Out of the Blues
Whoever said you can’t go home again should change that to should not go home again. As in EVER!
Mason Foxworth swore on his grandmother’s bible never to return to the small Georgia town he sort of grew up in. And for eight years he’d succeeded in keeping that promise. Until his twin sister decided she needed to get married…back home…and she’d invited their parents. Wasn’t this going to be a just a fabulous weekend?
Since leaving the Marines, Kilby Adams rarely ever left his farm and now here he was in Georgia, as best man at his stepbrother’s wedding. Out of his comfort zone and with too many people that he doesn’t know Kilby has nothing to keep his mind off the past except the gorgeous brother of the bride.
And wouldn’t you just know it, there was only one room left at the Inn and Kilby would have to share it, with Mason, who was straight and….yeah, this was going to be one hell of a weekend.
In which Mason goes to hell via the ATL.
My flight home was a nightmare. The redeye meant coming through Atlanta at the ass crack of morning. I left California the night before only to be delayed in Denver for a freak snow storm. Of course, I’d spent the night sitting in the airport praying that the snow would get worse so I wouldn’t have to fly home, but that didn’t happen. So, Atlanta at six in the morning Eastern Standard Time and I’d landed to find out I was delayed again.
I stared at the screen that should have my next flight listed only to see the flashing delayed of my worst nightmares.
Okay, so, I could think of this as a sign. Denver was a more welcome sign. I could have stayed in Denver for a couple of days. Called the family and said, “Sorry, snowed in, in the Mile High City, can’t be helped.” That would have been that.
A four-hour delay in Atlanta would mean someone would be here in less than three and I’d be driving home with some great-aunt gray hair, or worse, some uncle cousin Bubba. Not happening.
I pulled up the rental app on my phone and thumbed through until I found something I could drive back home in style. No fucking Prius. Hell no to the Honda. I settled on a nice black Charger, not too big, not too small. Not a pussy coming home to get his ass kicked car.
I found the get the fuck out of dodge directions and dragged my slightly over-sized rolling bag along, not caring who got in my way. Fuck them, I’d been traveling for nearly twenty hours. I stopped to grab a coffee when my nose detected the delectable aromas of strong fucking coffee…Venti, stat. Hell yeah, I want it as thick with caffeine as it can legally be because I had to drive myself to fucking backwoods Georgia for my sister’s wedding.
I was so fucking not doing this.
The barista seemed concerned when he handed me off my shot of death in a cup. “Wedding,” I mumbled between sips so hot that my tongue screamed for a paramedic. “Sister. Daddy’s little princess.”
“My condolences,” the guy said with a wink. I was too tired to wonder more than a moment or two why guys always flirted with me.
I mean, seriously? Did I come off as…well, hell, maybe it was the hair. Maybe it was the clothes. My sister wasn’t the only one raised by our mother. She wasn’t the only one who’d been in a beauty pageant. I shuddered. There were pictures of those days before my father put his cleat down.
Not that football was my thing either. Or any sports. Okay, I liked baseball. I liked going to the games. I loved when we’d come to Atlanta to a Braves game and then shopping for school clothes.
Because I was a big old princess just like Harper.
The guy winked again and I realized I said that out loud. So I remembered that I had a car to go rent and a long damned drive through this fucking city and I needed to get going before someone really did sic one of the aunts or crazy uncles on me.
Getting the car wasn’t the problem, getting out of the airport and onto the interstate was much more complicated than I imagined.
I mean, I have been to Atlanta, many times in fact, but I’d never actually driven here. And this place was insane.
So, finally on the road and into pre-rush hour traffic. I live in California. Okay, it’s Napa, not L.A. I’m more into making wine than wining and dining. Okay, so I was into being a small-time lawyer who helped out part-time on my girlfriend’s family’s vineyard. Or I had until Glory had found one of the farm boys to more her taste. I hadn’t been back in nearly six months. And I missed…what exactly?
The taxi driver behind me laid on his horn and I realized the light had turned green and I could finally get onto the interstate. I floored it. Forgetting what it was I missed about Glory besides her family and her vineyard.
Maybe I just liked knowing there were people who could function as adults and not run around like grown children when they fought over how their children should be raised.
Divorce sucks by the way.
Being a child of divorced rich people with huge damned egos sucked even more.
Yes, my parents are divorced. Yes, my parents are rich. Yes, my parents are famous. My mother was a model. She still does some modeling I suppose. She’d even acted in a few movies. Thankfully, she had the foresight to have a stage name or I’d never have made it through college without dying of shame.
My father was problem enough. I’d grown up the disappointment in the family. I was supposed to follow my dad into the NFL. I looked more like my mother than even my sister did. When I was fourteen I was six foot nothing and skinny as a fence post with long brown hair and a massive chip on my shoulder. I wouldn’t have lasted a day in professional football.
I am considerably taller than six feet now. I am taller than my dad which seemed to piss him off more often than not. I am still skinny. I have big hands and feet. A gift from him. And I assume that part of my body that goes along with the big hands and feet package was inherited from him as well.
I have never seen either of my parents naked. Or my sister. I saw a cousin naked once. He…yes, it was a he…he stripped down to his birthday suit and chased me around his pool one afternoon when we were thirteen.
I changed lanes when the GPS told me to change lanes and drained the rest of my coffee. My bladder wasn’t going to make it all the way home and I was going to need food sooner rather than later, but fuck if I was getting off this damned circle of hell until I was headed in the right direction because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get back on.
“Why is it always the dudes?” I asked when the talk radio jocks started chattering away about football and politics and the politics of having gays in football.
I’m not gay.
I’m not interested in football either.
I avoid politics and religion like the proverbial plague.
I changed the station looking for some easy listening. I found more talk.
The GPS on the dash told me to get in the right lane.
I missed hitting a semi by two inches.
I made it to my exit and found the first McDonalds and went in to take a piss, get something to eat, and a second cup of death, in that order.
An hour later I had nothing but farmland and country music for company.
I was wishing for the blizzard in Denver when the penis-on-wheels blew past me, horn blaring. The Semper Fi sticker in the back window came into view about the same time as the extended finger appeared out of the window.
Well, fuck you, too.
I got off at the next exit because I was not going to survive another hour without more coffee or an ice bath.
Unfortunately, the penis-on-wheels was parked in the only Starbucks lot in this part of the state.
Fuck me, sideways.