Becca Seymour's Blog

Theo

The world’s against me, I swear. I don’t even bother rolling my eyes at the hyperbole this time. Me? Dramatic? Never. But this sucks.

It’s the first official prom ever at Gomillion High, and unlike most other schools in South Carolina, ours decided to limit the event to seniors only. Meaning, as a junior, I’m left behind. Spectating. Watching my best friend get all dressed up for the night of his life while I sit here, sulking like a rejected promposal meme.

I’m on his bed, trying but epically failing to read 1984. I’m pretending I’m chill, but I’m radiating “left-out little brother” energy, and I know it. Meanwhile, Caden’s jabbering on about the event and Alice, his “date.”

Did I mentally add air quotes around that word? Damn straight, I did.

Alice is fine. Nice, even. Friendly. But still—what the hell? Other people are going solo or rolling in squads, but Caden? No, he’s gotta go with a date. And of course it had to be Alice, with her blemish-free Black skin, silky curls, giant eyes, and perfect teeth like she eats whitening strips for breakfast.

None of this is rational, I know. Jealousy never is.

I tell myself it’s normal. I mean, I’ve known the guy since I was three. When his family moved in next door and our dads bonded over basketball, we became attached at the hip. Every day since has basically been one long Caden-and-Theo hangout. If friendship were a sport, we’d be championship-tier.

But if I’m being real—and I always am, even when I shouldn’t be—I’ve been in love with him forever. Like, first-boner-during-a-water-fight kind of forever. My first wet dream? His garage gym. Him shirtless. Don’t even get me started.

As for other firsts… if only.

“Theo, come help me with this tie. The damn thing keeps going crooked.”

I close my book and swing my legs off the bed. Of course I’m going to help him. He’s standing in front of his mirror, brow furrowed, mouth slightly open like he’s concentrating extra hard. He’s already dressed in a fitted black suit with gold-and-green accessories—our school colors—and I swear, the gold makes his dark brown skin glow like it’s been kissed by literal sunbeams. He’s so fine. Stupidly so.

“Geez, Cade, what did you do to this knot?” I mutter as I step close, fingers brushing against his collar.

“It looked right a minute ago,” he says, grinning. “And now it looks like a sad pretzel.”

I snort. “A pretzel that gave up on life halfway through the twist.”

He grins wider. “You love me anyway.”

Too much, probably.

“I tolerate you,” I say instead, tightening the knot and smoothing it down. “There. Fixed. Try not to dance it crooked again.”

“Only if my date can keep her hands off me,” he says, turning back to the mirror.

I roll my eyes, flopping back onto the bed again.

He notices. Of course he notices.

Caden spins around, leaning against his dresser, arms crossed. “You’re still mad I’m going, huh?”

I shrug. “It’s whatever.”

He frowns, and I hate that I made him frown. “You know if I could sneak you in, I would.”

“I know,” I mumble.

“I even tried to talk to Coach about it,” he adds. “Told him my loner friend needed emotional support.”

I laugh at that, despite the extra-hard thud of my heart that he cared enough to ask. “And Coach said?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘Theo’s too smart to risk suspension for some sparkly gym party.’”

“He’s not wrong,” I mutter, smiling despite myself.

There’s a pause, and then Caden pushes off the dresser and grabs his blazer. “Look, you’ll come to the after-party, though, right? Even if you can’t be at prom, you’re still part of the night. I want you there.”

The words ease the tight knot of bitter jealousy in my chest just a little. “I dunno,” I say, feigning nonchalance. “I might be too busy crying in my room. Alone. Watching Love and Basketball and eating marshmallow fluff straight from the tub.”

“You’ll ruin your pancreas,” he says.

“You’ll ruin prom if you don’t stop checking yourself out in the mirror.”

He flips me off, laughing. “You better be there.”

“I’ll think about it.” Yeah, of course I’m full of shit, as I’ll absolutely be there.

He grabs his cologne and sprays, making the room smell like citrus and warmth. Then he pauses and turns toward me. “Seriously, Theo. I hate that you can’t come. You should be there. With me.”

Something in the way he says it makes my heart stutter. I sit up a little straighter. “You’ll survive,” I say lightly because I can’t afford to read too much into it. “Just don’t let Alice drag you into one of those dance-offs. I swear, if I hear about you do the Cha Cha Slide on the gym floor—”

“I’m a grown man,” he says, puffing his chest out. “I don’t slide. I glide.”

I chuckle, tossing the mini basketball he keeps at the side of his bed at him. He catches it easily, then lobs it into the hoop mounted above his closet door. Swish. Because of course.

“You sure you don’t want me to fake being your chauffeur? I could drive you and Alice, roll up the windows real slow, make everyone think you’re rich and mysterious.”

He laughs. “You offering to valet in your mom’s Prius?”

“She’s got seat warmers,” I say. “Luxury.”

There’s a knock at the door, and then his mom’s voice carries through, warm and lilting over the hum of gospel music drifting up from the kitchen. “Caden, sweetie! Alice is here—don’t you keep that girl waiting now!”

He meets my eyes. “Guess that’s my cue.”

I stand. “Break a leg, superstar.”

He heads toward the door, then hesitates before turning back. “You sure you’re okay?”

Not even close.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Go have fun.”

He gives me one last look, then leaves.

When the door clicks shut behind him, the silence hits like a dunk to the chest. I flop backward on his bed, stare at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above, and let the jealousy simmer a little longer before I text him a simple message:

Me: Fine, I’ll be there.

Because if I can’t have the night of my dreams… at least I can still see him after.

And maybe—just maybe—that’ll be enough.

* * *

The after-party’s already in full swing by the time I pull up, and the bass is thumping like the heart of some mythical beast. Whoever’s house this is—I think it’s Shane Bailey’s older cousin’s place—has clearly made peace with the idea of their lawn being permanently wrecked. The driveway is packed with double-parked cars. Glowing string lights are draped over trees and balconies like a home décor magazine exploded.

Prom-goers in full glam are everywhere—satin dresses catching the breeze, bow ties hanging loose, glitter on cheeks, and the kind of electric energy only a “we survived high school” celebration can produce.

I’m not the only junior here. I clock a few familiar faces from my own class—Jonah, who’s deep in a conversation with a girl who I think has actual rhinestones glued to her eyebrows, and Marissa and Lee sharing a plate of something suspiciously shaped like meatballs but somehow also glowing orange.

I wave at them, and a couple of people shout, “Theo! You made it!” at me in return as I make my way past the firepit and into the thick of the crowd.

I’m not really looking for anyone else, though. Not really. I’m looking for him. It doesn’t take long.

Caden stands near the back patio, under a cluster of swaying string lights, laughing with the rest of the basketball team like they’re in a GQ shoot disguised as a team reunion. They might as well be.

There’s Cam, the quiet point guard, standing back and letting the others have the spotlight. Shane Bailey—the small forward—still rocking his prom tux jacket like it’s a designer coat and not something from Men’s Wearhouse. Ray Barker, our no-nonsense power forward with Mexican roots, is double-fisting soda and trying not to look impressed by anything. And towering over them all, Dale Rivers, the center, calm and imposing like always, with a deep voice that makes anything he says sound like it’s coming from a wise mountain sage.

And in the middle of it all, there’s Caden.

God, he looks… unfair.

The tailored black pants hugs him just right. That same gold-and-green tie I helped with is still perfectly knotted, and his jacket’s tossed over one shoulder like he’s a model who just finished a runway. His tight coils are shaped up clean, and the gold in his watch catches the light every time he lifts his hand to talk. He’s laughing—bright and easy—and his smile does that thing where it spreads slow, like it’s creeping across his whole face, until you can’t help but smile too.

I look for Alice. She’s not with him, thank God. I spot her a little ways off, perched on the arm of a patio couch, deep in conversation with a guy I don’t recognize. He’s got the kind of long hair that makes him look like he’s either a poet or in a band—or both—and they look… cozy.

A stupid little grin pushes its way onto my face before I can stop it. I don’t even feel bad about it. I just let myself have it.

I start toward the group, weaving through the crowd, and before I even say anything, Caden sees me.

His whole face lights up. “Theo!” he calls, sounding as if he wasn’t sure I’d come, and the second I’m close enough, he loops his arm around my shoulders in a way that seems like instinct. Like it’s where I’m supposed to be.

The rest of the team immediately shifts to make room, and just like that, I’m in. Doesn’t matter that I’m a year younger. There’s never been a space in Caden’s life that I wasn’t just… part of.

“Look who finally dragged himself out of his emo cave,” Shane says, bumping my fist.

“Only took the promise of free pizza,” I shoot back.

“Pizza and the chance to watch us recount the best night of our lives,” Dale adds, grinning.

“Speak for yourself,” Ray mutters. “My tux ripped during a slow dance. Full ass cheek out.”

Cue a lot of laughter.

“No!” I say, choking on air. “Who saw?!”

“Everyone,” Cameron intones, deadpan. “Everyone saw.”

Caden’s shaking with laughter beside me. “You should’ve heard the DJ. He just went ‘Oops’ and dropped the bass harder.”

I’m laughing, too, even as that little pang stirs in my chest again. I missed this part—the inside jokes, the wild chaos, the buildup. The prom. But I’m here now. And Caden’s arm is still around me, warm and firm, like I’m part of the story even if I skipped a chapter.

I glance up at him, and he’s already looking down at me, eyes soft in the way that always makes my stomach flip. He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“You good?” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.

“Yeah,” I lie. Then amend, “Mostly.”

He nods like that’s fair. Like he understands. And honestly, with him standing beside me, laughing with his team, tie still perfect… maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe it has to be.

Caden shifts beside me and squeezes my shoulder once more before pulling his arm away. “I’m gonna get you a drink,” he says, already stepping back. “You deserve at least one warm beer for showing up.”

“Ooh, what a treat,” I deadpan, but I follow him anyway because where Caden goes, I go. That’s just how it’s always been.

We wind our way through the house, nodding and smiling at people as we pass. The party isn’t wild—nobody swinging from chandeliers or anyone crying in a bathtub—just music pulsing through portable speakers, a low murmur of voices, and that undercurrent of end-of-an-era energy. The kind that makes everyone feel a little nostalgic and just drunk enough to believe they’ll stay in touch after graduation.

There’s a mix of people in every room—some seniors still dressed to impress, jackets off and heels abandoned, and plenty of juniors too. No one seems surprised to see me with Caden. If anything, a few offer friendly waves or shout, “Hey, Theo!” over the music.

Most of Gomillion is made up of good people. Sure, we’ve got our token jerks—your classic hallway terrors and lunchroom commentators—but we’ve learned how to steer clear. There’s an unspoken rule: If someone’s going to bring the drama, they don’t get invited to the good stuff. So nights like this? Pretty chill.

We squeeze into the kitchen, where a folding table has been turned into a makeshift bar. It’s stocked with half-empty bottles of soda, a bowl of questionable punch, and the holy grail of teen parties: a mountain of red Solo cups.

Caden grabs two and fills one from the keg tap with all the grace of someone who’s watched other people do it often enough.

“Voilà,” he says, handing it to me.

I sniff it. “Smells like regret.”

He laughs. “Tastes like it too.”

The beer’s warm and vaguely metallic, like someone filtered it through a sock and left it on a windowsill for three hours. I drink it anyway. I’m not a drinker—neither of us really are. Caden’s whole future depends on his body staying strong and clean. So no drinking, no smoking, no anything that could tank his game. By default, I follow his lead. Always have.

Still, it feels weirdly rebellious to be holding a drink tonight. Like I’m finally a part of something I usually watch from the sidelines.

We head back outside, where the air is cooler and easier to breathe. The backyard is dotted with groups of people, some clustered around the firepit, others lounging in conversation. Off to the side, there’s a quiet corner with a couple of mismatched lawn chairs, slightly rusted but blessedly unoccupied.

Caden gestures toward them. “Our thrones.”

We sink into them, the metal creaking a little under our weight. For a few minutes, we just sit there, side by side, sipping our drinks and watching the blur of movement around us. It’s peaceful in that way parties sometimes are when you’re not in the center of the chaos. When you get to be the observer instead of the event.

I turn to look at him. “So,” I say, tilting my cup toward him, “how was it? Prom?”

He leans his head back, eyes closing for a second like he’s pulling the night out of storage. “Honestly?” he says, cracking one eye open. “Pretty good.”

“That’s it? I’ve been salty all week for ‘pretty good’?”

He laughs. “Okay, okay. The venue was actually nice. They had fairy lights and this weird indoor tree setup.”

“I need more visuals,” I say.

“There was a chocolate fountain.”

“Ooh. That’s five points already.”

“Dirk danced with the librarian.”

I nearly spit my beer. “Ms. Callahan? Of course it was Ms. Callahan—Dirk must have dog-eared too many paperbacks.”

I know her way too well—I’m in the library so often she’s practically memorized my reading habits. She slips me new releases before anyone else, but God help me if I return them late.

Caden grins. “Yup. He asked her as a joke, and she said yes very seriously. Then they waltzed. Like, full-on elegant twirls and everything. I think she might be in love with him now.”

“I’m traumatized just hearing about it.” And no doubt she’ll tell me all about it next week when I pick up a book she special ordered for me.

“You’re welcome.”

I grin. “Was it weird without me there?”

He hesitates just a second too long before answering, “Yeah. It was.”

Something fluttery and annoying flaps in my chest. I take another sip of beer just to give my hands something to do. “And Alice?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

He shrugs. “We danced once. Talked a bit. But she kinda paired off with this guy from the catering staff.”

“Seriously?”

“Dead serious. He had one of those little bow ties and apparently plays acoustic guitar in his free time. She was gone like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Honestly, I don’t blame her. Guy had the whole ‘tortured artist’ vibe going on.”

I smirk. “Glad to know I didn’t miss your romantic prom arc.”

“You were the highlight of the night anyway,” he says simply.

I blink. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat it. Just sips his drink and keeps his eyes on the firelight in the distance. Like he didn’t just say something that made my brain short-circuit.

So I sit here, warm beer in hand, heart doing backflips, and try not to read into things.

I absolutely fail.

 

Want more? Preorder on Amazon: https://readerlinks.com/l/5029230

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Read for a limited time right now on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/BeccaSeymour

𝐴 𝑠𝑤𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑦, 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤-𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑀𝑀 𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑏𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠. 𝐹𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝑔𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑝𝑦/𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑏𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑐𝑦, 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑦, 𝑎 𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡 “𝑜𝑜𝑝𝑠, 𝐼 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑥 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡” 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒.

https://readerlinks.com/l/4873669

𝗖𝗿𝗮𝘄𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝘀 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗮 𝗵𝗶𝘁.

As the thirtysomething captain of the Exeter Seagulls, he’s built a career on strength, silence, and shielding his emotions as ruthlessly as he does his teammates. But when an injury rocks his team—and a series of frustrating media storms threaten to unravel his legacy—Cam finds himself one mistake away from losing everything he’s worked for. The last thing he needs is a distraction.

𝗘𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗣𝗮𝗿𝗸𝘀: sunshine in tattooed skin, newly settled in Exeter, and a little too perceptive for Cam’s comfort.

Brent came to England chasing purpose. What he didn’t expect was a brooding rugby player with eyes like winter and walls like stone. But the chemistry? Immediate. Irresistible. And very, very mutual. Brent isn’t afraid to get under Camden’s skin—and he’s definitely not afraid to stay there.

When a one-time tattoo consult turns into stolen kisses, slow mornings, and a summer of something that feels a lot like more, both men are forced to face the truth: Falling for each other wasn’t in the game plan—and neither is what happens when the spotlight turns on their relationship.

With mounting pressure, cross-continental tours, and past insecurities clawing their way to the surface, Camden has to decide if love is a risk he’s finally ready to take. And Brent? He’s ready to prove that he’s not just a distraction—he’s the reason to stay.

Check out the bonus scenes on Patreon for free under Bonus Scenes, and the rest of the series on Amazon: https://readerlinks.com/l/4922388

I'm so excited that Becca Steele’s hockey x soccer romance, Offside Play, is finally live!

The grumpy x sunshine vibes are absolutely delicious, and I can’t wait for you to dive in.

You can enjoy this new standalone MM sports romance in the Love the Game shared world right now! Whoop!

From USA Today bestselling author Becca Steele:
When a Premier League injury sidelines Jude, a surprise trip to Canada leads to an unexpected fling with his brother’s grumpy NHL teammate. One night turns into many… but with an ocean between them and no future in sight, will they find a way to play for keeps? 💙

https://amzn.to/3HR9wEI

𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

Ebook Preorder: https://readerlinks.com/l/4873669 

Paperback Preorder: https://beccaseymour.com/products/full-tilt

𝗖𝗮𝗺𝗱𝗲𝗻 𝗖𝗿𝗮𝘄𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝘀 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗮 𝗵𝗶𝘁.

As the thirtysomething captain of the Exeter Seagulls, he’s built a career on strength, silence, and shielding his emotions as ruthlessly as he does his teammates. But when an injury rocks his team—and a series of frustrating media storms threaten to unravel his legacy—Cam finds himself one mistake away from losing everything he’s worked for. The last thing he needs is a distraction.

𝗘𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗣𝗮𝗿𝗸𝘀: sunshine in tattooed skin, newly settled in Exeter, and a little too perceptive for Cam’s comfort. Brent came to England chasing purpose. What he didn’t expect was a brooding rugby player with eyes like winter and walls like stone. But the chemistry? Immediate. Irresistible. And very, very mutual. Brent isn’t afraid to get under Camden’s skin—and he’s definitely not afraid to stay there.

When a one-time tattoo consult turns into stolen kisses, slow mornings, and a summer of something that feels a lot like more, both men are forced to face the truth: Falling for each other wasn’t in the game plan. And neither is what happens when the spotlight turns on their relationship.

With mounting pressure, cross-continental tours, and past insecurities clawing their way to the surface, Camden has to decide if love is a risk he’s finally ready to take. And Brent? He’s ready to prove that he’s not just a distraction—he’s the reason to stay.

𝐴 𝑠𝑤𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑦, 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤-𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑀𝑀 𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑏𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠. 𝐹𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝑔𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑝𝑦/𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑏𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑐𝑦, 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑦, 𝑎 𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡 “𝑜𝑜𝑝𝑠, 𝐼 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑥 𝑡𝑎𝑝𝑒 𝑏𝑦 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡” 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒.

I'm excited (and a little outside my comfort zone) to be the featured author representing Maleny Bookshop at this year's Arts Alive Maleny on Saturday, 2 August.

This incredible event brings the whole town to life with live music, street performances, art installations, and more — and I’ll be there with a few books on hand, signing and chatting throughout the evening.

It’s a real honour to be the only author featured at the store this year, and I’d love to see some familiar faces. If you're in or around Maleny, come by and say hello. (ticketed event)

Arts Alive Maleny
Saturday 2 August, 6pm–10pm
Maleny Main Street, QLD

More info at artsalivemaleny.com.au

Snag signed copies of your favorite MM romances—while they last! I'm clearing limited stock at bargain prices across genres you love:

Contemporary charmSmall-town swoonShifter heatMonster loveBasketball passion

Starting at

AU$10 | US$7

https://beccaseymour.com/collections/special-offers

He’s inked. He’s intense. And he’s absolutely not supposed to fall for his brother’s best friend…

I'm thrilled to announce the exclusive release of Falling For 42, a Fast Break & Zone Defense spin-off novella that brings heat, heart, and a whole lot of chemistry.

Meet Kobe—a tattoo artist with a mouth that doesn’t quit and a body covered in stories. Thanks to his brother’s idea of a joke, he finds himself wearing the jersey of Malik, a clean-cut college basketball star who’s everything he’s not… and everything he never knew he wanted.

Chapter OneKobe

Six seconds. That’s all it takes for me to settle in my seat in the college basketball stadium and realize I’ve been set up.

But there’s fuck all I can do about it now.

I hold myself tight, back straight as my gaze tracks my brother on the court. I will him to look up. Will him to make eye contact so I can threaten him with the stink eye and a throat-cutting gesture.

My kid brother may have more defined muscle than me and a few inches on my five-ten frame, but it only takes a sweep of his legs to totally lay him out.

Not that I would. Obviously. Well, I wouldn’t do real damage—partly because our folks would kick my ass but also because I reluctantly love the dickhead.

But still, Jackson’s definitely not sporting the number 42 on his jersey. Which also happens to be the number I’m wearing, since the little fuck gave me the supporter’s jersey to wear to celebrate me finally attending one of his games.

To be fair, I feel kinda guilty that this is his third year in college and playing for Barth’s Renegades, yet it’s the first game I’ve attended. In my defense, basketball is dull as fuck. Also, for the first two years of his being in college, I was overseas, and since being back stateside, I’ve been crazy busy, doing all the hours for Paulie, my friend and mentor, at his tattoo parlor.

I have the skill, my name is getting out there, and now it’s all about the money so Paulie will take my offer when I propose a partnership to open a second store.

But back to my brother.

The game’s yet to start. Currently, the team is doing warm-ups while shooting the shit.

Come on, Jackson, you dick. Look at me.

He’s laughing at something one of his teammates is saying. Fortunately, not the one wearing 42. I suppose I should check out whose number I am wearing, since it’s not my brother’s number 12.

I scan the court, bypassing the opposing team, flicking my attention away from numbers 2 and 18. Wide-eyed, my breath hitches and I’m pretty damn sure my cheeks turn bright red when my gaze connects with one of the player’s. He’s staring straight at me, his eyes intense, easy for me to see, since I’m only in the twelfth row.

After a few awkward beats, he arches his brow, the move one of self-assurance and satisfied amusement. And of course he’s wearing number 42.

It’s there, blazoned on his jersey, to the left above his team’s emblem.

His lips twitch, and with his brow still arched as he rakes his gaze over me, another wave of heat pulses through me. Number 42 is not my usual type, with his whole cocky, rolling-in-confidence attitude and his unblemished, ink-free skin, so I’m surprised by how ridiculously hot I find him. And I absolutely should be pulling my attention away, maybe shrugging in apology or a “well, hell” kind of way.

But I don’t.

Nope. Instead, my traitorous gaze has a will of its own as it drops to his lips. They’re a luscious brown—almost the same shade as his dark brown skin—and full, and fuck me if it’s not easy to imagine how puffy they’d become after kissing him senseless or letting him go to town on my cock.

Bad Kobe. Stop eye-fucking the college player.

While I’m only four years older than Jackson, and this guy looks older than my brother, I feel kinda wrong to be coming to my brother’s game and spending the time salivating over this kid.

Man. Fuck, he’s definitely a full-grown adult, even if he is still in college.

The reminder that this guy is still in college gives me a jolt. No fucking way should I be embarrassed over the number fuckup—setup… whatever. As for his cocky, sexy smirk… I wink and smirk right on back, lifting my ink-covered hand and rubbing my thumb over my bottom lip.

A thrill shoots through me when his eyes widen. My smirk stretches wide when he gulps. I wish I was closer so I could hear it.

He jerks to the side, and I wince when a basketball smacks him high on the arm.

He spins, lips moving, no doubt cussing at his teammate, all while I release a chuckle. I follow his progress, his teammate pointing toward their coach, the name Coach Tiller on the back of the hoodie he’s wearing.

Number 42 doesn’t look back as he jogs over to his coach and the gathering team. More amused than pissed off by the whole “me not wearing my brother’s number” debacle, I sit more comfortably in my seat, once more seeking out my brother. He’s easy to spot in the group surrounding Coach Tiller, especially as Mr. 42 is standing next to him, casting him furtive glances.

As soon as the coach steps away, Jackson looks in my direction. A shit-eating grin is sent my way. I snort, despite him not being able to hear me. I flip him off for good measure and shake my head. The asshole laughs, focuses once more on his coach, then breaks away and gets into position.

I have no idea what my brother’s up to, but it’s a good thing he turned twenty-one a month ago, as he owes me a beer.

Fuck that—beers, plural. The wily asshole.

 

What to expect?

Opposites attract
Brother’s best friend
Queer sports college romance
100 pages of flirty banter, slow burn tension, and swoon-worthy steam

Now Available exclusively on my website in eBook and paperback!

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Sweat draws the flies. After thirty-seven years, you’d think I’d be used to having hundreds of the damn things buzzing in front of my face. Not a chance. They annoy the hell out of me.

A fast flick of my hand in front of my face does virtually nothing to get them to leave me alone.

Taking a steadying breath while trying not to draw one of the annoying insects into my mouth, I lean against the fence, staring out into the distance at the greying sky that has taken on a distinct tinge of green.

The storm’s only been brewing for fifteen minutes. It’s big and fast, and the hail is likely going to damage the tin roof.

Why the hell did I think it was a good idea for me to come home again?

Sure, I returned out west for my dad, Jack Sr, to help him through his sickness as best as I could before I finally laid him to rest next to the giant bottle tree he loved so much. But that was seven months ago, yet I’m still here.

One hundred and thirty kilometres from sort-of civilisation.

A crash of thunder rends the air, loud enough that the cows in the far-right paddock bolt for the fence line.

With this brewing storm that, honestly, I’ve never seen anything quite like before, I’m wondering why I’m still standing here.

There’s a strange orange and red, similar to that of a sunset. The sky is a kaleidoscope of colour as it washes over the dark red dirt. The sky, a stunning wash of vermillion, copper, and desert gold, should be beautiful. But that green and the flashes of lightning set my teeth on edge.

It’s enough to have me dragging in a calming breath, thankfully without pulling a flying insect in with—

It’s weird. I hold my breath, listening intently, realising that during the past couple of minutes of watching the fast-approaching storm, all the flies have disappeared.

The slowly descending late-afternoon spring sun usually brings with it a chorus of high-pitched buzzing, the song of the cicadas already filling the otherwise quiet space around me by now. But there’s nothing.

The birds have already flown away, out of the path of the storm, and even the herd is eerily silent.

The braying of Geralt and Gertie, secure in the barn, has even cut off. 

This time of day is usually an in-between time of saying goodbye to a long day of working my old man’s six-hundred-acre property—or mine, technically, though it still doesn’t feel like it—and taking solace in the peace only the outback can offer.

But then there’s this damn storm. It’s closer than it was five minutes ago but still sits on the horizon, probably twenty but maybe thirty kilometres away.

And it’s just kind of hovering there.

The full display of incredible colours remains awash in the sky as the lightning strikes become more frequent. There’s what should be a growl of thunder, but it’s a low groan echoing across the flat land before me. A tired, almost-mournful sound reaches where I stand. It lasts ten long seconds, and by the time it ends, my hairs are standing on end and I’m no longer confident the house and the barn are as secure as I thought they were.

It’s odd. The whole thing.

The now-posturing storm. The majestic show of lightning. The painful wail tearing through the air.

A crack of sound rocks the very earth between my booted feet. Instinctively, I drop to the ground. The world shifts. Tilts. And doesn’t stop moving.

On my hands and knees, I cling to the red dirt as ingrained into my skin as the Australian air is embedded in my lungs. I stare out at the expanding storm. The grey continues to mix with the red and gold, the green growing brighter.

What the ever-loving fuck?

It’s like the aurora borealis or even the aurora australis but with its own palette of colour mirroring the outback landscape.

It’s also impossible. Here. So far away from, well, anywhere.

With the ground still rumbling under my feet, I use the metal gate to steady myself as I haul my arse off the ground. I don’t look away from the mountain of clouds as they stretch and tumble against one another, much like the heaving of ocean waves.

While the storm remains the same distance away, it stretches across the horizon until I have to physically turn to see how far and wide it spreads.

Eyes wide in fear, I back away from the fence. My house, about two hundred metres behind me, feels far away as the storm clouds continue to extend, the edges seeming to reach for each other, forming a goddamn circle. With me in the bloody middle.

I turn and run, grappling for my phone in my jeans as I race for the house. I manage a glance at the screen, fear slicing into me when no signal is evident.

Not even SOS Calls Only is on display.

Is this what a tornado feels like? Am I going to get sucked up and carried away?

I already live in the land of Aus, and if any walking, talking lions, scarecrows, or tinmen cross my path, they’ll be sucking lead.

What I need to do is get the hell out of here.

Hearing Geralt and Gertie, I hesitate, hand on the door.

There’s banging coming from the stables. They’re freaking the fuck out. And I get it. I’m right there with them.

Fuck.

They’re good horses, but trying to get them into the trailer while they lose their shit is going to be a nightmare.

I peer up at the sky, back at where I first saw the storm brewing.

My breath shudders out of me. The edges of the clouds speed towards each other. In no time at all, they’re going to touch. The circle will be formed.

While I have no idea what that means, I absolutely know it’s nothing good.

“Fuck,” I bellow and wrench the flyscreen door open. Half a step inside, I grab the key to my Ford Ranger, turn, and bolt for my truck.

I’m inside in a few heavy exhales, my fingers trembling as I jab at the ignition button.

Nothing.

I press it again, dread curdling my stomach. No lights are on in the dash, and there’s zilch coming from the engine.

Gripping the steering wheel, I shake it. Frustration bleeds out of me. “You fucking piece of shit. Fuck.”

Think, Jack. Think.

With my pulse racing and my thoughts spiralling, I tumble out of the ute. Right about now, I wish I’d listened to Jeremy. He’s a hard-core prepper and would be all over this shit. The man even built a bunker.

Instead, I’ve got an old Queenslander that’s made out of tin and wood, same as the barn, and an expensive-as-hell Ford Ranger that’s worthless.

I’m a few metres away from the barn, heading towards my bike, when silence has me pulling up short.

The growing wind has dropped, and the groaning storm has quietened. All I can hear are my uneven breaths sawing out of me.

Even Geralt and Gertie aren’t braying.

I take slow, measured steps to the side of the barn so I can see east—where the storm clouds are meeting. Wide-eyed, I swallow hard. The clouds appear less than ten millimetres away from touching at this distance. I take another breath, and the oxygen is sucked out of my lungs as I fly through the air.

My arms windmill, and any second now, I’m going to be kissing dirt.

I stare up into the once-blue sky, my brain stumbling.

Green.

The green of the Daintree Rainforest.

The sky above my head is fucking green.

I have but a second to process the strangeness before a light fills my vision so bright, I’m unable to see anything. Not the strangeness. Not the usual ochre dirt breaking my fall.

Not my red blood spilling against the soil.

My ears ring. The piercing brightness fades around the edges, narrowing into blackness. The darkness is the only familiar sensation in the changing landscape.

I welcome it.

* * *

I don’t know how much time has passed since I was knocked out. All I know for sure is, the back of my head throbs, my coccyx is screaming bloody murder, and it’s possible I have a concussion. The latter is the only explanation for the still-green sky above me.

It’s a possibility, I suppose, that I’m in a coma. It’s a valid reason for the world above me seeming like it’s been dipped in the North Queensland rainforest and appearing as a vividly bright canvas textured with varying shades of green.

“Shit me.” My fingertips come away damp when I shift my head and touch the tender bump at the back. Red stains my fingers. It’s still wet. So either I’m still bleeding or I didn’t black out for too long.

I test my limbs. Everything aches, but agony doesn’t send sharp stabs of alarm, so that’s something. I circle my ankles left, then right, and I release a shaky exhale. Not broken.

It’s time to sit up and take real stock. The weird sky above me is a problem I’ll solve once I know I can stand without falling on my arse.

I manage to lift myself up and stay upright on my butt, then pick up my worn, dusty Akubra off the ground by my side. The aches are very real, but I think that’s all they are: sore bones and muscles. From this position, my childhood home looks untouched from the blast that took me down.

The windows are intact, and the tin roof has the same number of dents from previous hailstorms. It’s a relief. Whatever put me on my arse felt like it had the power to demolish the whole building. It’s a miracle the old place is still standing—a Queenslander my grandpop built eighty years back.

The panicked braying from the barn has me moving.

I need to check on Geralt and Gertie. That I can hear them is a good sign. Sure, they’re distressed—a given considering the storm.

The storm.

The thought makes me slam on the brakes a few metres shy of the closed barn doors.

Where the fuck has the storm gone?

I do a slow 360, then a fast one, which sends a thud of pain through my head. But I don’t have the brain space to worry about that.

The dirt beneath my feet remains a familiar deep ochre. The kilometres of barbed-wire fencing—most I rigged up with my dad over the years—are laid out before me, spanning my inherited six-hundred-acre property.

From my property, beyond my cattle, the fences, and the yards, all there usually is to see is the main road, only visible on a still day, about three kilometres away in the south, and my sister and brother-in-law’s neighbouring property about four kilometres down the road in the east. Beyond that, there’s usually just flat land, red dirt, endless blue skies, and, during the wet season, glorious grass.

Fast, shallow breaths have my shoulders vibrating and my head spinning.

I shake my head, struggling to comprehend what I can see. What’s gone.

What the fuck’s happened?

The three-kilometre gravel road leading from my property via a two-hundred-metre dirt-track road to the bitumen of the A7 remains intact. Several kilometres out to the left of it, the usual flat plains are gone.

Literally fucking gone.

The ground, where the long grass usually dances in the breeze, hasn’t been burnt by the storm—a possibility from the lightning display I witnessed.

I shake my head, struggling to process what I see.

A mountain crouches in the distance. Its peak—impossible to tell how high it is from the ground—is covered in snow. Snow. Legit, the first and last time I ever saw snow was on a school trip almost thirty years ago when we visited Canberra. It had been cold—obviously—but disappointingly icy. None of the fluffy stuff good for making snowmen like you see in movies.

It’s not just the mountain that is nearly exploding my mind.

To the west, there are buildings. They’re too far away for me to tell what kind or how many. All I know is, they shouldn’t be there.

“The fuck is happening?” My words catch on a slight breeze that appears. It’s warm and surprisingly humid, not carrying the usual dry heat of the outback.

I spin around, looking in the opposite direction, my jaw going slack.

Gut clenching, I’ve no idea if I’m going to vomit or shit myself. Either is a possibility when, in the distance, I see movement. A cloud of… I swallow hard. Sand. It’s fucking sand. Here. Sure, there are deserts and beaches in Australia, but not fucking here.

The cloud of sand is heading towards my sister’s property.

Even though it looks like a speck from this distance, I can still sense that it’s big and fast. It could be an SUV, but my gut tells me it’s not.

The moving sand cloud has yet to meet the red dirt I’m so familiar with. It’s still several kilometres away.

Either way, my gut’s screaming at me to move.

While I’m sure my sister and Derek are at work, not usually finishing till the sun has set at six-ish, Jamie’s school bus drove by over an hour ago. He’ll be home, doing his chores like the good twelve-year-old kid he is.

Turning on my heel, I race back to my ute, my heart thundering. 

Please start.

It doesn’t. The battery seems to be dead.

Not wasting time, I rush to the barn while doing a cursory check of my phone, but I already know I’ll have no signal. I’m right.

Whatever the blast was must have taken out the towers. My service is always a little sketchy out here, but I have no doubt that isn’t the issue.

When I open the barn doors, Geralt’s and Gertie’s braying assault me. They’re freaked.

“Hey, there.” I go straight to Geralt, who’s the bigger and noisier of the two. “Shh. It’s all okay.”

I stroke down his rich brown neck, his hair smooth and familiar. A breath gushes out of me when I do. I’m fucking wrecked, my nerves shot. But I have to pull my head out of my arse and get to Jamie.

“We’ll all be okay,” I whisper, straightening my spine and willing myself to believe it.

I was brought up here, isolated and battling everything from grassfires to floods to dealing with snake bites. I know I’m made of tougher stuff than this. I need to do better.

Closing my eyes, I take a calming breath. This is the last one I allow myself before I take action and stop having a breakdown. “Get your shit together, Jack.”

Geralt nudges my shoulder, and I snap open my eyes.

My dirt bike, quad, and ATV are dead. Even the tractor is fried.

I force steel into my words when I say, “We’ve got this.”

At least I really hope Geralt has got this with me.

Rather than cussing up a storm, I put my focus on saddling Geralt. 

As I swing myself onto his back, I feel his familiar powerful muscles beneath me, his fifteen hands of chestnut power offering me comfort. He’s a stockhorse and has been my steadfast companion for years, yet today even he’s skittish.

He whinnies and huffs.

“Come on, boy. We need to get to Jamie.”

A snort escapes him, his muscles tensing against my legs as he prepares to move. He’s clearly anxious, but he’s intelligent and reliable. I have faith that he knows what I need from him.

As we burst from the shelter of the barn into the expanse of rich soil beneath Geralt’s hooves, his nervous energy transforms. His strides become purposeful, his movements sure.

With each step, his confidence grows, and thank fuck it does. I can’t look away from the changed landscape in the distance and the green-tinged sky that keeps snatching my attention.

Was there a chemical explosion? Maybe radiation is polluting the sky. But what about the buildings? The further I move from my home, it becomes clearer there are shelters of some sort in the distance.

Then there’s the goddamn mountain that’s appeared like a damned mirage.

Fuck, I’m at the point of believing aliens really do exist.

The first fence is looming, but I know Geralt’s got this.

He launches over the barbed-wire fence with such effortless grace, relief barrels into me. He’s in control. It feels good. And since I’m the one riding him, I need to suck that shit up and take a page out of his book.

Wind whips around us, but Geralt powers on, his hooves pounding the familiar path towards my sister’s property. Urgency gnaws at me, anxiety coursing through my veins.

Jamie’s a good kid. He’s smart. He’s also a country kid. He knows how to handle himself.

He has to be fine.

My reassurances are a mantra in my head as I push Geralt harder, urging him to go faster and cover the distance in record time.

My sister’s property grows closer on the horizon, and my heart races, fear and hope battling it out. But the house looks unaffected. So does the barn.

That’s a good thing, right?

As we draw closer, the adrenaline in my veins matches the thundering beat of Geralt’s hooves.

Movement.

The screen door swings open.

Thank fuck.

Jamie barrels down the steps, his arms pumping fast as his gangly form hits the gravel path.

He’s safe.

The weight pressing against my chest eases.

He’s unharmed.

“Uncle Jack!” The warm breeze snatches his words and delivers them to me.

His relief mirrors my own, as do his wide eyes.

This kid means the world to me.

In truth, he’s the main reason I chose to stay after losing my dad. 

“Jamie.” On shaking legs, I dismount. “You’re okay.” I tug him close, embracing him tightly, gratitude flooding me.

He’s shaking and gripping me.

Geralt stands by, a comforting presence, his chestnut coat glistening with sweat. Reaching out without releasing Jamie, who takes a long, shuddery breath, I stroke Geralt’s mane.

He’s done good.

“Hey.” I dot a kiss on top of Jamie’s dirty-blond hair, the same colour mine was at his age, but I lost all traces of gold by the time I turned sixteen.

Leaning back, Jamie’s wide eyes meet mine.

“You good?” I search his face, trying to see how he really is. His face is flushed, his eyes a little watery, but there are no tear tracks down his cheeks.

He straightens and steps out of my hold but remains close enough to touch.

I do just that and place my palm on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“I am now. I had to change my undies ’cause I shit myself from that blast. But holy crap, Uncle Jack, what the hell was that?”

Warmth blooms in my chest, humour dislodging some of the fear that’s taken root there.

This kid has a mouth on him, which, sensibly, he curbs around his parents.

But not around me.

I swear I’m the best kind of influence on my nephew. Admittedly, Harper doesn’t always agree. But this kid’s a mini-me. Even his poor folks can’t deny that.

“For real,” he continues, barely taking a breath, “I fell on my butt.”

“Are you hurt?” I cut in before he no doubt continues talking nonstop.

“Bruised.” He stops, his eyebrows shooting high as he takes me in. “Bloody hell, you’re bleeding.”

I touch the back of my head, no longer feeling fresh blood there. “I’m good.” I shake my head. “It’s stopped.” It still hurts like I’ve been whacked with a piece of two-by-four, but since there’s not a pool of blood at my feet and I’m still standing, I figure I’ll be okay.

“So, what happened? One minute I was making myself a bowl of cereal, and the next I hit the floor and the air-con went out. I’ve checked the trip switch, but nothing’s working. Ridge hasn’t stopped kicking off.”

With my panic subsided, I hear Jamie’s horse. Ridge does sound like he’s going apeshit.

“Is your phone working?”

Jamie shakes his head. “Nope. The internet is down too.”

A given, as there’s no electricity.

“I tried the Can-Am,” he says. “It won’t start. I was going to come over, check on you.”

Of course he was.

This kid’s been brought up knowing how to make a Vegemite sandwich, fix a fence, and ride a bike and a Can-Am. He’s also a sure shot with a rifle and can ride a horse even better than I could at his age.

His dad’s a good guy—an accountant, if you can believe it.

Which is the reason why my parents shaved off just five acres fifteen years back for them to build a home, knowing that Derek could ride a mower, but beyond that, running a property wasn’t his thing.

My dad spent the time teaching Jamie how to live and love the property life, and I did, too, when I visited.

“Let’s just settle Ridge, and I’ll give Geralt a quick brush down. We’ll then figure out what’s going on, yeah?”

“Okay.” He hesitates, his focus moving beyond me. “And what are we doing about that?”

Fuck. The plume of sand—not freaking dirt.

I jolt around and follow his line of sight. Narrowing my gaze, I try to figure out what I’m seeing. It’s closer now, but I still can’t work out what it is.

“What is that?”

I shake my head. “No idea.”

“Are we ignoring the fact that there’s sand where Mr Bates’s property used to be?”

Why Jamie’s so damn calm is beyond me, but my pulse is going berserk. Not only because the plume is likely just seven kilometres out, but before Jamie spoke, I could have pretended I’ve been hallucinating.

“You see that too?” It’s best I double-check.

“Yep. And the giant freakin’ mountain. That too.”

“Shit.”

“And what’s up with the green sky?”

I snap my head up, knowing he’s doing the same.

It looks more sea green at the moment. Has it changed shade? Maybe the way I’d perceived it earlier was just my head still spinning and struggling to make sense of it.

“Radiation?” It’s clear I’m clueless.

“No way is that radiation.” My nephew legit scoffs, a sound too light and carefree, considering neither of us knows what the hell is going on.

“How would you know, wise-arse?”

“We did a project on it in science last term. That’s not what radiation looks like.”

“So, what are you thinking?” I glance at Jamie, my heart squeezing at the contemplative expression forming on his face. God, I love this kid. And thank Christ he’s not freaking out.

He shrugs. “It kinda looks like some of the video games I play.”

I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Uh-huh. That’s helpful.”

He shrugs and meets my gaze. “I’m not saying I think we’re in a video game, but nothing about this is right.”

“True that.” He’s dead set got it in one. Nothing about this is right.

While our homes are still here, as are part of the road and a section of Liam and Nancy’s neighbouring property, beyond that—from the sky to the very ground—nothing is as it should be.

It’s like a section of our world’s been cut out and stitched into somewhere “other.” And just thinking that makes me want to roll my eyes and knock back a bottle of whiskey.

Geralt snorts and paws the ground. I tighten my grip on his reins. He shakes his head, eyes wide, almost frantic.

“Uncle Jack.”

The hitch in Jamie’s voice captures my attention completely. But his whole focus is on the direction of the plume of sand. I follow his gaze, my heart jolting so hard, my chest feels bruised.

It’s no longer a speck I can mistake for an SUV.

“Seriously, what is that?”

At the panic in his voice, the hair on the back of my neck rises. Horror floods my system, but more importantly, I agree with my nephew: What the fuck is that?

“We need to move. Get the saddle on Ridge.” I thrust Geralt’s reins at Jamie and charge into the barn, knowing I can get Ridge ready for riding faster than my nephew can. “Get the key for the gun safe,” I holler as I tug the leather saddle from its mount.

Hearing Jamie moving, I focus on saddling Ridge, my pulse pounding a frantic beat in my ears.

We need to get out of here. Fast.

Whatever the hell that thing is outside, it’s not a vehicle.

With shaky hands, I get the saddle fastened and put on the bridle. I can’t think about what I saw. If I do, it’s likely I’ll hesitate. Stumble. Lose my fucking mind.

“Got the keys.”

I nod as I secure the reins. “Get your popsy’s gun sling.” It’s one Dad gifted Jamie a few years back even though it would take some time for him to grow into.

“Okay.”

After finally securing the stirrup straps, I head to the gun cabinet in the barn and unlock the door. A satchel sits on the floor, one of my dad’s that he used to carry ammo when he went mustering—intending to shoot brown snakes and the occasional taipan.

“Here.” Jamie passes me the sling as I grab one of the guns.

“Thanks. Take Ridge outside. And grab the water container and make sure it’s full. Throw it in one of the rucksacks.” I focus on gathering ammo, securing the rifle in its sling, and collecting the saddlebag attachment that carries my sister’s shotgun.

I lock the safe back up and look around.

This feels dramatic, reacting this way. Or at least it should.

But deep in my gut, I know something—quite possibly everything—is wrong.

And if what I saw in the distance is real and not my concussed brain freaking me out, getting armed and the hell out of here is simply common sense.

Outside, under the weird sky, Jamie joins me. He passes me a backpack.

“I shoved some jerky and potato chips in there.”

I ignore the way his hand trembles and nod, offering a smile I absolutely don’t feel. Beyond sheer panic, dread, and knowing I need to protect Jamie, there’s little room for anything else.

“Mount up.”

He puts on his own pack, pushes his Akubra firmly onto his head, and mounts Ridge. He does so effortlessly, causing pride to swell in my chest.

How the hell he’s so calm and keeping his shit together is beyond me.

He saw the same thing I did in the distance.

Yet he’s here, kitted out, and looking at me with wide, clear eyes as if I have all the answers.

If only I did.

But for him, I’ll bullshit my way through this. There’s no other choice.

Securing the shotgun to Geralt, I finally glance in the direction I’ve been avoiding.

“What’s the plan?”

As I stare at the monstrous creature speeding towards us, its horns large and purple, I swallow hard.

What the fuck is our plan?

“We’re going to get the hell out of here, head south towards Injune.” It’s where my sister and brother-in-law work. It’s usually a forty-minute drive, so it will take longer than that by horse.

“Do you think it’s still there?”

Jamie’s question freezes my brain.

Slowly, I glance at him, risking taking my eyes off the creature that I mistook for a vehicle. Understandable, since it really does look to be the size of a big SUV.

I see it in Jamie’s worried frown. In the moisture in his eyes. Beyond the familiar red dirt is a land that we both know is not our own.

If we’re right—and I absolutely pray we’re not—it’s likely that town and the world as we know it has gone. Disappeared.

That or it’s been swallowed somehow by the beastly creature who I have no doubt wants to eat our faces off.

Fuck that shit.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.” I mount Geralt, nod at my nephew to take the lead, and together, we ride on out.

Who knows what we’ll find. The important thing is that Jamie’s okay and I have a bag full of bullets for the rifle and shells for the shotgun if I need them.

 

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