Page 30 of Out on a Limb

“Homemade. Homegrown. Welcome Home,” Cameron read off the paper. “You just came up with this?”

“It’s a very, very rough idea. Just for fun.” Walker already hated the tagline and wanted to change it.

“Those cupcakes look good enough to eat. I had no idea you could draw.” Cameron’s eyes shifted from the sketch to Walker back to the sketch. “Holy shit.”

Walker shrugged off the comment. “It’s really rough.”

“There’s no way I could draw something as good as this. Is this what you do at your job now?”

Walker let out a sigh only he could hear. “No, I work on the media end.”

“What does that mean?”

“A company hires a creative agency to come up with a marketing campaign, create the ads, write the taglines. Then they come to a media agency like mine to decide how and where to advertise this cool new campaign to reach their target consumers. Do we run magazine ads or TV ads? Which networks should we advertise on? What time of year? How much will it cost?”

“Well, that sounds interesting.”

“It’s not,” Walker said, without filtering. Usually, he put a happy spin on his job. Didn’t everyone? “We’re the hub between the client, the creative agency, the networks and publishers. They all get to create something or make decisions. We’re just the middle men. My co-worker Lucy calls us professional handholders.”

It felt nice to say these thoughts aloud. Walker turned red as he realized how uncool it was to complain about your job, yet Cameron only had a supportive smile for him.

“The real world sucks,” Cameron said. “Let’s dance!”

At that moment, the line moved again, as if the world bent to Cameron’s will. Maybe it did when you were twenty-two.

Φ

Not much had changed from the last time Walker visited a dance club. Loud music and oppressive bass made his ears throb, though they never bothered him in his twenties. Red lights flashed across a packed dance floor going crazy for “MMMBop.” The only difference was the pack of wallflowers on their phones off to the side, and even on the dance floor. Walker remembered having to stand around awkwardly when he didn’t dance without a cool device as a prop.

“To the bar!” Cameron shouted. His body moved and bobbed to the music as he walked.

The bar was packed two guys deep, but Cameron used his charm and tight T-shirt to squeeze in while Walker waited at the periphery. Sleepy tears beaded at his eyes. He stifled a yawn that threatened to roar out of him. He couldn’t help checking Cameron out. He knew they were friends, or something, but his eyes kept noticing the fabric pull against his biceps and the curve of his ass.

Soon, Walker’s ears and eyes adjusted to the sensory overload of the club. He found the consistency of the beat soothing, like it was rocking him to sleep…

“Hey.”

Walker’s head snapped up. Cameron handed him a drink.

“Are you falling asleep on me?”

“No,” Walker said through a hoarse throat. His back strained to keep him upright.

“That’ll do the trick.” Cameron pointed at his drink. “Red Bull and vodka.”

That was basically the espresso of club drinks. The guy wasn’t messing around. Walker eyed his cocktail.

“It’s good! I promise!”

Walker took a sip and managed to keep it down, even though it was like chugging expired cough syrup.

“Let’s dance!” Cameron yelled and led the way to the floor.

Walker’s body struggled to perk up. He really hoped his drink kicked in soon. An image of his warm bed popped in his head. He shoved it aside and focused on the music and Cameron’s biceps.

Cameron parked them smack in the center of the floor. Walker tried to mimic Cameron’s dance moves, but it wouldn’t be easy. Cameron writhed around like his bones were JELL-O, squatting to the floor and bouncing back up, hips matching the beat. Walker bobbed his head and tapped his foot. He was a boat and a two-day car trip away from rusty.

“Are you having fun?”