I didn’t miss the disapproving shake of his head, but I tried to ignore it. He was probably still pissed about the time I replaced all his jelly beans with the Bertie Bott’s ones that gambled with taste buds.

Not that I blamed him. I was an asshole as a teenager.

I opened the door and found the back room already teeming with locals looking for a break. The space was small, probably only twenty by twenty, but it housed two stocked refrigerators, a microwave, and doors to the only plumbed bathrooms allowed in the historical district.

I heard my name muttered a few times and simply waved, heading straight for the refrigerator.

“How’s your face?” Oscar taunted from the couch he sat on, his arm wrapped around Tillie.

“How’s your hand?” I countered as I pulled a six-pack of water from the top shelf of the fridge.

“You think you’re a badass, huh?” he asked, coming to his feet.

“Now, Oscar, we don’t want trouble in here,” Milton Sanders lectured, wiping sweat from beneath his newsboy cap. “Why don’t you head back to your dad’s?”

“I’m not the one with the infamous temper, am I, Cam?” Oscar poked with a lopsided grin.

“You need to find a hobby, Oscar. I’m not available for a playdate.” I set the water on the counter and slid my wallet from my pocket, pulling a ten from the back section.

Oscar snorted. “Find a hobby?”

“Yeah, you know. Something to do besides drink at one o’clock in the afternoon.” I dropped the ten into the plastic slot that covered the gallon jar the Youngs kept back here for this kind of stuff.

“I was looking for someone to do, but then you started screwing Willow Bradley and threw that plan to hell.”

I stilled with my hand on the water, keeping my back turned to Oscar. My senses focused in a way I knew all too well.

“Cam,” Milton warned softly. “Walk away.”

I sucked air in through my nose slowly, willing the rising rage to ebb. I wasn’t seventeen anymore. I couldn’t beat the shit out of everyone who offended me or Willow. Willow. She wouldn’t want me to kill the asshat running his mouth behind me.

If I could repeat that about a million times, I might be able to calm the fuck down.

“Oh, come on, Milt. He can’t be that offended at the truth,” Oscar slurred, his voice coming closer.

“Don’t, Oscar,” I warned, catching his reflection in the microwave door.

“Come on, man,” another voice joined in, but I didn’t turn. If I set eyes on Oscar, I was going to kill him with my bare hands.

The back door opened and shut.