“If it’s too private, you don’t have to, but you’ve listened to me all season. I’d love to return the favor.”
“I’d have loved to know he was upset, by the way,” Stacey pipes up. He pulls Dash closer as if last hockey season’s gonna sweep in and steal him away.
Dash’s eyes widen. “Shit, it was over me, wasn’t it?” He sighs, pushing a sleeve back, showing off his self-inflicted injuries. “I wasn’t gonna show you either, if I’m being honest, because you’re as overbearing as he is.” His lips quirk into a half smile. “Which is kinda sweet now, if you think about it. Fuck. I’m sorry, Dirk. There was a whole thing between us, too. It wasn’t a fight, exactly. You know how Dad is with me.”
“Fucking spoils you?”
He ducks his head, but the sparkle in his eyes gives him away. “Yeah. He’d never get angry with me, but he was hurt, and it killed me. I didn’t know what to do. I had to speak up, y’know? I was gonna talk to him, but I’ve been avoiding, because I’m a fucking coward.”
Dash isn’t wrong. Our fight was to do with him, the nightmare-scratches situation, and Trav’s crash out about it; he’s just missing one major Robin detail.
“You had to speak up, Dashie,” I say, maybe for myself, too. I had to say something to Trav, even if everything feels like it’s gone to shit. “He loves you more than anything in the world.”
“Nuh-uh. Not true. You’re his person, Dirk. Fuck, I’m so happy for you. Things’ll work out between you and him. Know what, I have an idea. You want him to come get you?”
“What? Like, abduct me?”
He shrugs, shoulders rising and falling against Stacey’s chest. “You shouldn’t be apart right now. I can tell when you’re trying to hide your heartbreak, Dirk—I’ve known you way too fucking long.”
I still don’t know what I’m gonna say, or how to fix what broke, but just the thought of being back in Trav’s arms brings atidal wave of relief. If Dash knows how to get him to storm in and physically drag me back to him, I’m so fucking down.
“What do you have in mind?”
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Trav
My phone won’t stop buzzing, but instead of the person—the only fucking person—I want to call me, it’s Maxwell. I stood him up for our spa date, and he’s been relentless. Texting and calling. I didn’t expect him to show up, but of course he had, and of course it was when Dirk got back. I turn the fucking thing off, missing the days you could pick it up and slam it onto the receiver.
Don’t give a fuck about Maxwell.
I’m in hell. That’s what life is without my pretty boy—damnation. I haven’t been able to pull in a full breath since he walked away. All my resolve fell out of me. Dirk might not want to resent me if I go after Robin, but he will, and I can’t fucking risk that.
And there was something else there. It’s buried so deep, I’m not even sure he knows it’s still bothering him.
Choose. Us.
His mother didn’t choose him. He needs a man who will always choose him.
I’m in a lose-lose situation. In option A, I leave my son vulnerable to a predator; in option B, I cause a rift between me and the love of my life. I risk carving a hole in his chest that’ll always make him doubt us. It was enough to shake me out of the murder-focused rage and breathe.
If only I could get Dash’s battered arms out of my head, maybe that would clear up some room for rational thinking, but I’m only juuuuust out of kill mode. Rational’s a little hard to come by, but I was calm enough to entertain other ideas. I hope Dirk likes my new plan. Speaking of Dirk, he gets one more day without me, and then I drag his ass back here. We don’t exist without the other, period. I could use the extra day to get my head right.
Bryce strolls through the door for Dirk’s shift. This’ll be fun. Bryce is too green to take one of Dirk’s shifts, but I didn’t have many options. I wasn’t gonna call Dash or anyone from their crew. That would raise questions, and questions are the last thing I need right now.
But naturally, along with Bryce, his guard dog, Maverick, glides in, surveying the restaurant for potential threats. Hmph. If he’s gonna be here, he should work. Or maybe I should kick him out—no Elkingtons allowed.
Bryce heads into the back, while Maverick chats up the hostees, charming his way into the table he wants. There’s no way he didn’t catch that I was behind the bar top, but he knows he can’t sweet-talk me.
I wave down the hostess he’s flashing his Elkington smolder at, with plans of slipping that knowledge to Bryce later, and she directs him to me. Maverick shrugs, taking a seat where I point at the bar top.
“Why are you bothering the hosts?”
“Oh? Do you seat your own guests now? I thought that was the hostess’s job?”
“You’re not a guest, Maverick, more like a cockroach I can’t get rid of.”
