled things Mom would sometimes buy frozen and make as a treat."

"Pierogies. Yeah, I used to love those. Dad hated them." Patrick's hands flexed around the steering wheel; Bryan didn't miss the way his smile drooped. "I made them for Frog once, but he wasn't a fan. I think potatoes were a no-no food that month."

One of the many things Bryan was struggling to understand about Patrick's life now was the way he parented his son Robbie, who preferred to go by the nickname Frog. Patrick had allowed a seven-year-old to dye his hair bright green, change his name, and his best friend was a large bearded dragon named Bruno. Patrick catered to Robbie's odd eating habits, too, instead of doing what their parents had done, which was make them eat what Mom put on the table or they went to bed hungry.

Bryan didn't understand it, but he knew better than to question Patrick's methods. Bryan had given away the right to interfere when he signed over his paternal rights to Robbie. Robbie's mother Tracy had already given up her rights, and Bryan was going away for five years minimum. Patrick had been the best person to raise Robbie, and whenever he saw the pair together (green hair aside), their connection and affection reaffirmed to Bryan that he'd made the right choice for all three of them.

He was simply Uncle Bryan, who had an opinion, but who didn't have any actual say in how Robbie the Frog was being raised.

"Well, then," Bryan said, dragging his thoughts out of the past, "I guess we're all trying kolaches tonight. What kind of cake are you getting Robbie?"

"What else? Frog-shaped with the colors of the reed frog. At first he wanted a dart frog, but I convinced him that other kids might not want to eat icing inspired by something poisonous."

"Good call. I'm surprised Russell couldn't build one for him like they built his Halloween costume last fall."

"Cakes and puppets are not the same thing. Russ is a decent cook but he's not much of a baker. You saw how our first attempts at Christmas cookies turned out. Pre-made dough saved us from having an empty plate for Santa this year."

"Fair point." Despite the simple recipe on the back of the chocolate chip bag, the cookies still ended up being one large, flat, chewy mess that was burned on the edges and gooey in the middle. Russell had immediately gone to the store and brought back the refrigerated stuff that turned out to be pretty idiot-proof.

Instead of its own shop or even a corner of a chain grocery store, their bakery destination was tucked in the back of a place Bryan had never heard of called Byler's Fresh Market. The sign's silhouette suggested an Amish horse-drawn buggy, but there weren't any Amish communities around Reynolds. And their parking lot was packed, so it took Patrick a minute to find a spot.

The moment they walked in through the automatic doors, Bryan's nose was assaulted with the pungent aromas of coffee, spices and roasting meat, and beneath it a subtle layer of sugar. Just from the entrance, he saw a deli and meat counter full of all sorts of fresh steaks and sausages, a produce section, a cheese counter, and what looked like a combination coffee shop and ice cream bar. And the place went deeper.

"Wow," Bryan said.

"Isn't it cool?" Patrick led them to the left and down an aisle crowded with shoppers and their carts. "Angelo turned me onto it a couple of weeks ago when I first brought up Frog's birthday cake. He swears by this place and loves to shop here."

Bryan eyeballed the price-per-pound on a Frenched rack of lamb and let out a low whistle. "I guess if you can afford it." And the way Angelo bragged about the houses he renovated and the budgets for some of them, the guy was loaded.

"Do you want to explore while I order the cake?"

"Nah, I'll stick with you." Even though they both had cell phones, he suspected it was all too easy to get lost in this place and drop an easy hundred on overpriced food you didn't really need. Then again, he hadn't eaten anything more upscale than roast beef on Christmas day in the last six years. His days of enjoying Wagyu burgers with black truffle aioli were long gone.

The bakery had a long glass display counter full of colorful treats. Patrick grabbed a numbered ticket, and Bryan salivated over the sugary offerings while they waited their turn. He was a sucker for anything with good peanut butter, and his gaze went immediately to a huge chocolate cake with layers of peanut butter crème, peanut butter frosting, and coated with chopped peanut butter cups. Right below it was a nearly identical version but in pie form, and both were sold by the slice.

Heaven.

Three people worked the counter: an elderly man and woman, and a blonde woman about his and Patrick's ages. She ended up calling their number, introduced herself as Leah, and when Patrick said what he wanted, she pulled them around to the side where they had a laminated book of their specialty cakes. Bryan watched the saleslady as she spoke and smiled, asking Patrick questions about Robbie and what cake flavors he loved. Leah was pretty and flirty, and Patrick was amusingly unaware.

She seemed to pick up on those vibes, and once she'd completed the order form with Patrick, turned that lovely, bright smile onto Bryan. "And what can I help you with today?"

"I would love to go home tonight with somethin' beautiful and sweet," Bryan replied, laying on his own accent a bit thickly.

"You don't say?" She straightened her shoulders, which pushed her apron-covered cleavage out a bit more enticingly. "Would you like a sample? Of our praline coffee cake, that is. It's today's free sample pastry."

"I think I'd love to try it. So would my brother Patrick. I'm Bryan, by the way."

Leah grinned. "Then let me get you two handsome brothers some samples."

"She's cute," Patrick whispered after Leah walked away.

"Yeah." The right kind of cute and probably taken, but Bryan hadn't openly flirted with anyone in years and he missed the company of pretty ladies. Especially pretty ladies who didn't seem to know who he'd been once. Might as well try and polish some of the tarnish off his skills.

"So you're what? Going to try and pick up the bakery girl?"

"Prolly won't work. Even if she's single and agrees to a date, it won't go past her asking what I've been doing for the last six months."

"Then only tell her about the last four months. Say you came to Reynolds to start over and give construction a try. You don't have to tell the whole truth on a first date."

"If it even goes that far." Which he doubted.

Leah returned with two white napkins, each containing a small square of gooey coffee cake. "Go on, boys, give that a try."

Patrick took his without a word. Bryan maintained eye contact with Leah while he ate the sweet morsel, impressed it was still moist this late in the day. He chewed slowly and even licked his lips, and when Leah brushed an imaginary crumb off her apron, Bryan clocked her ring finger. Empty. Didn't discount a boyfriend, though, and he wasn't into poaching.

"This is delicious," Bryan said. "But I have to admit, I had my eye on somethin' else."

"Oh yeah?" Leah grinned. "The blondies are really good today."

No doubt."I'd love to take home a slice of that peanut butter pie. And maybe two forks, if you've got plastic cutlery."

"Two forks, huh? Gonna share with your brother?"

"Only if no one else prettier comes along who wants a bite."

"Hmm." She wiggled both eyebrows at him. "Let me wrap up that pie slice for you and then see about those forks."

Bryan had no idea if she was just playing along with his fork metaphor, or the little bakery counter actually gave them out to customers. If he had any luck left, the forks would come with her phone number and an invitation to call or text once she got off work. Patrick stood an arm's reach away, attention on his phone, either actually texting or pretending to while eavesdropping on Bryan's rusty attempts at flirting.

As much as he longed for a few hours alone in a bedroom with a willing partner, he never wanted to be the guy he was before prison. The guy who was so in love with Tracy he looked away from her infidelities and ignored his own conscience when their band fleeced Patrick of millions of dollars and his right to fame. He didn't want to be the guy who slept with groupies because fame practically hand-delivered them to his bed, or those fuzzy post-band months between quitting to raise Robbie and then being arrested, when he was often too drunk to realize who he was sleeping with.

Leah returned with a white plastic bag and tilted her head toward the register. Bryan joined her there, wallet in hand. She held open the bag so he could peer inside. A clear container with the pie, two cellophane-wrapped utensil sets, and a slip of paper with an obvious telephone number scribbled on it. Bryan met her gaze and smiled. She winked.

After paying cash for his pie and stuffing some bills into a tip jar, Bryan followed Patrick on a long circuit of the rest of the market. Patrons and employees alike seemed happy and boisterous, as if simply being there improved their mood and made life worth living. Bryan hadn't felt like that in a long damned time, not since his last live, sold-out performance. He missed that feeling but had no idea how to go about capturing it again.

Finish his parole period first. Dream about being joyful again later.

Part of his conditional release was attending AA meetings, and while he liked certain tenets, like taking life one day at a time, he bristled at all the religious undertones. No higher power for him, just one day at a time, and make amends to the people he'd hurt. Not literally hurt, like that piece of shit Lawrence he'd beaten to a pulp six years ago. He couldn't make amends to his late mother. No, his focus was on doing his best for his brother and "nephew."

But damn if he wouldn't love a date with a pretty girl. Or a hot guy, if one caught his eye. Bryan had known he was bisexual since he was fifteen, but with two Evangelical parents, twice-weekly church outings, summer Bible camps, and a house full of gospel singing, he hadn't dared act on his attraction to other boys until he'd moved out. Moved out to pursue his own dreams and live his own life, and he'd never once considered that Patrick had been going through similar, more awful struggles as he entered his own teen years.

Bryan had so much to make up for.

Before they left the market, Patrick bought a sample bag of artisan coffee for Russell, and a lime lollipop with a real cricket inside for Robbie's birthday this weekend. Bryan still hadn't bought a single thing for Robbie and didn't know what to get other than a gift card to a local pet store for Bruno's supplies, like at Christmas. Robbie was kind and polite and eager to please, but Bryan didn't know as much about him as he'd like.

Maybe a gift card would be good enough for this birthday. He could do something more extravagant next year, after they knew each other better and after Bryan had built up a decent savings. His current paycheck didn't go far after rent (he'd signed an official lease with Angelo Voltini for the carriage house so he had proof of residence for his state ID) and other expenses, so treats like an eight-dollar slice of pie were exactly that: treats. And rare.

"So you got her number, right?" Patrick asked when they were about halfway home. "Are you going to call her?"

"Yes." Bryan took out the slip of paper and put the number in his phone in case he accidentally lost it. Leah was a pretty name. "Hopefully, she likes coffee, because I'm not keen on meeting at a bar and explaining why I'm ordering a Sprite."

"Dude, you're a recovering alcoholic, not a serial killer. It's a disease that's way more understood now than even six years ago. Give her a chance to give you a chance, instead of deciding right away it's going to crash and burn."

He grunted and retied the bag so the sight of that pie didn't taunt him anymore. "You're right. Guess I'm not used to seeing the best in people."

"Trust me, I get it. For a long time, it was easier to keep people at a distance because it seemed easier than getting hurt later. If I still did that, I never would have gotten with Russ. I wouldn't have let him into our lives, and I have never been happier than I am now. With Russ and Frog and you in my life."

"I'm glad you're happy." He was also glad that Patrick was cruising along and concentrating on the road, instead of studying Bryan like he did when he thought Bryan wasn't paying attention. "Sometimes people surprise you. In a good way."

"Maybe Leah will surprise you in a good way."

"Maybe."

Maybe not.