Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“You didn’t get that growing up in Claremont Shores,” he continues, voice calm and patient. “You didn’t have spaces like this. But you do now. And you’re not walking in alone.” His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “I’ll be right there the entire time.”
I close my eyes, taking a few steady breaths.
The odds of running into someone I know here are slim—but not impossible. Fear gnaws at me from the inside out, sharp and relentless.
But above the terror, there’s something softer.
Excitement. Hope, even. Like maybe I could walk through those doors and not feel so goddamn alone.
Like maybe I could stand beside Troy—close enough to touch—and the sky wouldn’t fall.
Like maybe holding his hand in public wouldn’t mean the end of everything.
“Okay,” I finally say, barely above a whisper.
Troy’s smile is soft, proud. He leans over, presses a quick kiss to my temple, then climbs out of the van.
I feel numb as I climb out too, moving on autopilot. The air smells like asphalt and beer and something fried drifting from inside the bar. Together, we unload the cider kegs, stacking them carefully onto a trolley. The metal clinks softly as Troy shuts the van doors and grips the handle.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
I nod, even though my pulse is pounding in my ears.
Trailing behind Troy like a shadow, I follow him inside.
The second the door shuts behind us, the world shifts.
It’s nothing like Old Harbor Tavern. Colored lights slice through the dim space, flashing pink and blue across the crowd.
Electronic music pounds through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the soles of my boots.
The dance floor is wide and packed—bodies moving together in a way that feels fearless.
On an elevated stage, a drag queen DJ commands the room in a short red dress and towering beehive wig, manicured nails flying over a laptop as she bobs to the beat.
The whole room smells like sweat and heat and the promise of sex. It nearly knocks me off my feet.
Troy, meanwhile, looks completely at home. He navigates through the crowd with steady confidence, guiding the trolley toward the bar at the far end of the room.
Behind it stands a tall, slender man with medium-brown skin and long black hair pulled into a neat bun. He smiles when he sees Troy approach.
“Troy,” the man says warmly, stepping forward to shake his hand.
“Craig,” Troy replies easily.
They shake hands and smile at each other. Troy starts unloading the kegs, lifting them one by one with flexed muscles and maneuvering them behind the bar.
Craig’s gaze shifts to me.
“And you must be Ashton,” he says, offering his hand across the counter. “Owner of the orchard.”
I force myself forward, uncrossing my arms. My hand feels stiff and foreign when I place it in his. “Yeah,” I manage. “That’s me.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” Craig says with an easy grin. “I’ve heard good things. I’m really looking forward to selling your cider—I have a feeling it’s going to be a hit.”
“Oh,” I say, blinking. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
Behind us, Troy slides the final keg into place and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Appreciate you taking a chance on a small local brewery,” he says.
Craig waves him off. “Of course. I like supporting other queer-owned businesses.”
My stomach flips.
I know Troy isn’t completely closeted like I am. He doesn’t deny his sexuality to those who ask, but he hasn’t made some grand announcement to the local community either.
So how the hell does Craig know?
“Why don’t you guys stay for a drink, maybe dance a little?” Craig suggests, nudging Troy’s shoulder. “You came all this way. Might as well have some fun before you head back home.”
I immediately shake my head. “No, we have to go—”
“We’d love to,” Troy cuts in smoothly, squeezing Craig’s shoulder. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
Craig grins like he’s been expecting that answer all along. “Good. I’ll make you our specialty.”
He moves swiftly behind the bar, grabbing bottles of liquor and a shaker. Ice clatters against metal, liquid splattering on the bartop as he pours. He slides two glasses in front of us, each rimmed with sugar and glowing a suspicious shade of purple.
“What is it?” Troy asks, amused.
“It’s called the Bi-Bi Berry,” Craig says with a wink. “Thought you’d appreciate it.”
Troy barks out a laugh. “Love it!”
Heat floods my face so fast I’m sure it’s visible even in the dim lights.
Troy thanks Craig, grabbing one of the glasses and passing the other to me. The glass is cold in my hand. I take a cautious sip. It’s sweet with a tart afterbite, definitely heavy on the alcohol.
Thank God.
Troy’s fingers lace through mine before I can second-guess anything. “C’mon,” he says, tugging gently.
He leads me toward the center of the dance floor. The music swells as we step into the crowd, bass vibrating through my chest. Bodies press close on all sides, moving without hesitation. I take another sip of my drink, hoping it’ll dull the tension coiled in my stomach.
Troy’s hand slides to my waist, warm and firm. He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes my ear as we start to move—nothing complicated, just swaying to the beat.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs.
I huff a quiet laugh. “I’m standing.”
“That counts.”
I hesitate, then tilt my head toward him. “How did Craig know?”
Troy snickers softly. Instead of answering, he sets his drink down on a nearby ledge and points to his forearm. I’ve seen the tattoo a hundred times—a butterfly. The wings are detailed, beautiful, colored with blue, purple, and pink stripes.
I blink at it, confused.
He arches a brow. “You really never put that together?”
“Put what together?”
“It’s a bi Pride tattoo,” he says, amusement lacing his voice. He runs his finger lightly along the ink. “Those are the colors of the bisexual Pride flag. I got it when I was eighteen—my first tattoo.”
I stare at the stripes again, realization dawning slowly.
“It’s subtle,” he continues. “Most straight people just think it’s a pretty color combo, but other queer people usually clock it.”
The music pulses around us, lights flashing over the ink as his arm moves.
“So Craig saw that and just… knew?” I ask.
“Probably,” Troy says. “Or maybe he just picked up on my vibe.”
“Your vibe,” I repeat weakly.
He grins and pulls me closer, his hand firm at my waist. “We don’t have to hide here, baby. You’re safe, okay?” His hips rock subtly forward, brushing his crotch against my thigh in time with the music. “Just let loose for once in your life.”
A shudder races through me as he sways with me, tucking his face into the curve of my neck.
He presses a slow kiss to my collarbone, and my eyes flutter shut as the strobe lights flash around us.
His black hair grazes beneath my nose, and I breathe him in—heady notes of woody cologne and citrus shampoo that have become my favorite scents.
The bass pounds through my ribs.
I force myself to look around, relieved to find that nobody is staring at us. Nobody cares. They’re all minding their own business, grinding against their partners, drunk and carefree and unafraid.
The realization settles over me like a steadying hand.
Inhaling a shaky breath, I slide my fingers beneath Troy’s chin and lift his face from my neck.
He blinks up at me, confused but pliant, his grip still strong at my waist. The lights catch in his brown eyes, glinting off the silver ring in his brow.
Sweat dampens the strands of black hair clinging to his forehead.
He’s breathtaking, and he’s all mine.
I close the distance between us and kiss him. The sweetness of the cocktail lingers between us, bright and fruity against the heat of his mouth. His hand tightens at my waist, and I feel the way he exhales into the kiss—surprised for half a second before he melts into it.
The music swells, and instead of pulling away, I lean in closer. My hands slide up to his shoulders. I let my body move with his, let the rhythm take over, let the heat and light and laughter wrap around us.
In a few hours, I’ll be back in Claremont Shores, slipping into the protective armor I’ve spent years perfecting. I’ll go back to being Ashton Tremblay—the responsible son, the heir to the orchard, the weight of legacy resting squarely on my shoulders.
But tonight, I don’t want to be that version of myself.
Tonight, I just want to be Ash. A guy who wants to dance with his sexy boyfriend without a care in the world. A guy who wants to have a few drinks and have fun for once in his life.
Tonight, I choose this.
I choose the steady pressure of his hand at my waist. The kaleidoscope of colored lights flashing across his tan skin. The simple, radical act of kissing him in a crowded room.
For one fleeting night, I let myself exist without apology.
And when Troy smiles at me—wide and bright and daring—I smile back just as freely.