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Muir

"Shots!" a bubbly blonde from the cluster of pretty blondes we've joined at the bar calls out.

I glance over at my best mate, Fitz, and tap the side of my neck. He takes my hint and nods affirmatively.

"Sorry, ladies," I announce with a firm clap. "It's been fun, but we're gonna head."

The lead blonde trots over to us.

"You sure you wanna go? We're just getting started," she yells into my ear to be heard over the Padam Padam remix pumping way too loudly through the club's sound system.

I angle my face towards her ear. "Need some fresh air."

These are not the first shots we've had tonight. Truth be told, I can't quite remember how we ended up in this club.

Or the rooftop bar before this place.

Or the cocktail lounge we were politely asked to leave for being too boisterous before that.

My memory seems to have fucked off sometime shortly after Maisey said a tearful no to my proposal and raced out of the private dining room.

Not getting what she wants from me, the blonde latches onto Fitz. A fiery pang courses through my chest as she slides her palm over his broad shoulder and whispers something into his ear.

Must be the heat. The club is teeming with sweaty bodies, and the air con is barely coping.

He politely hears her out, but he's just as shell-shocked as I am with how tonight has panned out.

This trip to the Gold Coast was his idea.

Renting a private dining room for a double proposal to our girlfriends on Valentine's Day was his idea.

Posting the expected jubilant outcome to celebrate his TikTok milestone of reaching a million followers was his idea.

Not on the cards?

Rejection from both of our girlfriends, synchronised like a fucking Olympic ten-metre dive.

Tonight was supposed to be a celebration. We were meant to be happier than a dog with two tails. Instead, we're drowning our sorry arses in as much alcohol as we can get our hands on.

The blonde's persuasive powers don't work on Fitz. We wave to the ladies before heading out for some much-needed fresh air.

"Fuck it was hot in there." He undoes the top few buttons of his brown button-up once we're out and on the street.

It's a balmy night, and the faint scent of the salty ocean hangs in the air.

"Tell me about it." I point to an empty bench outside a 7-11. We sit down, and I let out a noisy groan. I think I fucked my back taking a shot too aggressively at the rooftop bar before. "We're too young to be too old for this," I grumble.

Fitz claps me on the leg. "Mate, we're pushing thirty, and I swear we were the oldest people in that club."

"That's depressing."

"This whole night is depressing."

He kicks his legs out and manspreads, the side of his thigh pressing up against mine. I've got plenty of space to my left, so I could move over.

I don't.

Fitz scrubs a hand through his beard, which he's been growing out these past few months. It's weird seeing it without its usual array of glitter or little beard ornaments, like something's missing.

He silently observes the Friday nightlife scene parading in front of us. Revved up blokes with footy scarves wrapped around their necks, celebrating their teams' wins. Giggling chicks in high heels and short skirts. College-aged kids hitting the town, ready for a piss-up. Frazzled tourists with fanny packs and sensible walking shoes taking in the sights and sounds of Australia's equivalent to Las Vegas.

And then there's Fitz and me, two small-town vets a million miles from Scuttlebutt, half-cut, broken-hearted, and, well, exhausted—or is that just me?—even though it's still early. For most of these people, the night has only just begun.

"How are you feeling?" I ask.

He grabs my leg again, giving it a squeeze just above the knee. "Like we're way too fucking sober. Come on."

We take off, and I've got no doubt we'll end up in another way too hot, way too loud bar or club surrounded by way too many people.

That's just how it is with Fitzgerald Eastridge. He's the life of the party. The guy who pulls people in like a magnet. A glitterball of quirky charm and charisma with his impossible-to-miss fashion choices, booming laugh, and infectious energy you can't help but want to be around.

This is the most subdued he's been in ages. In Scuttlebutt, he parades around in onesies, paints his nails, and colours his hair every shade of the rainbow.

For this trip to the Gold Coast, he got rid of all that. No shimmering nail polish. No shock of neon hair. He's even wearing normal clothes—a tailored navy suit with a crisp white shirt, polished leather shoes, and a rich burgundy silk pocket square with a subtle paisley pattern. This was Fitz in true-blue serious mode.

He's putting on a brave face, but he's crushed that Erin said no to his proposal.

The question I'm grappling with is why am I not as devastated?

Don't get me wrong, I'm sad, and I'm in shock. But I'm also quite drunk so maybe the full realisation hasn't hit me yet?

Or maybe I'm still tripping balls over the reason Maisey gave for saying no before she up and ran.

"I'm not the one you want to spend the rest of your life with."

What the fuck does that mean? I'm not dating anyone else, and I don't have some secret family in Tasmania or anything. Who says something like that then literally bolts?

Fitz turns around and grins. "Watch your head, mate."

We're descending down a dark set of narrow stairs. I hunch over to prevent me from hitting my head every few steps where the ceiling dips in.

"Where the fuck are we?"

My question gets lost to the bass of the same freaking Padam Padam remix I swear we've heard at least four times tonight already.

We make our way to the bar through a sea of topless bodies.

Topless male bodies.

I squint as I scan the crowd, and yep, all dudes.

That's fine with me. After the night we've had, I'm down for hanging with the fellas.

In no time at all, we're surrounded by half a dozen shirtless muscular dudes, having shots.

The track changes, and I don't recognise the song. "Who's this?" I ask Fitz over the intense drumbeat.

"Charlie XCX."

I lean in closer to him. "What's Cherry Eggs Eggs?"

He throws his head back and laughs. "Oh, come on, mate. Brat. Hello?"

"Did you just call me fat?"

He laughs again, his light-brown eyes glimmering, and even though I don't understand what's going on, my best mate in the whole fucking world is laughing his deep, booming laugh. After everything that's happened tonight, the sound is music to my ears.

Maybe this whole shitshow with Maisey and Erin isn't the end of the world.

We've got good lives waiting for us back home in Scuttlebutt. Jobs we love. The best friends a bloke could hope for. A town full of eccentric people with big, welcoming hearts.

And we've got each other.

More shots slide over to me. I start passing them to the guy behind me, but Fitz shakes his head. "Nah, mate. Those are for you."

I look down and count. "All three?"

His eyebrows twitch playfully. "Yep. All three. Need to get this night lit."

Once all the guys in the group are armed with three shots, we throw 'em back one after the other. Ow, my poor lower back.

"Fuck, that was rough," I sputter, wincing hard after the third tequila shot.

"It's a lot," the muscle dude next to me agrees, his face sour. He tips his chin towards Fitz. "So, how long have you two been together?"

"Oh, we're not?—"

"Since we were ten," Fitz breaks into the convo.

The guy's jaw drops. Oh, no. Wait. He's licking some salt from his hand. He glances back up at us. "Did you say ten?"

"That's when we met," I clarify. "We're best mates. That's it. Neither one of us is?—"

"Why are you lying to our new friend?" I recognise that shit-eating grin on Fitz's face. "Just tell him the truth."

"Which is?"

"That we're not just best mates, we're soulmates, duh." Fitz turns to our new friend. "You'll have to forgive Muir. He was born with a medical condition known as stickupthebutt-itis. It makes him a little uptight, and he takes some time to open up to people."

"I am not uptight." I cross my arms completely un-uptightly.

"Cool." The muscle dude smiles. "In that case, wanna head back to mine for some three-way action?"

"Okay. So maybe I'm a little uptight."

The guy chuckles. "Relax. I was kidding. But seriously, how do you know each other?"

"I'll let you handle this, mate," Fitz says, then begins unbuttoning his shirt.

Everyone in the group stops what they were doing and ogles my best friend's impressive rig. They're all smooth, gym-toned city boys so maybe they're not used to seeing the type of body that's a product of working out in the field under the beating sun.

The flashes of neon light cast sharp shadows across his toned, sun-bronzed, and slightly hairy chest. The beams catch every sculpted line of his flexing muscles as he tucks his shirt into the back of his pants. We're both in good shape, but Fitz's body is next level.

My heart beats harder against my ribs.

"Who's coming to dance?" he asks, raising his fist in the air, oblivious to all the attention the guys are giving him.

They all flock behind him as he heads out onto the dance floor. Fitz has the good sense not to even bother asking me since he knows what my response will be—no fucking way. There isn't enough alcohol in the world to make me lose my inhibitions enough to actually dance in public.

I can tell the guy I'm standing next to is itching to join them. "It's okay. You can go, too. I'll watch everyone's…"

I was going to say purses, but I guess that's not a thing with dudes.

"It's okay. I'll catch up with them in a sec. I want to hear more about you guys."

There's something funny about the way he says you guys, but I can't figure out what it is. The tequila shots are catching up to me.

I position myself so I have a clear line of sight to Fitz out on the dance floor. "What would you like to know?"

"So, you met when you were ten."

"Yeah. That's right."

My eyes travel across the dance floor, and I don't like the way the blokes are crowding Fitz in and getting handsy with him. He's completely unbothered because of course he loves the attention. But give the man some room to dance, fellas.

It's a…safety thing. Yeah. Safety.

Hot under the collar—literally, why are all these clubs skimping on air con?—I don't feel like getting into the full story right now.

It's long and complicated, and how exactly do you succinctly yell to a stranger in a loud club that my mum met Dad in a small town when she was travelling through outback Australia with friends. That he was killed in a motorcycle crash when I was four. That she then moved us back to Sydney where she's originally from and married Derrick, a drunk arsehole coincidentally from the same small town Dad was from. We moved back to Scuttlebutt when I was ten. After years of abuse, she finally left him when I was fifteen, married a rich city wanker, and dragged me back to Sydney. I stayed there until I finished vet studies then moved back to the only place that's ever felt like home.

The place where the two people I love most in the world lived—Fitz, and my grandfather.

So I give the guy the abbreviated version. "I met Fitz on the first day of grade five at Scuttlebutt Primary school."

"Scuttlebutt?" He gives me a strange look. "That's a real place?"

I chuckle. This is a pretty common reaction from city folk. "Yeah. It's a real place."

"And let me guess. You became instant besties?"

"Far from it." Another thing I don't want to get into is the trauma shitstorm Fitz was living through at the time, so I bypass that by saying, "But when we did eventually become friends, we were like this."

I cross my fingers—or try to. It takes me three attempts to get it—and lift my hand. The guy smiles. "I see. And when did you fall in love with him?"

"Excuse me?"

His smile softens. "Dude, come on."

"Dude, come on what?"

His eyes drill into me, and it feels like he can somehow see into me, into the parts of me I've kept buried and hidden. My chest burns hot, and I shift uncomfortably.

He can't know how I feel about Fitz. Heck, I barely know how I feel about Fitz.

"Sorry. I've overstepped." He pushes to his feet. "I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sorry."

I let out a long breath, my chest still crackling with heat. "It's okay."

He lingers by my side for a moment. "I'm going to dance. Wanna come?"

"Nah, thanks. I'm good here."

He hits the dance floor. I order myself two more shots, down them, then lean back against the bar and watch the guys for a while.

When did you fall in love with him?

That's a more loaded question than the pizzas we order back home for our PlayStation marathons.

Fitz is my best mate. We're both straight. Those two things automatically rule out any possibility of anything more… Don't they?

I dwell on that for a few minutes before the guys return, and Fitz declares it's time for us to move on.

Gladly.

We bid farewell to our new muscle-bro friends with a round of sweaty hugs and hit up two more spots where we make even more new sweaty, drunk friends.

As I'm taking a slash, I pull out my phone to see what time it is.

"Holy shit," I mutter to myself. It's after two. No wonder I'm tired as fuck.

I find Fitz, we say goodbye to everyone, and I lead him towards the exit.

"Where are we going?" he asks, once we're out on the street.

It's even busier than it was before. Does no one go to bed at a reasonable time anymore? Related side question, where can one go to see whether they qualify as the world's oldest millennial?

We walk past a pop-up Las Vegas wedding chapel.

"What the hell is that?" he asks, slowing down to take in the lit-up tent set up on the side of the footpath.

"Dunno." I grab his forearm and march us forwards. "And don't care." I need a timeout, and I know the perfect place for it.

"I like your thinking," Fitz says, smiling as he kicks off his polished shoes when we get to the beach.

"Just needed a bit of quiet, you know?"

"Yeah. I do."

We leave our socks and shoes in the sand and head towards the water.

We're in Surfers Paradise, which is the tourist hotspot. There's a bright football-field light illuminating a good two-thirds of the beach. No one's in the water, but a few fellow drunkards are ambling around on the sand, trying to stay upright. Achieving mixed results.

I roll my pants halfway up my shins. Fitz goes to do the same but loses his balance and falls into me. If I hadn't consumed enough booze to knock out an elephant, I probably would have been able to absorb his weight.

But since I have, we both tumble down into the soft sand. His warm body lands on top of me, and suddenly I can't breathe right. He cracks up, but all I can manage is a weak grin. I'm lying on my back, trying to ignore the fact that every second I'm this close to him makes my heart race like crazy.

"Sorry, mate," he says, peeling himself off me.

"It's all good." I prop myself up and suck in a few gulps of salty air.

He brushes some sand off his arms. "What a fucking night."

"You can say that again."

What's that expression? Humans plan, God laughs. Well, I bet the big fella in the sky is laughing his head off at us right about now.

I try to wrap my head around the events of this evening, but I'm too tipsy to think straight. Ha. I let out a low chuckle at the unintended pun.

Fitz is restless as usual. He pulls out his phone and begins scrolling.

I wince. "Shit. I forgot you had plans to post the proposal on your TikTok."

"The ironic thing is, I'd forgotten about that, too, until just now."

"That's…astonishing." Fitz's phone is practically a part of his body at this point, and if he's not posting new content, he's talking about new content he wants to post. One of the joys of being an influencer.

"Tell me about it." He tucks his phone away.

"You must really be going through it."

"I am. Thankfully, alcohol is a tried and tested numbing agent for emotions." He rests his forearms over his knees, his hands dangling over. "What about you?"

"Yeah. Same." I clear my throat. "Going through it but numb."

"Come on." He flicks some sand at me. "We can deal with everything tomorrow. The night is still young."

"It's after two-thirty."

"Okay, then. We're still young."

"We're almost thirty," I counter.

"Fuck it." He shoots to his feet. "It's still dark. My pancreas is still working. We're still technically on holiday. Let's continue getting shitfaced."

"Absolutely not."

I try to get up, but my balance is off. Fitz extends his arms and helps me get to my feet. I'm finally up, but he's still holding on to me.

"You okay?" he checks, his light-brown eyes homing in on me.

"Yeah."

I mustn't be looking too crash hot because he adds, "A few deep breaths, mate. You're all good. I got ya."

Heat flares in my chest, but I focus on my breathing.

That's the thing about Fitz. He may belong to the world, be the guy everyone falls in love with and gravitates towards, but at the end of the day, I know he's got my back the same way I've got his.

Because underneath the TikTok persona and the crazy outfits and the outlandishness of everything he does, there's a real, genuine, down-to-earth bloke who's doing his best to get by and move on from what happened when he was ten. He doesn't have to tell me he thinks about Lleyton every day because I know he does.

"No more drinking," I mumble as we make our way up the beach in search of our shoes.

"One more drink," he counters.

And when he looks at me with those pretty eyes and that irresistible smile, I have no choice but to cave immediately.

"Fine," I huff out. "One more drink."