Hudson
Here’s the thing about being sidelined: it sucks. And not in the good way.
I’d barely been home for an hour, and I already felt like I was losing my mind. Everything was too quiet. The ice machine in the fridge sounded like it was mocking me every time it dropped a cube. My stitched-up foot throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache—a constant reminder that I, Knight, was currently banned from doing anything fun.
No beach. No walks. No rooftop margaritas with scandalous company.
Just me. My foot. And a house that looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine for boring people.
I limped to the kitchen, one crutch dragging behind me like a disobedient child. The other I’d abandoned somewhere near the entryway because I was too stubborn to admit I needed both. I leaned my weight on my good leg and tested my wounded one. It was tolerable—if I didn’t fully commit to standing on it. Kind of like my last three relationships. Supportive from a distance, but not reliable under pressure.
“You’re fine,”
I muttered to myself, shuffling to the bar cart.
“Just a little flesh wound. Totally manageable. Probably doesn’t even need stitches. Probably could’ve used duct tape and a prayer.”
I eyed the booze options like a castaway, searching for fresh water.
Tequila? Tempting.
Vodka? Too basic.
Whiskey? Too dramatic.
My fingers landed on a bottle of mezcal—smoky, brooding, with just enough bite to match my mood.
I poured a generous amount over ice in a heavy tumbler, then added a splash of lime juice. Not for balance. Just to feel like I was doing something culinary.
“Cheers, asshole,”
I muttered to my reflection in the glass. I took a sip and felt the sting of smoke and citrus. It was exactly what I needed.
The house was too big for one person, which I normally loved—it gave the illusion of power. But right now, it just echoed. Every breath sounded like a sigh. Every footstep a ghost of good times gone to hell. I dragged myself to the living room, kicked my stitched foot up on an ottoman like some tragic war veteran, and sighed dramatically.
“Maybe I should post something,”
I mumbled.
“Make a TikTok. ‘Crippled, but cute.’ That could trend, right?”
I stared at my phone but didn’t open any apps. I didn’t want to be seen today. Not like this. Not stitched up and sulking like a B-list actor who got written out of a soap opera.
I looked out the window instead.
The ocean was doing its thing, all majestic and endless and unaffected. Meanwhile, I was stuck inside, feeling like someone had pressed pause on my chaos.
And then there was Miles.
Miles freaking Whitaker.
Regal posture, well-structured cheekbones, perfectly irritated every time I opened my mouth. He should’ve left me on the beach to bleed out in front of the tourists. But no—he wrapped my foot, helped me hobble, drove me to the hospital in his lemon-scented SUV. The man smelled like Gwenyth Paltrow’s linen closet and compassion, and it was frankly disturbing.
Even worse, he’d been nice.
Like, actually nice. Not the fake, PR-trained, Instagram-caption kind of nice. He was quiet, sure, but he’d listened. He hadn’t mocked me for panicking when the doctor said no beach. He didn’t even flinch when I apologized, which, frankly, should’ve earned him a medal.
I took another drink and leaned my head back.
Was there a possibility—however slim—that Miles didn’t totally despise me?
No. Impossible.
…Okay, maybe not impossible.
I reached for the remote and flicked on the TV, but nothing held my attention. Cooking shows made me hungry. News segments made me anxious. And real estate shows made me feel like I should have invested in land instead of liver damage.
Eventually, I gave up and stared at the ceiling.
“Fuck, I’m bored,”
I groaned.
“I should start a podcast. Or a cult.”
The mezcal was warming me nicely now. I was almost content—if I ignored the fact that I had stitches, mild domestic delirium, and was starting to wonder what Miles was doing. Probably color-coding his pantry or doing yoga in a cashmere robe.
And yet… I kind of wanted to see him again.
Ugh.
I swirled my glass and gave myself a look.
“Get a grip, . You’re not catching feelings. You’re catching cabin fever.”
Still, the image of him—shirtless, annoyingly calm, holding gauze like a war medic—lingered in my mind like a hangover I didn’t want to shake.
I sighed and took another sip.
Then, suddenly, I could feel a sharp intensity of pain reach my foot again.
Well, shit.
So, apparently, when a doctor says to stay off your foot, they mean it. But I’d been vertical for all of two minutes just to get a drink—clomping around like a drunk flamingo, mind you—and I could already tell this was going to be one hell of a miserable experience.
I wasn’t built for confinement. I was built for movement. For flirtation. For scandal. For at least three different types of tequila before noon. Sitting still wasn’t my thing—unless I was posing, and even then, only if the lighting was good.
I stood at the edge of my living room, one crutch leaning against the wall like it offended me, and my weight awkwardly shifted onto my good foot. The stitched one throbbed ever so slightly, like a drunk ex who didn’t know when to stop texting. It wasn’t excruciating—just enough to remind me I was, in fact, still fragile. God forbid.
This? This was unacceptable. Knight did not suffer in silence. He threw noise, distraction, and at least one glitter bomb. If I couldn’t go out and own Baltimore Avenue tonight, then hell, I was going to bring Baltimore Avenue to me.
I sank onto the couch and pulled my phone from the side table. Time to start planning the most ridiculous, last-minute, mid-recovery soirée Rehoboth Beach had ever seen.
First, the guest list.
I scrolled through my recent contacts—some met at Diego’s nightclub, then there were the usual crowds at Aqua, others at that brunch place with bottomless bellinis, and one guy who sold me overpriced sunscreen but had abs that could convince me to buy anything.
I started typing:
Hey. What are you doing tonight? I’m throwing something. You in? If so, feel free to bring friends.
Copy. Paste. Send. Send. Send.
The replies started coming in almost immediately:
I’m so in.
Wait, are you serious?
Hell yeah. Can I bring two friends?
God, I was fucking good at this.
I messaged a few of the local drag queens I’d met at Aqua and Purple Parrot last week. Told them there was a pool, a sound system, and unlimited drinks. One of them replied with a GIF of a wig being snatched, so I assumed that was a yes.
I made a list of what I’d need:
Music? Check. I had speakers that could shake the walls.
Drinks? Check.
Lighting? I’d have to call my assistant to hire someone to come over and have it set up or otherwise, improvise. However, I owned a few disco balls because, of course, I did. Now, there was just the theme to pick out.
Did I need a theme?
Hell yeah, I did.
I sat back, twirling my glass, squinting at the ceiling like inspiration would fall from the air vents.
Poolside Debauchery? Crutches & Cocktails?
Bash the Beach felt too aggressive.
Operation: Don’t Let Be Bored was too honest.
Then it hit me.
Castaway Chic. Dress code: resort trash. Think mesh tanks, wide-brim hats, open shirts, and enough cologne to gag a bloodhound.
Perfect.
I sent out the invite, followed it with a playlist link, and threw in a photo of my stitched-up foot as the cover image. Caption: “Still hotter than your ex.”
I glanced around the house. There was prep to be done. Pillows to fluff. Fragile things to hide. Candles to light for ambiance, not that I could reach most of them with one good leg and a crutch. So, I texted my assistant and told her to send people out to me, pronto, to get this shit done.
I took another drink and dragged myself to the window, watching the beach like I was waiting for a parade. This was happening. This was genius. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner?
If I couldn’t have the town’s attention by waltzing around its bars, I’d steal it by turning my house into the epicenter of summer scandal. And maybe, just maybe, I’d catch a certain neighborly, neatly folded bundle of neuroses peeking through his windows when the music started.
Not that I cared.
But if he happened to wander over…
Well…
I trudged back to the bar cart and poured another mezcal on the rocks. To the party. To my foot. To being ridiculous and refusing to let a few stitches slow me down.
Knight was fucking back, baby.
And tonight?
Tonight was going to be unforgettable.