“You have this store, kid. That seems pretty self-sufficient to me.”
“I do.” He sighed, lowering his camera. “But this was my uncle’s store. He gave it to me when he passed, but selling trinkets and tourist shit isn’t my dream, you know?”
“And taking pictures is your dream?”
“Yep.” The kid nodded. “I want to turn this place into a premier boudoir photo studio where people of all shapes, color and sizes can come from all around to get their photos taken. I want to show people how truly beautiful they are. There is already enough hate in this world. I just want everyone to see the beauty in it, and that starts with them seeing themselves as beautiful.”
I studied him for a moment, the earnestness in his eyes catching me off guard. “You’re serious about this, huh?”
“Dead serious,” he said, his expression softening into something almost vulnerable. “I’ve seen people walk into this shop looking defeated, tired, or just invisible to themselves. But the moment they step in front of the camera, something changes. It’s like they remember who they are. And if I can bring that spark back for even one person, then it’s worth it.”
His words hung in the air, carrying a weight I hadn’t anticipated. I glanced down at the camera in his hands, the tool of his dream, and suddenly the situation felt less absurd and more... transformative. Here was someone daring to chase after what made them come alive, even if it meant starting with a borrowed shop and an unlikely model.
“Well,” I said, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth, “I hope your website gets all the traffic it deserves. And hey, if you ever need a testimonial about how you convinced a random stranger to strip down in the name of art, I’m your guy.”
He laughed, genuine and heartfelt, before adjusting his camera once more. “I’ll hold you to that. Now, let’s get one last shot—the one where you look like you own the world.”
Fifteen minutes later, I walked to the door with Jerky safely encased in a cardboard box carrier and asked. “I didn’t get your name.”
“You can call me anything you want, but my parents named me Eliot Jenson Ross, and my friends call me E.J.”
I stiffened.
The name hung heavy between us, a ghost resurrected by syllables I hadn’t heard in years. Eliot Jenson Ross. E.J. The man before me, with his camera and quiet determination, was a far cry from the Elliot I’d once known—or rather, the brother I’d tried so hard to forget.
His eyes, those unguarded, earnest eyes, had the same spark of curiosity, the same unrelenting need to see the world in a way no one else could.
“And you are?”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I whispered, “Gator, but you can call me Wade.”
“Merry Christmas, Wade.”
I managed a nod, gripping the box carrier a little tighter as I stepped outside. The cool evening air met my skin, but my head was swimming too much to feel it. Eliot Jenson Ross. Of all the names in the universe, it had to be his. It was like some cosmic joke, a thread from a life I thought I’d buried being yanked loose when I least expected it.
The streetlights flickered on as I walked towards my truck, my mind replaying his words:“You can call me anything you want.”
I chuckled at that, but what I wanted was clarity, a way to reconcile the memory of another Elliot—the brother I’d lost.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I placed Jerky’s box on the passenger side. He let out a curious hiss, tilting his head as if to ask what was wrong. “Yeah, buddy,” I muttered, starting the engine. “I’m just as confused as you are.”
Pulling out of the parking spot, my phone rang. Reaching for it, I saw Juju’s number and answered, “Man, you would not believe the weird shit I did tonight.”
“Boss, we’ve got a situation.”
Groaning, I rolled my eyes. “Just tell her I will stop and get her a damn sandwich.”
“It’s Jolly. She’s back.”
And just like that, I stepped on the gas.
Twenty minutes later, I slammed on the brakes, stopping mere inches before I damn near crashed into the back of The Bourbon Bar. Grabbing Jerky, I raced inside, hurriedly placing Devlyn’s gift on the kitchen table before marching toward the main barroom to find my crazy ass woman laughing at something Jolly had said. My brothers all congregated in the corner, watching intently, almost as if waiting for the big smackdown to begin.
Walking over to them, I whispered, “What the hell is going on?”
“No clue, boss,” Worm piped up, his eyes fixed on the two women siting at the bar. “Logically, Devlyn should have body slammed Jolly by now. Yet she hasn’t. There’s a missing variable and I can’t figure it out.”
Groaning, I looked at Juju. “Explain?”
