Chapter 11

He didn’t really expect to sleep. Everything was a little unreal—this place, these people. He missed the apartment in New York. It hadn’t been big, but he and Nick had put a lot of effort into making it nice. It was one of the things Andy had liked about Nick, actually—that their tastes had been so similar, that they both took pride in their living space. The bed had been the biggest one they’d been able to fit into their tiny bedroom, the mattress the nicest they’d been able to afford, soft and warm. Andy missed that bed.

He shouldn’t miss Nick. He knewhe shouldn’t. But it was too dark and too quiet—which only made the few noises seem louder—and he was in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers with unknown motivations, and it was hard to forget that it was ten milesto the nearest bus stop. Andy felt like a changeling in a fairytale, like he’d come into a strange world, not entirely human, an unwanted replacement for the one who actually belonged here.

He couldn’t go back. Shouldn’t even think of it.

But lying there in the too-dark, too-quiet, too-strange room, an ache of longing closed Andy’s throat and choked the breath from his lungs, and he desperately wanted nothing more than to feel Nick’s arm around his shoulders, his waist, pulling him into familiar warmth.

A harsh sob tore its way through Andy’s throat, and another. He threw his arm over his face, welcoming the pain of its press on the bruise as a distraction, though it wasn’t enough to actually stop the tears or the way each breath seemed ripped out of him, ragged and thin. He covered his mouth with his hand, not wanting to be overheard, and resenting having to worry about it.

A soft clink was all the warning Andy had before the bed dipped and bounced and Trick squirmed up under his arm, licking at his face.

“Oh, God, get—get off,” Andy coughed, pushing until the dog had backed away a little. Trick didn’t get down off the bed, though; he laid against Andy’s side and nudged at Andy’s arm with a soft, plaintive whine.

“You’re spoiled,” Andy said, and Trick didn’t seem to care that his voice was hoarse. “Spoiled rotten.” He draped his arm over Trick’s back, petting drowsily, and let the dog’s warmth lull him into sleep. 5

Andy woke with a start and froze, not sure where he was or how he’d gotten there.

Memory came rushing back an instant later along with the sound of the surf, and he went limp with relief. Trick, who had moved back to the couch at some point during the night, looked up and thumped his tail a few times, hopefully.

“Yeah, okay,” Andy said. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes—fuckbut his black eye hurt even more than it had the previous day—and reached for his jeans.

By the time Andy had managed to get vertical and was rummaging in his backpack for a clean shirt, Trick was standing by the door, whining.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Andy sighed. He clipped on the leash and unlocked the door, letting Trick all but pull him down the stairs to the beach. “Don’t you dare poop, I don’t know where the scoop is yet.” He’d made do the previous evening with a discarded Big Gulp cup from a 7-Eleven that he’d found in the sand, but he couldn’t count on convenient litter every time.

Trick tugged him around the side of the house toward the front of the restaurant, sniffing intently at every tuft of grass and twig. Andy wondered idly how the dog decided which of them were deserving of pee.

Movement drew his attention upward and…Jesus Christ. That was a sight worth waking up for, Scooter leaning against the balcony rail just outside his door, wearing a sinfully tight pair of jeans and not much else. He had a cigarette held loosely in his fingers and his shoulders were relaxed and easy, hair being toyed with by the morning breeze, like the love interest in a rom-com. Trick bounded up the stairs, tail whipping into a blur, and Andy stumbled after.

Scooter smiled as they reached the top, and how was it fair that the man’s eyes were literally the same storm cloud blue as the ocean not a hundred feet away? Andy had to catch his breath before he could manage a credible “Morning.”

Scooter scratched at his chin, morning stubble shading his face. “Hey, Andy.” He gestured to the wide railing where there were two mugs balanced, one red and the other black. “I thought you might like a cup of coffee?”

“Dear gods, yes,” Andy groaned. He followed the siren call of coffee the last few steps. “The last coffee I had was bus station vending machine swill. I’m still not convinced there were more than three beans involved in its making, and I quite frankly don’t want to know where the water came from.”

Scooter hissed as Andy got closer. “Well, you look like hell cooked over and left out. Had a few black eyes myself; hopefully it’ll feel better in a couple days.” He blew over his mug, then sipped. “It’s black, didn’t know how you liked it. There’s sugar an’ stuff in my place, if that’s your preference.” He jerked his chin toward the larger half of the second floor.