That’s the biggest understatement of the year. Dash needs some time with Stacey, and then he’ll be back to himself.
“I won’t tell him,” I promise, but that’s all I can say, appetite gone. I drink my coffee instead, watching him closely as if he might disappear. It feels like my Travis has. The one who saves tired honeybees, mows the lawn with his shirt tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, and whistles Creed—usually One Last Breath—while he cleans the bar top.
That’s not fair, Dirk.This Trav was always part of that Trav. They’re the same Trav. Does that mean I have to be okay with whatever he decides to do? I’d usually go to Hunter for this kind of advice, but that’s out. What if I asked him not to, for me? Is that allowed? Is that selfish? Dash is his son, and he’s always been mad protective of him.
I mean, I guess I already told him he couldn’t, and I haven’t missed that he didn’t agree. But what if I gave him an ultimatum? What would he choose? I’m too afraid to ask.
Forcing a smile onto my lips is like molding half-dried concrete. Part of me wants to get up and leave, remove myself from what feels like an avalanche about to bury me, but a different part, the one screaming on the surface, doesn’t want to let him out of my sight for a second.
“What’s on the docket for today? I’m ready to start work immediately. Today. Husband duties and all that.”
His eyes rake over me. “Are we okay, pretty boy?”
“Don’t fucking know, Trav,” I say, honestly. “But I know I love you enough to see if we can work through it.”
He pushes his half-finished plate away. Guess his appetite’s gone, too. “This isn’t the reunion I’d planned on.”
“Me either.” I can’t even look at him right now, but I still won’t leave. I’m staying right the fuck in his face until he remembers why he gave up a life of crime.
Aweek passes. We’re at the start of another busy NHL playoff season. The bar top won’t let up—as soon as someone leaves, another takes their place. And fuck, is it ever raining outside. Vancouver rain isn’t like normal rain. It pounds against the sturdy walls as if it’s trying to get inside. I wipe down the bar top for the hundredth time, and a new man claims the empty space, movements unhurried, sinking onto the stool like he’s filled with sand. Then he scans the bar area.
I recognize the gesture. Trav’s less like that these days, but occasionally I catch him checking his six, looking for the exits.
“Old habits,” Trav says when he sees me clocking it, as if it’s nothing. But it’s never nothing, it’s something that’s triggered old instincts, reminding me they haven’t been wiped from his psyche, they’re just dormant.
The man has to squeeze himself between two other patrons, the ten pounds of leather he has on creaking. His inky black hair falls in wet waves around his face as the room sucks toward him.His knuckles are worse than mine after three periods, and the very air around him seems to give off a warning—stay the fuck away.
But I don’t wanna stereotype the guy. Maybe he’s nice. Maybe he just likes wearing leather on rainy days. I give a casual smile. “Hey there, can I get you something?”
“I’ll take a dirty scotch, two olives,” his rough voice rasps.
I miss a step. Trav’s drink? That can’t be a coincidence.
Going through the motions, I make the drink, stealing glances at the man, sizing him up. What should I do? Does Trav know this guy?
“Here you are, sir,” I say, sliding his drink toward him.
A rough hand catches my wrist, scraping like asphalt over my skin. “I’d love it if you kept calling me sir like that. You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? Let’s get your lips around my cock.”
I flush, my cheeks on fire. There’s no way the other patrons at the bar top missed that. I yank, trying to reclaim my hand, but he’s got some kind of super grip. It tightens, crushing. But then it’s gone.
The man’s jerked back, stool clattering against the hardwood. His sopping hair moves with him, cold droplets spray.
“No hitting on my boy—my bartender,” Trav says, but he doesn’t stop there, and he doesn’t drag the man to the entrance like we usually do with assholes like this, who think they can come in here and hit on the staff. Trav hauls him off to the kitchen.
Yeah, I’m going with. The other bartender’s gonna have to survive on her own until I get back. Following close, Trav ushers the man out the back, but it’s clear he’s allowing it. He’s not as big as Trav, but dragging him’s still gotta be like dragging a bag of bricks. He doesn’t waste time. As soon as the back door shuts,the three of us alone in the alleyway, Trav’s fist connects with a sickening crack. His jaw snaps sideways.
“That’s for touching what doesn’t belong to you.” He drives his knuckles into him again, taking his time with the kind of eerie calm that comes with practice. He’s dark and dangerous, and it’s a major fucking turn on. The heavy rain drenches us all, fat drops running into my eyes, blood fusing with the crisp late-spring air. “That’s for showing your face here. What the fuck are you doing, Blaze?”
Blaze laughs, fixing his jaw. “Good to see you too, Trav. Couldn’t exactly call you, now could I? The police would love that. They’ve been trying to track me down since last year.”
“All the more reason you shouldn’t be here. The deal is no contact.”
He gives a half-hearted shrug, leering at me over Trav’s shoulder. Trav growls. “Wow, you’re protective of your ‘bartender’,” he says. “Someone said you might need our help, but uh, this isn’t a great place to talk about it. You done beating my face in, so we can go somewhere else? You punch like an old man, by the way.”
Blaze wipes blood off his chin.
Trav huffs a sigh.
