Page 3 of The Route to You

Antony liked him to play up the goofy, not-too-bright Southern persona. The loose cannon. The guy who made bad choices so the audience could feel better about theirs. Not that he minded—he’d enjoyed the rush that came with dangerous decisions that also provided a paycheck.

His fans liked it, too.

So here he was, about to glue his own ass.

He was definitely a long way from that computer engineering degree he’d abandoned when this took off.

Sighing, he squirted glue onto his palm and spread it everywhere that still stung.

He finished with the glue, then examined his hand, which was already beginning to dry. When he was younger, he’d spread the glue on his hand, then peel it off to try to horrify his older sisters into thinking he was peeling off a layer of skin. They’d played along because they were both older than him, squealing and running away to satisfy him. Made him feel like a comedic genius.

God, he missed them both. Missed his nieces. His parents. Granny.

His schedule had been slammed this year, between filming for the show, accepting collaborations and guest spots on podcasts, and everything else. He’d earned so many points for travel—more than he’d ever dreamed as a kid whose big vacation usually meant a once-a-year camping trip at the nearby state park.

Turns out, living out of a suitcase lost its charm somewhere around month nine.

His family had been more than a little annoyed with him because he’d missed so much the last year, too. And when they’d found out that Helixnet had booked him for a Christmas in Cabo special right after this Mojave episode and he’d be missing the holiday this year, his sister Liddy had called him in tears.

He’d promised to get out of it somehow, but he probably wouldn’t. He’d moved three things already this year.

And he couldn’t make it up to his family, either. Not after missing Charlotte’s baptism and Granny’s big birthday bash already this year.

So maybe he deserved to be lying here on a trailer bed with glue slowly drying on his cactus-splintered ass cheek.

The trailer door creaked open.

Damn, that was fast. “Davy, you screwed me,” he called out. “You left the damn door to the bedroom open and I’m stuck like this.”

No answer. Just footsteps.

Then . . . laughter.

Scowling, Kyle swiveled his head to see a group of young women in the hallway, phones up, filming.

His stomach dropped.

“Oh shit. What the hell are you doing here?”

He grabbed the bedspread and flung it over his backside as they scattered, shrieking with laughter.

“Get the fuck out of here!”

He hobbled after them, dignity in critical condition. How in the hell had they found him here? He wasn’t that famous.

He reached for the door they’d left open, and his foot caught on the bedspread.

As his body tipped over, he still tried pulling his leg out, but it was hopelessly tangled. Gravity did the rest. He tumbled from the trailer, hands outstretched, but that didn’t keep him from face-planting in the rough sand.

He came up spitting, lips covered with fine grit, and vaguely aware of the cell phone cameras still pointed his way, even as the women kept running.

“Yeah, you’d better run,” he called out, annoyance thick in his voice. Maybe a younger version of him would have found the humor in this, but now he was bare-assed in the cold December desert sun, and his body smarted from the fall. Assholes.

Granny would find this whole scene hilarious when he relayed it to her next time they spoke—he could imagine her hearty chuckle. Thank God she’s not here to see this.

Elle had warned him about the price of fame. His sister had spent several years being recognized as a country music artist before she’d been able to start to fade into normalcy again. Fame had been brief and overwhelming to her, and she was grateful to be inching closer to a place where she could take her two daughters to the playground without being assaulted by cameras.

Kyle had only just started experiencing some of the discomfort that came with being recognized. And as he peeled himself from the desert sands, shivering, he finally got it.