Chapter 2 Tyler
"I’m outta here!" I call, even though no one’s really listening as I zip through the living room toward the front door. Golden light spills through the open windows, bouncing off every surface and filling my parents’ Palm Springs house with cozy warmth.
The faint scent of sawdust tells me that Dad is in the garage, probably working on another wood masterpiece. Ever since he sold his construction business and retired, creating things with his hands has been his jam.
Mom’s been cooking up a feast all morning. Last night, I arrived pretty late and all I really did with my folks was drink some tea in front of the TV and chat about my latest gig before I turned in for the night. The traffic was insane on the way from LA, and I needed some serious sleep.
"But you just got here." Mom emerges from the kitchen before I reach the door. There’s some flour in her hair, and the apron she’s wearing over her dress has several splashes of red on it.
"I’ll be back in a few hours."
She moves to stand in front of me and holds my face in her hands like she did when I was five. Then she plants a kiss on my cheek.
"Mom, come on," I mutter. "I'm not a baby."
"You'll always be my baby," she says with a wide smile.
I pull away gently, determined to make it to my car without further embarrassment.
"Will you be back for dinner?" she asks.
"Probably."
"Are you seeing Jon?"
I nod. "Yes."
"Tell him I said hi."
Jon Sheppe is the only high school friend I still keep in touch with. He’s in real estate now and was actually the one who helped me buy this place for my parents seven years ago.
"Will do, Mom," I reply, scrambling for the door. "I’m running late. I’ll see you."
"Have fun, baby. Don’t drink too much, and don’t get in any trouble that’ll land you in the tabloids."
Yes, that’s Colette Brady for you. At first, my mother didn’t understand my need to create music.
Like all good mothers, she pushed for college.
But eventually, she came to terms with my calling.
I know that these days, she secretly enjoys the fact her son is famous and makes decent money.
I mean, what parents wouldn’t? Especially when I got her this six-bedroom house in the very affluent part of Palm Springs.
Outside, I jump into my Audi and peel out of the driveway. The engine hums and the open desert flashes by in fragments of the past as I cruise through the neighborhood and toward the freeway.
I’m not sure why I didn’t ask Jon to meet somewhere else besides the Sageview Casino. Maybe I’m a coward. Maybe it was easier to go with the flow than to explain that I’m avoiding Naomi Medina, who coincidentally owns a business inside that very same casino.
Yes, I’ve been quietly following her on social media all these years from a dummy Instagram account. She’s done well for herself, and that’s the only reason I don’t feel like what I did to her was a mistake. Maybe she wouldn’t have gotten where she is now by simply being my girlfriend in LA.
Just as I start to relax into the high school memories of us, I hear a distinct siren yelp behind me. Red and blue lights fill my mirrors.
Fuck.
So much for not getting in trouble.
I tap the brakes and coast onto the shoulder.
The cruiser halts behind me with a soft squeal of tires on asphalt.
Leaning over, I pop open the glove compartment, its usual mess revealing my crumpled registration paper buried under receipts.
As I grab it, I catch sight of movement in the side mirror—the sheriff's silhouette strides toward me, his hand casually resting near his holstered weapon like he’s in an old Western-movie showdown.
He reaches my window, and his knuckles give a casual rap against the glass. Only his standard-issue uniform is visible to me until I press the button and watch as the window glides down with a smooth whir.
The wind carries in the scent of hot tar mixed with just-cut grass. Standing there, he dips his head down into view and says, "License and registration, please."
At first, my mind is a little confused. But there’s no mistaking that jawline or those intense dark-brown—almost black—eyes or those criminally thick Medina lashes or that freckle on his right cheekbone. Adrian Medina. Always out to get me, just like I remember.
"Adri?" I choke out.
"Ty," he replies with a poker face as if we’d never lived next door to each other while growing up.
"Is that how you say hello these days?"
"You were going ninety in a sixty-five zone."
I look at my dashboard as if I’m going to see proof of my wrongdoing, but the car in is neutral. "Sorry, man. I guess I got distracted."
"Distraction kills people," he says grimly. "License and registration."
I hand him the paperwork. "Sorry. I promise I wasn’t showing off."
"Sure." He scans the documents and returns them to me.
"I had no idea you were a sheriff now," I admit.
I think my mother mentioned "the Medina boy” became a deputy some time ago during one of those brief phone conversations. But my mind is interesting. It blocks out all news related to Sageview Ridge unless it’s regarding Naomi. Somehow, I missed the fact that her brother is a big deal.
"You don’t visit," Adri replies, pulling out a citation book from the side pocket of his shirt.
"Just busy."
"I’m sure." He scribbles something on the pad, tears the page out, and hands it to me. "You better watch your speed next time."
I take the paper and stare at it for a second. "A ticket? Really?" I glance up at him.
"What? You think you’re an exception because you were part of that hotshot band back in the day?"
"It was an honest oversight."
"Stay away from my sister, Brady," Adri then says all of sudden.
His voice is flat, but it lands like a punch to the gut. Without a single word, he starts walking back to his cruiser.
It takes a while before I can force my eyes away from the mirror and get back on the road.
I’m still pissed at Adri for writing me the ticket when I pull up to the casino parking lot fifteen minutes later. I sit in my car for a moment while my phone goes off with several texts from Jon, who’s already inside and on his second drink.
Finally, I shove the ticket into the glove compartment, grab my baseball cap from the passenger seat, and climb out of the Audi.
Even this time of year, the desert here is harsh—dry and barren—though it’s also comfortably familiar.
Sageview Casino & Resort looming in front of me is all practical architecture, neon lights, and colorful signs coaxing the passers-by to enter with the promise of a win.
It’s on the edge of town and I can see the city stretching out on one side of the building and the San Jacinto mountains on the other.
The way the past rolls over me like the tide, pulling me in and forcing my head under the waves, is overwhelming. I try to avoid reflecting on the years I spent in this town, yet the nostalgia keeps flooding back.
I shake it off and head inside. There, reality disappears and, and instead, I’m surrounded by the decorated walls and vibrant carpeting, the ding of the slot machines, and people’s chatter.
I move past the rows of blackjack tables and turn right, heading toward the bar.
There’s an acoustic band in the far-right corner, and they don’t sound too bad. Only, the guitars are drowned out by the casino noise.
I haven’t been here in a long time. During one of those short holiday visits when my family still lived next to the Medinas, I think a couple of buddies and me came down for a night of drinking.
Besides the three subpar joints downtown, this is the only place in Sageview Ridge for people to let loose and have fun. It’s not like LA, where any day of the week, you can just go to a new spot.
But she wasn’t here then. She was somewhere in Europe, working with some world-famous chef.
At least, that’s what her Insta said. Running into her then wasn’t possible.
But now that Naomi Medina has a restaurant of her own in this casino, the probability of crossing paths with my high school sweetheart—who hates my guts—is very high.
What’s worse—I wouldn’t know what to say to her.
By the time I get to the bar, my heart is beating a drum solo in my chest. I'm more wired than when Adri pulled me over. Thankfully, Jon picked a spot on the opposite side of the casino floor, and I ended up not even seeing her place in passing.
I find my friend in a booth near the back wall. It's quieter here. More private too. Less chance people will approach me for an autograph. I don’t feel like being Tyler Brady from The Deviant. I just want to be Ty for a few hours.
"Hey, Brady." Jon extends his hand for a shake. "I didn’t think you’d show." He’s all business. Dress slacks. White shirt. Expensive cologne. No one would have guessed Skinny J from The Rejects would be selling million-dollar mansions to the rich for a living.
"Got pulled over," I admit. "By Adri fucking Medina."
"No shit?" I know that grin, and I know that pitcher of beer on the table. We’ve done this before. He's already filling up my glass when I sit down. "Guy’s got a grudge against you."
"Looks like he does."
"I remember you two were inseparable our first year of high school. And then nothing. You have a fight because of his sister? He always seemed like the protective type."
"Ah, you know how it is when you’re a teenager," I reply vaguely.
"True, true." Jon waves at the waitress. "Honestly, I never even understood how you were friends in the first place. I figured he'd hate your guts by default since you had your eye on Naomi. Besides, freshmen and seniors don’t mix. That's just against high-school hierarchy, man."
"It’s ancient history anyway."
The waitress appears, and the topic of Adri Medina and our strange friendship is forgotten. And honestly, I’d like for it to remain that way.
"So," Jon says once we’ve placed our orders and the waitress is gone. "What's it like being a big deal, huh?"
I laugh into the glass, almost spitting out my beer. "You ask me this every time I see you. It’s a mess," I say, then add, "but it beats math class."
He raises his drink, and I follow. "We didn’t do much of that anyway, as I recall. More pranks than homework."
He’s not wrong. "Yeah. My mother still can’t understand why my grades were so poor."
Jon chuckles. "Ruined her dreams of having a son with a bachelor’s degree."
"That I did."
"How long you sticking around for this time?"
"Not sure yet. Was going to say my goodbyes to Jose Medina," I reply, matching his nonchalance. I wonder if he can tell how uncertain I really am.
"Ah. That’s right. You were neighbors for what, all of our high school years and then some? Until you moved your folks into that place I hustled for you in Palm Springs."
"Yes. He was a good man. Always telling stories. Funny as hell. It’s a crappy situation for his family.
" Somehow, the conversation is back to the Medinas, and it’s making me anxious.
Whenever they come into the picture, I feel like my secrets are about to unravel.
And I don’t know if I’m ready for the world to see me all exposed, to see the real Tyler Brady.
He's been gone for so long, there's no point in resurrecting him.
"Hey, we should jam while you're in town," Jon says. "Reunion tour." He smirks. "See if we still got it."
I laugh a little. "You think anyone remembers us?"
"The Rejects were the shit back in the day. No other high school cover band better than us. We sang those Poison songs better than Bret Michaels."
Obviously, it’s a lie. We were passable at best. "You talk to anyone else? Lee or Nestor?"
"Been a while. I know Nestor went to LA. To do stand-up. But we haven’t been in touch. I thought he would’ve reached out to you."
I shake my head. "Never heard from him. What about Lee?"
"Last I heard, he was in medical school," Jon supplies.
"Lee? Our lead singer Lee?"
"I know. I was also surprised when I found out. But I have no clue where he is now. His family moved somewhere too."
"Anyone around at all?"
"A few." He shrugs, keeping it casual. "Pratt, mostly."
I roll my eyes and let out a groan. "Pratt? Is he still a douche?"
Jon chuckles and leans back, the picture of confidence.
"More than ever." He drinks half his beer in one go and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s already tipsy, so he’s not trying to keep up appearances anymore.
"He’s been divorced twice. Got a son from first marriage.
The boy lives with the mother. I think the kid spends weekends with Pratt.
Asshole still strutting around like he owns the world, though. "
"I’d expect nothing less." I let out a low laugh. "He’s always been a bully. Any woman willing to stay with him is either crazy or blind. Too bad fatherhood didn't change him."
Jon finishes the last of his beer, and I finish mine, and we sit there, empty glasses and full hearts. Then the waitress comes back with our food, and we dig in.
"Hey," Jon starts. "Are you still seeing that cute wrestler from Brazil?"
I shake my head. "That's been over for a while now."
"Pity. She was hot."
"We didn't click. Plus our schedules never worked."
He nods, then supplies, a little more serious, "It’s really good seeing you. You hardly ever visit."
Funny, he’s the second person who’s told me that today.
"Don’t get all mushy on me, man," I say. I mean it as a joke, but it doesn’t land like one.
"Just don’t disappear again, okay? Not like before."
I want to tell him I won’t, but I simply shake my head and laugh because I don’t know if it would be the truth. There’s nothing but the bad blood between me and the Medina siblings to keep me in this town.