Page 1 of A Little Campfire Blues (Pride Camp 2025 #10)

Chapter One

Axis

The wind in my hair felt amazing as I pointed my royal purple Jeep Wrangler towards the highway, tendrils of twilight blue hair fluttering past my face where they had escaped the messy bun I’d tied it up in.

Cranking the radio up at the first tones of Godsmack’s Unforgettable, I settled in as the music washed over me, nodding to the beat as I maneuvered around slower-moving vehicles one-handed and leaned back in the seat.

It was a three-hour drive from Portland, where I’d lived since graduating high school eight years before, to Redmond, Oregon, the site of the camp I’d let an old friend talk me into joining him at.

Okay, so he wasn’t just an old friend; he’d been more, once, not that we’d gotten to explore all the possibilities with my abrupt departure and him shipping out for basic training following his enlistment in the Coast Guard.

Our dreams had always meant that we were destined for different paths, but texting and email had allowed us to maintain the bond of friendship we’d shared since we were little and ran around the neighborhood together getting into shit with Ezzy.

Damn, I missed them both.

When I’d left, I hadn’t been thinking about how much I’d miss them or the way we’d grown to the point of being able to finish each other’s sentences, knowing, with just a look, when one of us was pissed off about something or scared.

Maybe I’d taken for granted what it meant to have bonds that close, or maybe I’d just been too eager to exchange what we’d had for a different kind of family.

One with the band members I’d loaded up with that fateful May morning, choosing to skip walking the stage at graduation for the series of bookings Rory had set up for us at his uncle’s dive bar.

Talk about old school: dim lighting, wooden paneling on the walls, and air thick with profanity, body odor, and the scent of beer.

Long as my hair was, even back then, I always had to wash it twice after a show, just to get the lingering stench out at the end of every night.

Duncan McKaggan, Rory’s uncle, took a liking to us early on and put us up in the apartments over the place where I still lived to this day, even after the others had moved on.

Rory and I had roomed together on one side of the building, Bowie and Duce on the other.

They used to joke about how we should have switched, so Bowie, the band’s lead guitar player, and I were rooming together, since we could always be found in one another’s apartments working on music, but beyond the music, we’d had little in common.

It didn’t help that there had always been a not-so-healthy rivalry between us, stemming from the early days of the band, when we’d been dueling over who was gonna play lead.

He’d won, and I’d always resented him for that, even while admiring his playing.

He truly was better, at least back then.

Now, I had no idea what he was up to. A motorcycle wreck had put him on the shelf, fracturing the band, which splintered more when Rory and Duce voted to replace him.

Big mistake.

Replacement was a self-centered dick with an ego the size of Texas. It hadn’t taken any of us long to see that the soul-sucking drain of having to be around him wasn’t worth what he brought to the table in terms of playing.

Lyrics weren’t his thing.

Songwriting, outside of long, drawn-out, hastily stitched-together guitar solos, wasn’t his thing either.

But man, he’d loved the spotlight.

And drugs.

All the drugs.

Anything anyone gave him, to the point where it showed every night he got on the stage with us. Tragic, considering it wound up being a life cut short when he passed away backstage after collapsing during a show.

As a band, we couldn’t bounce back from that.

Maybe that was my fault too. I’d never fully forgiven them for replacing Bowie, who was a damn better player than fucking K.C.

had been. My resentment got the best of me more than once during his time with us, but dammit all, replacing Bowie had been such a dick thing to do after he’d gotten hurt.

But I’d been outvoted. When faced with whether to walk or accept the decision, I’d stayed because music had always been my drug of choice, and I’d already proved I was selfish enough to sacrifice anything for it.

Hadn’t really known what to do without the band, either, with Roman stationed in Ketchikan and Ezzy who knew where.

I’d left that friendship beyond fractured.

Songs changed as the trees along the highway blurred, wheels eating up the miles between me and the first face-to-face reunion with my past since the night I’d slipped away without saying goodbye.

Thanks to hours of video chats, I didn’t have to worry about not recognizing Roman, not that he’d changed much over the years.

Two years ago, he’d been medically retired and returned home to take over the position of swim coach at the high school we’d gone to.

Since then, he’d started letting his chestnut hair grow out until it flowed over the back of his neck when he swept it back, but it still had a few inches to go before it touched his shoulders.

Wouldn’t have needed a bun if my hair was that short; I’d have just let that warm wind send it whipping everywhere, but mine reached the middle of my back, thick and sleek in the strobe lights on the nights I still played.

Alone.

Damn, it sucked sometimes.

I missed the stage interactions, the laughter on long van rides, and when I was at my loneliest, I even missed the stench of Rory’s farts after the goddamned Reuben sandwiches he insisted on getting every time we went to Arby’s.

Which was a lot.

Like, a lot-lot.

To the point where Bowie threatened to shove a plug up his ass if he farted again on the long drive between Portland and Palm Springs, that’s how bad he was gassing us out.

Over the years, each of us had taken turns designing T-shirts for him touting the extent of his flatulence, which he’d proudly worn on stage.

Fartinator.

Positively Fartastic!

Human Fart Machine.

Not very original, I know, but it was funny as hell every time he put one on and even funnier when someone asked him about it.

He ran that old dive bar with his uncle now and, as far as I knew, hadn’t been back up on a stage since the night K.C. died. A real shame, with the powerful voice he had and his stunning way of delivering vocals. I hoped he still sang, at least. No one should ever waste a gift like that.

I missed his sleep-slurred, rumbly good mornings when he stepped past me in the kitchen, desperate for a mug of tea and a couple spoonfuls of honey after a crazy show the night before.

Missed the way he’d sit across from me while I’d been hunched over my plate, hair half hanging in my eggs as I cursed whoever the hell had given me Kamikazes and snake bites the night before.

Even half hungover, we’d start talking about tweaks to the playlist, or adjustments to some lyrics we’d been working on, mornings spent clinging to that rough, wooden surface, like shriveled slugs waiting for rain.

I’d alternate between ice water and apple juice, waiting for the Tylenol to kick in and my head to stop throbbing with the echoing beat of Dues’ drums.

Sometimes I catch a show at the rowdy bar where he’s the house drummer, playing behind a cage because shit tends to get out of control. He’s still as good as ever, but I’ve turned down every offer he’s extended for me to join him.

It’s just not my scene anymore.

I’d rather not have to comb glass out of my hair at the end of a performance, thank you very much.

Maybe that’s why he’s shaved his head bald. It’s a badass look on him. At five foot six, he was always searching for a way to look bigger, hitting the gym until every inch of him was sculpted muscle he showed off by playing bare-chested in just a pair of holey cutoff jeans.

Should have known the drive would send my thoughts spiraling to the past, especially when Roman waited at the other end.

When I thought of the way everything had gone with the band and everything I’d thrown away to have that opportunity, my mellow mood shifted to melancholy even as I started tripping over the words that rolled through my head.

Words I’d spoken and never been able to take back.

“Can you just not, for once in your fuckin’ life, Ezzy!

” The sharp, short words barked with such frustration he froze, eyes widening in shock while I kept pacing beside the pool table.

“This is Eugene, not LA! There’s no fuckin’ reason to walk around painted in glitter or showing off all your piercings with all that mesh.

It’s fuckin’ ridiculous. Of course people are going to target you for it.

Of course they are gonna say shit, and not just about you, but about me and Roman too!

Consider that, at least, before you decide to add more sparkles. ”

“There’s nothing wrong with sparkles.”

“Everything is wrong with sparkles; it’s all anyone sees. That and you practically wandering around bare-chested cause you want everyone to see your nipple rings and belly button piercing.”

“Don’t forget the corset.”

“Who can forget the corset when you have Roman lace and tie the damned rings with sparkly shit too! What’s your plan for an encore, tattooed butterfly wings so you really look like a fuckin’ fairy?”

Unholy silence followed, the kind that came before the winds shifted, when everything was as still as a live wire crackling with an undercurrent of deadly energy.

Their fists clenched, jaw working as their lips parted right before they pressed them in a tight line, face pale beneath the shimmer of the makeup they had on.

They were stunning without it, hauntingly so. I opened my mouth to tell them so when they whirled and fled the room, followed by Roman, cutting me a scathing look as he stalked out the door to catch up to them.

That was the last time I was in a room with either of them.

The memory of the moment made my eyes well up, blurring the road until I couldn’t make out the lines anymore. The brown of what I hoped was a rest stop sign was just a streak at the corner of my vision, so I slowed, grateful that no one was behind me as I searched for the pull-off spot.

One mile turned into three, both hands on the wheel now as I sniffled and sucked in a breath, holding it in the hopes of keeping the rest of the tears at bay.

I barely got into a spot in the empty parking lot before they fell.

Welcoming them, I pressed my head against the steering wheel, allowing myself to feel all the sorrow and regret I’d been living with since I’d let jealousy, and other people’s opinions, color my opinion of one of the people I’d loved.

Not my finest moment, but leaving without telling them and without apologizing for what I’d said or owning up to why I’d said it—now that was the worst mistake of my life.

All these years, I hadn’t dared to ask Roman to set up a three-way chat between us, though I knew they still talked, the same as Roman and I did.

Sometimes he let slip something Ezzy was up to, but I never pressed for more details, because a part of me still felt like I didn’t have the right to know.

Swiping at the tears, forehead sore from where it had been pressed to the Jeep’s steering wheel, I fumbled for the bag on the passenger’s seat, the wire edge of my battered notebook warm against my fingertips as I yanked it out.

Of course the pen I’d clipped to the metal got caught, and of course, I tugged rather than taking the time to untangle it.

Patience had never been a strong suit of mine, especially when I was upset.

The resulting tussle sent the pen flying straight at my face, cap tangling in my bun when I remembered to duck.

The pen itself landed outside, which was fine; I hadn’t intended to sit in the Jeep and write anyway. Not when there was a perfectly good picnic table several feet away. It felt good to get out, stretch, and let the sun finish drying the occasional tear that leaked from the corner of my eyes.

When Roman had first suggested we meet up for pride camp, I’d balked, because what if the old vibe wasn’t there once we started hanging out again?

What if the past eight years had changed us too much?

What if I let slip the secret I still carried after all these years?

What if I fucked up and tried to kiss him while we were walking around the pond one night, the fireflies flitting in between the reeds, making the whole moment seem magical?

What if that was the moment when my mouth got the best of me again, only instead of something scathing, I blurted that I still loved him?

What then?