Beau
Losing Rein was the single worst thing that's ever happened to me. Worse than the accident itself. Worse than the months of physiotherapy and rehab that followed. Worse than the doctor telling me I’d never play again.
Rein is an oasis in an otherwise supremely fucked-up and dysfunctional family. In all of our years of friendship, we steered clear of generations-old deals and financial fuckovers. His family's money—and as a result, my family's lack thereof—never came between us. We didn't let it.
Until after the accident. When it did. In a big way. And he proved to me he was no oasis. He was exactly like the rest of his family.
His left eye twitches. As a kid, that meant he was on the verge of tears. Does it still hold true today, though? I have no idea. The man before me is a complete stranger.
A handsome stranger, blessed with the double good fortune of good genes and the moolah to show off his impressive physique in a navy crewneck and designer jeans that accentuate his thick legs to perfection.
His hair is still as black as ever, his eyes still that striking emerald green, a color that softens the sharp lines of his cheekbones and square jaw, and his skin looks impossibly smooth, like the fucker's barely aged at all.
Not that I'm checking him out. Rein was so supportive of me being gay when I came out to him in high school I swore to myself I'd never muddy the waters and act on my feelings for him.
I knew they wouldn't be reciprocated, and I didn't want to ruin what we had.
We were super close, and I knew Rein loved me.
As a friend. I made my peace that that's all we would ever be.
"A drink?" I repeat to buy more time since my thoughts have splintered in a dozen directions at once, none of them actually considering his offer.
"Yeah."
His gaze drifts to the Gilberton Resort and Casino on the other side of the road.
The very resort and casino his family built, developed, and runs on land my family disputes and believes belongs to us.
It's become one of the region's biggest tourist drawcards and sprouted a nationwide casino empire that places the Winkelmanns firmly within the top hundred wealthiest families in America.
"There?" I ask.
He swallows. "Or somewhere else, if you prefer?"
"No. It's fine."
"Great."
We get into our cars, and I follow him into the parking lot. The VIP parking lot, naturally, where he says something to the gate attendant because the guy waves me in with a big, friendly smile.
The walk from the lot takes us along manicured paths lined with boxwoods and softly lit ground lanterns.
The sound of water from a small fountain mingles with distant music drifting from the lobby.
The tall glass doors hiss open, and warm air spills out, scented with woodsmoke and roasted coffee, and the soft, steady ding of slot machines comes from deeper inside.
It's no Vegas—which is a good thing in my opinion—and the place has a unique, relaxed yet still high rollery vibe all of its own.
We walk in silence as he guides me through a labyrinth of carpeted aisles, past gaming tables and intimate lounges tucked behind heavy curtains, finally pulling up at a quiet corner table in a small alcove just far enough from the gaming floor that the noise fades to a soft background hum.
"What'll you have?" he asks, raising his hand. A server materializes at our table a nanosecond later.
"A Coke is fine."
He orders two Cokes and gets some loaded fries to share. When he tells the server "With pickled jalapenos on the side" my stupid heart clenches. He remembered.
"You still a freak and eat 'em?" he asks, grinning.
"You still a pussy who won't?" Then, "Sorry," I say sheepishly to the server who smiles politely and leaves.
Rein is looking at me, still grinning, and I'd forgotten how much that transforms his face.
The black hair/green eye combo leaves him looking more serious than he really is, and so whenever he grins or smiles, it's like the real him comes out.
The goofball. The idiot. The guy who could always make me laugh harder than anyone else.
"So, how have you been?" I say, and I instantly cringe on the inside. I've never had game, but that was truly pathetic. Even by my own low standards.
"That's a big question. How many years have passed?"
"Almost fifteen," I murmur under my breath.
"Where does it go?" he says, letting out a low whistle. "That's a long time."
"Sure is."
The server returns with our drinks and fries, placing the pickled jalapenos on my side of the table.
"Thank you," I say, forking a little bit of everything—fries, cheese, bacon—then adding a jalapeno on top for some bite.
Rein looks at me, like he's amused that I haven't changed. But if that's the impression he's under, he's in for a rude awakening because I have changed in a lot of ways since our friendship ended. My new number one rule: never let anyone fuck me over…no matter how close we are.
He takes a slow sip of his Coke. "Thanks for agreeing to this."
I shrug. "You did ram into me and almost kill me."
Rein grins. "I barely touched your bumper."
"But have I told you yet that bumper is lined with gold on the inside? It's going to be a very expensive fix. I hope you're on the highest insurance tier."
His grin turns into a smile, and I despise myself for how much I love seeing it. How much just sitting down with the guy feels so damn good. Just like old times.
But we're not in the past, we're in the now, and a Coke and some loaded fries can't gloss over the decade and a half of pain and hurt and confusion he caused. He broke my fucking heart.
"What brings you back home?" he asks, lifting a fry, eyeing the pickled jalapenos like they're aliens with multiple heads.
"Some business."
"Oh."
The muscle in his jaw ticks, another tell, this one for itching to know what sort of business. Maybe it's petty of me, but I don't feel like getting into the details with him. I don't owe him anything.
"What about you?"
"Visiting family. And some business of my own."
I fork the fries a little more aggressively than needed, topping them off with two pickled jalapenos, mad at myself for wanting to know more while happily depriving him of the same.
It's strange, sitting across from someone who once knew me better than anyone and is now a complete stranger.
I'm not bitter about the accident or that it killed my pro career.
When I recovered, I moved into coaching.
Yeah, it was in the minor league, and people might look down their noses at it, but it makes me happy.
Unlike the memories I have of my former friend and what he did after the accident.
I let out a disgruntled sigh.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.