Page 6 of A Little Campfire Blues
That’s how his brother had put it.
The fucker.
Like his brother hadn’t always looked up to him and cheered him on when he’d been out there tearing it up on the football field. Axis deserved way better than he’d ever gotten from them.
And I’d deserved better than the way he’d treated me before he’d left.
Which took me back to some of the issues I still carried to this day. It was hard to move forward when I still clung to unresolved pieces of the past.
Like the love I still carried in my soul for him and Roman and the way I’d never been able to set those feelings aside to make room for someone else to fill the holes they’d left in my life.
That was the real reason I’d said yes to going to pride camp with Roman. Well, that and the fact that we’d talked about getting together now that I was returning home to take over the theater director position at the community playhouse. I both looked forward to it and dreaded it, though I hoped the dreadwould lessen, sharing a cabin and finally getting to really hash out some of the things we’d only touched on in video chats, long text message threads, and emails over the years.
One way or another, I’d know by the end of camp if the feelings I harbored were still the byproduct of childhood memories and my own stubbornness in clinging to old promises and dreams. If they were, then I hoped we could at least keep forging a new kind of friendship, though deep down, I knew I wanted them to be real. But more so, I wanted him to feel the same way.
I wanted him to want me the way I’d always wanted him. I wanted to hold his hand again and hear him tell me he loved me again. I needed to know that he was still my person, because I’d never stopped being his. I’d never stopped worrying every time I learned that he’d dropped from a chopper into the water to rescue survivors of some disaster. I’d never stopped being eager to hear the sound of his voice, his laughter, or his words of encouragement when I read aloud what I was struggling with. He always believed I’d get it right, even when I lacked the same faith in myself.
And deep down, I’d always hoped he could help me lay to rest the conflict I still wrestled with over Axis, because the end still cut as deep as it had that day, and the wound had never stopped bleeding, despite how hard I’d tried to make it stop.
Like the taste of orange creamsicle pops, it was branded into me in a way that no amount of indulgence ever seemed to fade.
Warm bodies, willing bodies—I’d accepted every shred of lustful attention people had sent my way, hoping to find the one who’d blot out the image of him that still burned bright in my mind.
Of the night he’d smeared sweetened cream cheese filling across my lips, winking as the girls at a nearby table giggled, right before he kissed it away.
And whispered,I love you.
Chapter Four
Mackenzie
If anyone had told me that I’d be heading to camp for the first time at thirty-eight years old, I’d have laughed my ass off and then asked what the hell they were smoking. Yet here I was, the bed of my pickup truck full of fishing gear, coolers, clothes, and two pairs of hiking boots, ready to see what the hell pride camp was all about.
Until discussion of it had started popping up among the message boards of the alternate lifestyle group I was a part of, I’d never even known something like it existed. A camp for queer people involved in the BDSM lifestyle? Yeah, my first thought was that someone had gotten their wires crossed somewhere and didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. Then I started digging into it, and holy shit, it was real.
I wasn’t the only one shocked to discover that truth either. A few of the men I’d spent time chatting with over the years had gotten excited about going. All of us were Daddy Doms, and two, Charles and Marius, were also pet handlers like me. Over the years, we’d bonded over the struggle to find partners who fulfilled all the desires we had to be both Daddy and handler, landing ourselves in situations riddled with jealousy, accusations, and tantrums that had led to the implosion of relationships.
It had been a year since I’d tried to get involved with anyone, having learned to spot the signs when someone I was interested in was after far less than I was. I couldn’t remember the exact moment when it had clicked for me that I was over one-night stands and fast flings that burned out after less than a month or two. They’d grown exhausting and left me disillusioned and bitterly wishing I could just be satisfied with having a fragment of my needs met.
Too bad I was a stubborn man who didn’t know how to tone it down or dial back the intensity I brought to everything I did. Even on the factory loading dock, where I worked from six in themorning until three in the afternoon, I strove to stay in motion, carrying two crates at a time every time and cranking on those straps until nothing moved when a truck rattled. It was just my way.
Back in my heyday, when I’d been touring as a part of a southern rock band, I’d played like a beast, sweat dripping off me while I slayed on my guitar. City to city, town to town, we rolled on for fifteen years. Unfortunately, during all that time on the road, we picked up some bad habits too. Drinking, indulging, and forgetting that the music industry is ever-changing. We sniffed our own hype and got drunk on it, wallowing in the successes and growing lazy.
It was a hell of a wakeup call when we failed to chart with the release we’d labored over for almost two years, and to my shame, none of us was able to rebound from that. Instead of getting our acts together, we allowed ourselves to be swallowed up by that failure, and not long after, the band fell apart. Kicking around the Memphis scene had been pointless after that, and I honestly hadn’t had the heart to try again with a new group of guys, even when the opportunity was offered to me. I’d tucked tail and returned home to Oregon, applied at the factory I’d worked at during my final years of high school, and settled into a life of early morning wakeups, grueling work, and evenings spent restlessly prowling, looking for something to fill the hole the loss of my music had left.
I still hadn’t found it, but along the way I’d learned how to be content with that. Whenever I was feeling too nostalgic, I loaded one of those old CDs and played along to it, fingers stiff and clumsy from disuse. At least I’d never lost the calluses I’d built up over years of sliding my fingertips up and down those strings, or I’d have bled all over the damned things.
Just thinking about playing left me glancing sideways, triple-checking that I’d remembered to pack my old girl. The websitementioned evening campfire get-togethers and encouraged anyone who played to bring their instruments along. The list of activities mentioned karaoke as well as a talent show, so Bertha, my acoustic-electric, was riding shotgun beside me the way she always had. I’d always felt like the best of me came out when I was playing, not just that old guitar, but when I was deep in play with someone, learning their body language and what the tones of their sighs and wailing moans meant. There was a type of deep, meditative focus in mapping out a lover’s body, finding harmony with them until you were so in tune with one another it was like being swept into the heart of a song.
I hadn’t written anything new on my old girl in over a year, almost as long as I’d gone without playing with anyone, period. While I held little hope of pride camp being the place where I’d finally find the people I’d always dreamed of having in my life, I’d poured over the pictures on the website, mentally committing to memory all the places that would be perfect to sit and draw inspiration from. With any luck I’d leave camp with some new pieces to play around with and maybe even recapture some of the drive and motivation I’d lost when I’d tucked tail and gone back home.
The last time I’d ridden away from here, I’d been filled with a hell of a lot more swagger, that cockiness dripping off me when I’d said goodbye to the people who’d loved me. Hell, I’d practically promised my mama the moon and crowed to anyone who’d listen about how the boys and I were gonna take Nashville by storm.
And we had, for a time.
But that same arrogance had burned bridges too; some who might have been in a position to help when we fell on hard times. Only that helping hand hadn’t been offered after the way we’d rejected the opportunity to be mentors and collaborators on various projects over the years. Back then we’d only caredabout the next rung on the ladder. While we’d always been elated to work with those we’d admired and hoped to one day reach the same level as, working with lesser names was something we’d turned our noses up at. Until those lesser names had surpassed us and we found ourselves wishing for that connection.
Talk about a kick in the ass from Karma.
