Kindred Kings (The Hollow’s Hunt #2)
Chapter 1 - Elliot
ELLIOT
The bass from Crossroads Bar thumps through my chest as I nurse my whiskey, watching Mike and Derek work their magic on a group of women at the corner table. Same routine since high school—they’re watching me.
“Dude, stop with the art dealer brooding thing.” Mike slides back into our booth, breaking my trance. “That blonde’s friend keeps looking at you.”
I glance at the woman in question—pretty, confident smile, hair twisted into an elaborate braid. “Not really my type.”
“Since when do you have a type?” Derek laughs, his voice carrying the same Ravenwood Hollow drawl we all grew up with. “Mr. Fancy Gallery Owner too good for us regular folk now?”
I roll up my sleeve, revealing the tattoo that stretches from wrist to bicep—a reminder of streets these clients of mine would never dare visit. “You know better than that.”
My friends are the only ones who still remember Elliot Chambers before the pressed suits and wine tastings.
“Remember when we used to dream about bigger things?” Mike chuckles, keeping his voice low. “Now look at you, selling paintings to the same people who wouldn’t let us park in their neighborhoods.”
I’m about to respond when the bartender catches my eye—tall, broad-shouldered, with forearms covered in intricate geometric tattoos.
He moves confidently, mixing drinks with a grace that pulls my attention longer than it should.
The familiar flutter of attraction in my stomach comes to life—the same one I’ve been ignoring since high school.
Derek waves his hand in front of my face. “You spacing out or what?”
I shake my head, draining my whiskey. “Just tired. Gallery opening tomorrow.”
“Bullshit,” Mike follows my line of sight. “You checking out the bartender?”
My throat tightens. Twenty years of friendship means they know me better than most, but this is one part I’ve kept locked away. I’ve dated women—enjoyed it even—but never acted on the other half of what I feel.
“Don’t be a dick, Mike,” I snap, the words coming out sharper than intended. The familiar weight of defensiveness settles on my shoulders—a reflex ingrained in me from my mother’s relentless expectations for a respectable life. “I was looking at his technique.”
Mike holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes hold something dangerously close to understanding. “Just making an observation, man. No judgment here.”
“Well, observe something else.” I signal for another whiskey, deliberately avoiding looking in the bartender’s direction again.
My heart hammers against my ribs, the same panicked rhythm it’s followed since I was sixteen and realized I noticed the football captain’s muscles as much as the cheerleaders’ breasts.
Derek, always the peacekeeper, steers the conversation toward safer territory. “So, this new gallery opening—any big shots going to be there? Anyone we should crash and embarrass you in front of?”
I’m grateful for the lifeline. “Touch my champagne display, and I’ll remind everyone about prom night 2003.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Derek laughs.
“Try me.” The tension in my shoulders eases slightly, but I can feel Mike’s gaze still on me, thoughtful and too perceptive.
The whiskey arrives—not delivered by the tattooed bartender but by a server who barely makes eye contact. I take a long swallow, welcoming the burn that distracts from the tightness in my chest.
Years I’ve spent building this life, crafting this persona that straddles two worlds without fully belonging to either.
The gallery owner who knows enough about street art to be authentic but can discuss Renaissance techniques with old-money clients.
The man who dates beautiful women but never quite commits.
The success story of someone who escaped poverty but still drinks with childhood friends in a seedy bar.
All carefully balanced, like the most delicate pieces in my gallery. One wrong move and everything shatters.
“You know we don’t care, right?” Mike says quietly while Derek’s distracted by his phone.
I don’t pretend to misunderstand. “Nothing to care about,” I mutter, examining the amber liquid in my glass like it’s a particularly interesting exhibit.
I take another sip of whiskey, letting the burn distract me from Mike’s knowing look. My throat tightens as memories surface—unwanted but persistent.
“Nothing to care about,” I repeat, more to convince myself than him.
The truth is, I’ve spent my entire life building walls around certain parts of myself. The gallery, the refined accent, the image—they’re all part of the fortress I’ve constructed. But none of those walls are as thick as the ones guarding my sexuality.
Mom made her feelings crystal clear when I was nine.
My cousin Thomas had come out, and I still remember her reaction—the disgust twisting her features as she ranted about those people and how they were going to hell.
“No son of mine,” she’d said, not knowing I was listening from the hallway, clutching my school project with trembling hands.
We were barely making rent back then. Dad had left, and Mom was working double shifts. I knew, even at that young age, that her love came with conditions. One wrong move—one admission about the confusing feelings I had for boys in my class—and I’d be out on the street.
So, I learned to hide. Dated girls exclusively. Pushed down any other desires. I got good at it—so good that sometimes I almost convinced myself.
Even now, with my own place, my own money, my own life, I can’t shake Mom’s voice—it still echoes in my head whenever I look too long at a man, like that bartender.
“You survived by keeping this part of yourself locked away,” my therapist said once, years ago, before I stopped going. “But surviving isn’t the same as living.”
I drag my attention back to the present, to Mike’s concerned face across the table. He’s waiting for some admission, but I can’t give it to him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.