Page 47 of Candy Hearts, Vol. 2

CHAPTER 1

ZACHARY

I tried to avoid mowing down all the slow-walkers as I exited the airport tram. It wasn’t their fault. Vegas was for vacations, and who wanted to hurry on their vacation? Certainly not me.

But I’d had to gate-check my garment bag, and getting it back after the flight landed had taken for-ev-er. And while I was 99% sure no one would steal my duffel from the luggage carousel, it was still a concern.

Finally reaching Baggage Claim, I quickly scanned the list of arriving flights. Mine was on Carousel 12.

I was slightly sweaty when I got there. Only a few people were still standing around, and no one seemed like they were waiting for their bags anymore. The carousel was almost empty. I counted four bags circling, and none of them were mine. Shit.

I breathed in and out to try to control my heart rate. No reason to panic. Mine was probably on its way back around. I forced myself to stand there and wait until the red bag with the yellow luggage tag had passed me twice before admitting that my bag was missing.

Fuck. It’ll be okay. I have my tux for the wedding and my suit for the rehearsal dinner. Joel and Mateo won’t care if I wear my Chucks with them. Or maybe I’ll have time to go shoe shopping.

I was mentally making a list of everything I’d need to buy—toiletries, underwear, a bathing suit—as I turned to go find the airline office for lost luggage.

But then I stopped, frozen for a second, before running over to Carousel 14. There was my bag. The green REI duffel bag with a white luggage tag was the only bag on that carousel. Relief washed over me, and I grinned. Either I’d misread my carousel number, or some jerkwad had picked up my bag and then put it on the wrong carousel when they realized it wasn’t theirs. No matter. The end result was the same.

I managed to catch up to the bag before it went through the flaps into the bowels of the airport again. I hefted it off the carousel and set it on the ground, intending to rearrange how I was carrying my backpack and my garment bag before I called for a rideshare to the hotel.

But the bag’s weight felt... off. And the bag itself appeared almost brand new. My bag had been through dozens of airports and camping trips.

Uh oh.

With a feeling of foreboding, I lifted the luggage tag. Instead of my company’s logo on the back, this one said PrideVMC , whatever that was. The “V” was a stylized version of that medical symbol with the snake. At least the bag’s owner was queer, or at least an ally. I flipped the tag over. The bag belonged to a Clifford Pinkerton, with an address in Bent Oak, which wasn’t too far from Austin. Maybe he’d been on my flight.

I briefly considered going to the airline office, but contacting the guy directly would be much more efficient. I pulled out my phone and copied Clifford’s number into my contacts.

Me: Hey, I have your REI bag. I think you took mine by mistake – they look exactly the same. My name is Zachary Holt, which should be on the tag. Can we meet up to switch? I’m staying at the Bellagio.

I waited a few minutes to see if Clifford would text back, but he didn’t. He was probably in an elevator or something. He’d get back to me soon enough if he wanted his clothes.