2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

COTTON CANDY WAFFLES

On our way to Tallulah's town square, we drove past Fletcher Family Vineyard. I debated hurling myself out of Rivers' pickup and escaping into my childhood home, but he was going well over eighty-miles-per-hour. Being a delicate little thing with an aversion to agonizing pain, I quickly kicked that idea to the curb.

Jordan had mentioned they wanted to film a scene at Minnie's diner, a local hotspot catering to early-bird seniors and waffle-loving youths. The crew had left the airport fifteen minutes before we did, telling us they needed to set up the shot for our arrival. Rivers had agreed to take the long way into the city, but the scenic route only tacked another ten minutes onto the trip.

When we pulled into the town square, it was like being transported back to my youth. The road was made of red bricks. It was a stunning, Hallmark-like sight, but it made for a terribly uncomfortable ride. They'd been there since before I was born, each one higher or lower than the last. As we jutted and jolted our way down the square, I noticed volunteers swarming around like honeybees, setting up game booths and food trucks.

There were carnies erecting rides on the north side of the square, and an old favorite of mine stood out amongst the rest. The Tilt-a-Whirl. I didn't know what it was about the ride, but the constant thrusting and jerking around always made my stomach feel like it was doing somersaults beneath my skin. Next to it, there was a half-constructed Ferris wheel. I made a mental note to remind Jordan that I would sooner shove my tongue down Rivers Rivera's throat than step foot on it. Me and heights just didn't mix. Not after that nasty little mishap on Friendzone's farewell tour.

Do you know what it feels like to nosedive into a crowd of thousands of screaming girls after your safety harness snaps? Brian O'Hare does, and I love that about him. Still, the sight of his flailing arms spinning like a windmill was a sight that had never left me. High places had been a no-go for me ever since.

As Mr. Papadopoulos hissed at Jordan through the pet carrier, I continued gazing out the window, ignoring Rivers' unending and unrequested monologue. Small periwinkle paper lanterns decorated the light posts that squared around the courthouse, meant to emulate a muscadine grape.

"Tallulah is home to the world's largest muscadine orchard," Rivers told Jordan, who was leaning forward and hanging on his every word.

"It is?" Jordan said, dreamily.

We would be having a very serious discussion later. I refused to allow my best (only) friend to be seduced by my arch-rival.

"Yes, Rivers. We're well aware of my family's business."

Across from the courthouse, there was a string of stores. The first to catch my eye was a karate dojo. A man stood in the display window, wedging a Muscadine Madness shirt over a sparring dummy's body. Next door at Foote's Feet—a God- forsaken shoe store which seemed to specialize in women's orthopedic heels and hideous Jesus sandals, per the display rack in the window—Evelyn Foote was putting the final touches on a disastrous, oversized paper-mache business pump. Behind me, Jordan made a sound like he was choking, and when I turned around to scold him, he was staring at Minnie's diner with wide eyes.

Apparently, Minnie had assumed the role of the city's one-woman welcome wagon. In front of the diner, she'd strung up a jumbo-banner with my one-and-only solo album cover on it. Considering the entire project had been a colossal failure, I wasn't sure how she managed to get a copy of the artwork. I'd only sold a grand total of seven-hundred and seventy-three copies… in Saudi Arabia.

The picture was blown up so large you couldn't even make out my pixelated face, much less the words PHILLIP FIRECRACKER or METHODS TO MY MADNESS . I'd been reduced to a square blob of pinks and silvers, and the words 'Welcome Home' in Comic Sans font.

Rivers pulled into a parking space directly in front of the diner, letting the truck idle as he unbuckled his seatbelt and swiveled in my direction. Outside, Brenda/Carole was barking orders at the sound guy as she drew unnecessarily long plumes of vaporized nicotine into her lungs.

Jordan, being the absolute worst assistant this side of the Mason-Dixon line, hopped out of the backseat—almost tripping and breaking his neck thanks to the ungodly height of Rivers' pickup—leaving me alone with my childhood archnemesis.

"Phillip, I—"

"Thanks for the ride," I said, unlocking the door. The second I clicked the button, the lock swiveled shut. I slowly turned toward Rivers and glared. "Did you just lock me in your truck?"

"Listen, Firecracker. Before you go, I just wanted to say…" The surety which had filled his voice ever since our uninvited reunion had left him, and a rush of red heat flooded his cheeks. "I'm really sorry about that night. I never should have—"

No. Because hell no, we weren't discussing this. Not in his ridiculously cliché Ford F-150, not on the uneven red brick road, and absolutely not while I still had my mic pack turned on for the entire crew to hear. Again, I attempted to unlock my door, only to be thwarted by his quick fingers.

"I mean it. I'm sorry—"

"Don't worry about it," I cut him of, reaching over him and unlocking the door from the driver's side for emphasis. I regretted my choice of exit strategy almost immediately. With only inches separating us, his hand brushed against my chest, and his lips scraped against my stubble. I jerked away from him like he'd just slapped me.

"Phillip," he said, his voice shaking. "I just want—"

"I said, it's fine." I didn't give a damn what he'd wanted. The topic was not up for discussion. Not back then, and certainly not now. "It's not like you stuffed the ballot box." As soon as the words were out, I launched myself out of his truck.

I met Jordan at the door to Minnie's, where Papadop was already out of his carrier, staring inquisitively into the diner window. Wrapping my arm around Jordy's waist, I pulled him in for a side hug.

"You okay?" he whispered.

"I will be. I just didn't expect to see him."

He pulled away, but not before giving me a quick peck on the cheek. "There's a story in there. I won't pry, but if you need to talk about it, I'm here."

"I know." I squared my shoulders and plastered on another camera-ready smile. "Papadop, come." Patting my shoulder, I braced for impact. Once again, Papadop climbed me like a tree, perching himself on my shoulder.

When Jordan reached to open the door to Minnie's, he startled as Rivers' truck roared to life behind us. The sound that left the muffler was both overpowering and disorienting, causing Mr. Papadopoulos to turn on my shoulder and hiss. I glanced behind me, just in time to see Rivers roll down his window and flash me that trademark Rivers Rivera smile. Brawn, bravado, and traces of insincerity settled in the corners of his mouth.

"I'll be seeing you around, Firecracker," he half-said, half-shouted over the cacophony of roars coming from his truck's exhaust.

"And I'll dread every single second of it." Whirling back in the door's direction, I brought my mouth into a straight line, whispering to Jordan, "Does he look devastated?"

"Why would he look devastated?"

"Just shut up and look."

He rolled his eyes before turning around with no subtlety whatsoever.

"Oh my God, don't look!"

He turned his head in my direction and blinked at me. "You literally just asked me to."

"Inconspicuously," I hissed, flabbergasted by this newfound insubordination kick he'd picked up somewhere between London and Texas. I'd need a new assistant. The situation was less than ideal, considering it had taken over a year to find Jordan in the first place. Not many prospective employees would settle for a role of unpaid intern these days, even if I did offer free room and board. I could tolerate many things, but I drew the line at blatant sabotage.

As if he could read my mind, he leaned in, hissing into my ear. "If you even think about firing me for this, I will set your house on fire with you inside of it."

"Fuck yeah!" Brenda/Carole shouted, sending a plume of strawberry-scented vapor pouring out of her mouth. "That's the type of drama I was talking about. Slap his ass around a little."

"You're not going to use any of that footage, are you?" I asked.

"Stop breaking the fourth wall," she scolded, bringing the tip of her vape to her mouth and sucking in sharply. "Now, when you get in there, I want sass. I want star power. Give me something to hook the viewers, Phil. It's like that old saying: you only get one chance at a second first impression."

"I don't think that's a saying," Jordan said.

"And remember," Brenda/Carole continued, ignoring Jordan completely, "you're a star, Phil. These people are lucky to have you. You think our viewers give a shit about Lake and his stupid sign? About this Minnie fellow or his diner full of inbreds? They want the front man of Friendzone. The voice of an angel —"

"I'm pretty sure Charlotte Church has that title trademarked. We probably shouldn't use it frivolously. And Minnie is more than likely a woman," Jordan said.

Brenda/Carole scoffed, flinging her vape-holding hand into the air. "Why is everyone hellbent on ruining my vision? For Christ's sake, I passed on a twenty-four-episode sitcom for this. It's like everyone on the payroll is actively trying to ruin it before we've even begun. I didn't give up the chance to work with Ms. Jackson just to see it all shot to hell because of an argumentative little queen."

"That's homophobic," Jordan said.

"Oh, go to hell. I'm a lesbian. Don't give me that 'homophobic' bullshit," she said.

"Ms. Jackson?" I said. "You passed on Janet to work with me?" Jesus. I couldn't even begin to unpack that fact-filled suitcase. Did she really have that much faith in the project? That much faith in me, of all people? I couldn't remember a single moment where I'd felt so seen as an artist.

Brenda/Carole mumbled something under her breath, far too low for me to decipher.

"What was that?" Jordan said.

"La Toya. It was a project with La Toya Jackson. Now get the hell in that diner and give us a show. I know I said that when we were done here, you'd have the rest of the day to yourselves, but I'll keep you here all night if that's what it takes." Brenda/Carole shoved her vape into her pocket before stepping out of the camera's shot. It was time for us to enter, apparently.

"And, action," I whispered, reaching for the door handle.

The door squeaked as I opened it, and a tiny bell chimed, announcing our arrival. There was a cameraman standing next to a display case filled to the brim with Minnie's famous muscadine fritters and blackberry pies. As we waited to be greeted, fellow Tallulahns darted their eyes in our direction, trying to catch sight of the city's most famous export without being too obvious.

Something seemed off about the situation inside. I knew Tallulah had never been a hotbed for the latest fashion trends, but as I took in the sight of her residents, it almost felt like Minnie's Diner had been overrun with vagabonds and hillbillies. I recognized a few familiar faces, which made the entire situation all the queerer.

Dr. Salazar, the local pediatrician, was dressed in overalls with no shirt underneath. One of the straps was unbuttoned and hanging off his shoulder, his nipple peeking out proudly. He must not have noticed Minnie's sign stating 'no shoes, no shirt, no flippin' way you're eating here, darlin.'

In the booth behind him, Lao Min, the town's most prominent florist, had a sunflower in her hair. That was lovely and all, but she was also scantily clad in a pair of Daisy Dukes, and she was wearing a red flannel shirt tied in a knot above her waist. Had anyone else been wearing it, I could have handled the outfit, but Mrs. Min was in her late eighties.

"It's like we just walked onto the set of Deliverance ," Jordan whispered.

"That movie is ancient," I hissed, darting my eyes at the camera. "No one's going to get the reference. And how the hell do you know what Deliverance is, but you couldn't pick Faye Dunnaway out of a lineup?"

Minnie Sinclair approached with a look of sheer exhaustion written all over her face. There was a sheen of sweat across her forehead, and her hair was a disheveled mess. Her French bob had always been a striking sight, but with production's bright lights blaring down on her, the heat had sucked out the majority of its volume. Now, it just looked like a half-filled balloon. Despite the exasperation pouring out of her, her smile was wide and aimed directly at me.

"Well, Phillip Fletcher, as I live and breathe. Honey, I didn't know you were coming home," she said as I arched an eyebrow, darting my eyes toward a precisely placed banner hanging from the ceiling.

'Welcome Home, Phillip!' it said.

Ignoring me, she pulled a ballpoint pen from behind her ear and flipped open a small notepad she'd been storing in her apron. Ushering us toward a pristine booth in the corner, she said, "Just the two of you today?" There were two glasses of water on the table, and a pair of menus that were sticky with spilled syrup. After practically shoving me into my seat, her hand lingered on Jordan's back, and she eyed him up and down like he was the tastiest treat she'd ever seen. She clicked her tongue obscenely at him. "I see you've got yourself a real handsome sugar baby. Lord Almighty, if I were twenty years younger, I'd ride you like a buckin' bronco."

Jordan gagged, and I choked on the mouthful of lemon water I'd just gulped. As I hacked splishes and splashes of water across the table, Mr. Papadopoulos glanced at me from my lap like my very existence offended him. Jordan crawled under the table and reemerged at my side, pulling my body in front of him. Apparently, I was a human barricade. Fabulous.

"He's my assistant," I said, still trying to clear the residual lemon water from my throat by banging the side of my fist against my chest.

"Personal lifestyle coach and unpaid intern," he squeaked, cautiously peeking over my shoulder.

"Minnie?"

"Yeah, sugar?"

"What's with the dress code?"

Her eyes shot wide open, like someone behind me had pulled a gun on her. I peered over my shoulder to find Brenda-Carol slashing a finger across her throat. It didn't take long for me to realize this must have been Brenda/Carole's doing. Hell, she'd probably sent everyone in town an official memo demanding they dress like hicks as window dressing for the docuseries.

"I sure do love the new accent, sweetie."

I arched an eyebrow at her. "What accent?"

"This whole Hugh Grant vibe you've got going on. It's lovely. Granted, it doesn't sound terribly authentic, but that's okay. It's the fact that you're giving it the old-college-try that counts.

"Jordan?" I said, glaring at Minnie. "What on Earth is she on about?"

Jordan covered my ears with his hands, but it did nothing to muffle his words. "We don't mention the accent, Ms. Minnie. He picked it up when he moved to England. Well, he's tried to pick it up. Truth be told, it reminds me a bit of Keanu Reeves in that vampire film." He removed his hands from the side of my head, and when our eyes met, I did my best to convey the depths of my rage. "Don't listen to her, Phillip. Your accent is lovely. Spot-on."

I slowly swirled back to Minnie, reminding myself that Jordan’s life was essentially forfeit once we stepped foot in Aunt Lurlene's home.

After taking our order, Minnie shuffled away, and Jordan pulled away from me, turning his attention to the table. "So," he said, squeezing a lemon wedge into his glass, "Rivers seemed sweet."

"I'd call him many things. Sweet isn't one of them."

"Was he really that terrible?"

"He…" I sighed. Jordan deserved answers, but my history with Rivers wasn't something I looked back on with fondness. I'd rather take a blowtorch to my eyeball than discuss that night on camera. Unfortunately, with Jordy being the only employee on Team Firecracker's non-paying payroll, there were things he needed to know. Facts that would more than likely come to light as filming continued. "He wasn't that bad at school. The other jocks were, but he never seemed to get off on bullying me the way the rest of them did."

"Then why the hostility?"

I guzzled the last of my water before setting down the glass. I ran my fingers through droplets of condensation on the table, spreading them across the surface. "Did I ever tell you why I left Tallulah?" I'd only told the story to a handful of therapists, and Brian damned O'Hare, but there was a brief period in the twenty-tens when I'd taken to the bottle to self-medicate. There was a good chance the story slipped out during one of my drunken stupors.

"Bits and pieces. The stuff with your dad. The band audition. I think you mentioned something about a tiara at some point, but you were slurring quite a bit, so who the hell knows?"

I reached down and gave Mr. Papadopoulos a gentle love pat, hoping not to lose a finger in the process. Thankfully, he was in a giving mood. Instead of hissing or nipping at the tips of my fingers as usual, he purred softly, vibrating in my lap.

"Muscadine Madness," I started. "You haven't seen it yet, but it's pretty magical. The scent of funnel cakes frying. Cotton candy whipping around cones. Breathing in the air is like inhaling sugary goodness."

"That's nice," Jordan said. "I'm not sure what the hell it has to do with why you left home, but thanks for sharing, I guess."

"Asshole," I said with a chuckle. "It's always been one of my favorite times of the year. Aunt Lurlene used to bring me to the fair. Even in the off season, she stayed busy with the vineyard, so we didn't get to leave too often. During the festival, we'd go out every night. It always felt like my personal Disney World. Then Rivers ruined it for me." Jordan's hand found mine, and he weaved our fingers together. "It was worse than the TRL incident, Jordy," I whispered, feeling like a toddler in wolf's clothing.

"Fuck Carson Daly," he seethed with so much passion it almost took my breath away. I peeked up to find him staring at me with an intensity I didn't see often. I lived for these moments. Our subtle charade of sassy shade would fade, leaving behind the husks of two lonely boys who just happened to find each other. "He's cute, though."

"Carson Daly? I don't know, he hasn't really aged well."

He rolled his eyes. "Obviously, I meant Rivers. I mean, did you get a load of that—"

"If you finish that sentence, I will chop your body into tiny little pieces and feed you to feral hogs."

"Sorry, I couldn't hear you because I was still speaking." He paused. "Are you good? May I continue?"

"You're acting like a child."

"And that," he said, reaching over and tweaking my nose, "is why you love me. Now, as I was saying, did you see that ass? I'm not usually one for daddy fetishes, but…" His eyes widened as he fanned his face dramatically. "Daddy, please."

Jordan could argue he didn't have a thing for older men all he wanted; we both knew it was a lie. His last relationship was with a seventy-year-old man named Richard Gere (no relation, though they did look almost identical), and it only ended when the man's family placed him in an assisted living facility three hours away. Richie and Jordy had tried to make it work for a while. When the Dear John letter arrived, informing Jordy that one of the physical therapists, a nineteen-year-old twink named Tyler, had stolen Richard's affection, I thought it might just ruin him. Thankfully, he'd had me to stitch his shattered heart back together.

Still, he was bringing up Rivers again. As much as I loved my friend, I ignored him for the next five minutes as punishment. There are many things I would indulge him in. Rivers Rivera's voluptuous ass was not one of them.

When Minnie returned with our meals, she didn't have her world-famous Minnie's Meatloaf in her hands, as I'd ordered. Instead, she was carrying a steaming plate of waffles smothered in whipped cream and honey, decorated with a single dollop of cotton candy.

"Jesus Christ," Jordan said, gawking at the plate. "It's like I'm staring at adult-onset diabetes in physical form."

Minnie set the plate in front of me, clapping my shoulder gently. "I know you said you wanted lunch, but I figured you might prefer your usual instead."

"Usual?" Jordan said, gasping. "You've eaten this before? Willingly?"

"Hey, don't knock it 'till you try it, sunshine," Minnie said. "Phillip used to stop in every morning before school for one of these. Breakfast of champions, he used to say."

" Clogged arteries for days is what I say," Jordan said. "Seriously, Phillip. That's going to eat away at your insides. I'm going to have to insist—"

I scooped up a slice of the southern delicacy and shoved it into his mouth to shut him up. Jordan's eyes went wide as he let it sit on his tongue. Finally, he worked his jaw, moaning out his approval.

"If I die," he mumbled through the mouthful of empty carbs, "I want you to bury me with a plate of these."

"Good, right?" Minnie said with a smirk. "I told ya, breakfast of champions. Nutritious and delicious."

"Oh, it's absolutely toxic," Jordan countered once he'd swallowed. "But I'm pretty sure my tongue just had an orgasm."

"Well," Minnie said with a wink. "Keep throwing me those bedroom eyes, and your tongue won't be the only one enjoying the… flavor ."

Jordan hid his face between my shoulder blades and wept.

When our meal was done, we stood to make our way out of Minnie's diner. Only inches separated us from a graceful exit, but those inches spread to miles when the sound of chairs scraping against tile screeched through the diner. Turning, I watched in wide-eyed wonder as every patron rose to their feet and gave me a round of applause.

Minnie hobbled over and pinched my cheek before pulling me in for a hug. "I'm so proud of you, sugar. We all are."

"Minnie, I—"

"Hush now," she said, stroking my hair. "Just take it all in, baby. You've earned it."

I didn't know how to tell her I hadn't earned a single clap. That every face in that crowd was applauding a two-bit hack. To them, I'd just been the pretty boy with big, brown, doe-like eyes. The man whose entire face was framed around two delightfully prominent cheekbones. A set of unnaturally dark lashes which made it appear like I was wearing mascara at all times. The sassy songbird with a dazzling personality. What they didn't know was this songbird couldn't hold a note to save his life. Ironic, given my choice of career. I wasn't sure how many of them caught my early-aughties on-air demise. Had they all watched with the rest of the world as my backing track failed to play, and I ridiculously belted out the acapella performance that ruined my solo career before it even began? And if so, why the hell were they clapping for me? What had I ever done to deserve it?

I gave my adoring public a parting wave and a wide smile. The applause died down, and the bell chimed behind us as the door closed. Jordan wrapped an arm around my waist, snuggling in close.

"I'm proud of you, Phillip. I know this isn't easy, but I really feel like this is going to work out for you."

"When I fall on my face—"

"I'll be right there to catch you," he interrupted. "And then we'll start over. Listen, I know we don't really do feelings, but there isn't anyone that deserves this more than you." He gripped the back of my neck and squeezed. "I believe in you, Phillip."

I cleared my throat, uncomfortable with all of this attention. "Yes, well. Clearly, your questionable standards of entertainment leave much to be desired."

"Clearly," he agreed. As he opened his mouth—probably to release more unrequested sappy words of encouragement—panic overtook me.

"Jordy… how are we getting home?"

"Production is supposed to take us, aren't they?" he said.

"Brenda/Carole said they were heading to the motel to check in after we were done here. Jesus, Jordy, do you ever pay attention? Is the concept foreign to you?"

"First of all, the next time you use that tone with me, I'm reporting you to the Better Business Bureau for creating a hostile working environment, and secondly, you psychopath, I was a bit busy trying to break the hypnotic hold Rivers' ass has on your eyes. Excuse me for being distracted."

"I wasn't staring at his butt."

"You stare at everyone's butt."

Ahead of us, a man in a pair of jeans that clung perfectly to his backside was bent over a cardboard box in front of a vendor's booth, pulling out a string of muscadine-shaped lights. He stood up, reaching toward the top of the stall, securing the strands. As he twisted and tugged, his shirt rose above his waist, giving me a lusty little view of the brown skin hiding underneath. The man was a fucking buffet, and though I'd just had a hearty lunch, I was ready for seconds.

"Case in point," Jordy said, arching a sassy eyebrow.

When I finally managed to pry my eyes away from his ass, I caught sight of the most treacherous of docudrama plot twists. The owner of that ass, Rivers Rivera, was peering over his shoulder at me with a cocky grin.

"Fuck," I said.

"Yoo-hoo," Jordan sang out. "Rivie-pooh!"

"I take back all the nice things I just said about you."

"You didn't say any nice things about me."

"And I never will if you—"

"Rivers," he called out again. "Can we borrow you for a second?"

"Dammit, Jordy."

Rivers wiped his hands on his jeans, causing his ass to jiggle like two Christmas hams ready to be glazed.

Not that I wanted to glaze them.

He jogged across the red brick road without much concern for oncoming traffic. A red sedan slammed on its brakes, missing him by inches, but it was like he hadn't even noticed.

"Firecracker," he said with a grin. "Twice in one day. What can I help you boys with?"

"Nothing. You can go," I dismissed him.

Jordan wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and as I sulked beneath his uninvited touch, Mr. Papadopoulos sat leisurely at my feet. He licked his paws with disinterest, but paused when Rivers knelt at his side. I couldn't help the wave of bitter resentment that washed over me. He was allowing Rivers to pet him. It had taken three years before Papadop even allowed me to look him directly in the eyes. One thirty-minute ride in Rivers' pickup, and the little bastard was practically throwing himself at him.

"Traitor," I said, scowling at my tabby.

"I was hoping you could do us a favor. I think the production crew may have cocked things up," Jordan said, accenting the word with a click of his tongue. "They didn't provide us with transportation back to Phillip's grandmama's house—"

"Aunt Lurlene," I reminded him for the nine-hundredth time that day.

"Oh, wow. Mrs. Fletcher. Gosh, I haven't seen her in months," Rivers said.

"Yes, well, she has impeccable standards. It's a shame you don't meet them," I said.

"That must be why she's been the biggest donor for my last…" he paused, counting on his fingers as he mouthed the words one, two, and three to himself. "Three campaigns."

"I don't know what the hell that means," I said, because his words were moronic and made no sense. "But I don't care for your tone."

"Campaigns?" Jordan asked.

Rivers reached into his back pocket, causing his ass to jiggle yet again. I shoved my hand into my pockets, pinching my thigh through the fabric. I was obviously in the midst of a psychotic break and needed some sort of touchstone to guide me back to reality. As I abused my leg, Rivers pulled a business card out of his pocket and held it out for Jordan, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Mayor Rivers Rivera," he said. "At your service."

"What?!"

Ignoring me, Rivers pulled out his phone and powered on the screen. Briefly, an image of Rivers and a young boy flashed across the screen. Before I had a chance to look closer, he swiped up and opened his calendar app. Zooming in, he scrolled through a seemingly endless string of tasks on his agenda for the day. Swiping left, he cleared three appointments before shutting down his phone and shoving it back into his pocket. "I don't have anything else on the schedule for the next three hours. I'm happy to"—he waggled an eyebrow at me—" give you a ride, Firecracker."

"The only thing I need from you is your lifeless body lying at my feet," I said, feeling rather smug at the quip.

Rivers' eyebrow arched, and he took a step forward. "You want my body lying in front of you, huh?" His fingers reached up past my shoulder, far too close for my liking. Clicking his tongue, his hand rose even higher, and then the jerk thumped my nose. "Kinky." Still staring me dead in the eyes, he lifted his key fob in the air and pointed it at his truck, unlocking it. "Come on, Firecracker. Let's get you home."