Chapter 1
Chapter
One
THEN
July
Stacey
I close my eyes and lay a hand on the wall, as if that was where I could find her pulse. Breathing in phantom scents of honey and cherry blossoms, a memory rushes past my senses, Mom reading, curled up in her favorite position on the bed. Like always.
“Which one are you?”
“Stacey.”
“Are you looking after your brother?”
“Yeah, Mama.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Casey. He’s my twin.”
“I knew that. I feel like I knew that.” She touched her nose.
“I know, Mama. Keep reading, okay? I’ve got everything under control.”
I open my eyes. She’s not there. Just all her stuff. It shouldn’t be here either, but for the life of me, I can’t bring myself to get rid of it.
You haven’t handled shit, Stacey.
Yeah, I know.
But I keep thinking that if I leave it all, that if I don’t move a thing, don’t touch a thing, I could open the door to this room and she’d be there like she always was. She’d be reading, and I’d bring her tea and cookies. I’d lay a hand on her cream skin, and she’d reach for my fingers and squeeze them.
When she forgot things, I used to think it was the worst thing. My mind would imagine all the other things she might forget. Would she stop knowing who I was? Would she even remember her name? Would she forget everything that made her my mom?
“I’m sorry,” she’d say. “I’m going to get better. I’ll get better soon.”
No, she wouldn’t.
“Of course you will, Mama.”
“Look after things for me until then, won’t you?”
“I will, Mama.”
“Good.” Her serene smile burst with triumph.
I let her plants die. I let her stuff rot in here. I let dust cover everything, worried that one pass with any kind of cleaning solution would wipe whatever was left of her away.
Her forgetting things broke my heart, but her not being here broke me.
I ’m walking, just walking, over polished wooden floors I’ve traveled more times a night than I’ve had high-sticking penalties, when I see the sun for the first time. You’re not supposed to look directly at the sun, but I do, my head snapping in the direction, and I walk into the damn wall.
He—the sun—smiles, which does nothing to dim shit, let me tell you, and he’s holding back a laugh for my benefit.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, throbbing pain shooting down the side of my face. The snicker that breaks from the peanut gallery belongs to my twin brother who has zero mercy for me.
It’s already too late. I’ve been staring at him for longer than is socially acceptable. I have to introduce myself. Most of my shifts at The Wicklow, the pub-style restaurant where I work summers at, have been long and rough. Not much time for a lot of sleep—that’s what I’ll blame my clumsiness on.
“H-Hi, I’m …” My tongue doesn’t work anymore. Is this what tongue-tied is? When your tongue thickens in your mouth, and your brain goes on holiday? I wouldn’t know because it’s never happened to me before. I’m a guy who knows what he wants and speaks with crisp, clear, authority. I don’t do this.
He’s got dark brown hair. You’d think the sun would be blond, but not in this case, and I wanna run my fingers through those soft-looking tresses. His eyes are brown. Just brown. But they’re deep, and they suck me in. There’s a shyness to them and a vulnerability so raw it makes my chest ache. Where the hell am I, again?
He clears his throat. “Dash Nolan,” he says.
That brings me back to earth. Nolan. Boss’s son. Knowing it’s one thing, though. I didn’t work here till the last year of high school, and he wasn’t around the restaurant when I started working here. Don’t know why.
“Stacey Alderchuck.” There. Said things. I smile widely, proud of myself. I’m still staring, unable to move. Face still throbs like a son of a bitch.
Then a swirl of things happens all at once: the world pauses and pulses, he rubs the back of his neck, I beam in his direction.
An annoying throat clears from behind me.
“Stace? You gonna make my drinks sometime today? I’ve got fucking customers yelling their faces off at me,” Casey says.
Right. I’m the bartender today. I seem to remember something about that. “Will you be around?”
I get a smile and a little nod.
While I make drinks, Travis exits the double-swinging kitchen door. I can’t believe that man has a son Dash’s age. I know Travis had him young and all, but they could be brothers. He sets his dour gaze on Dash, Dash’s face falls.
Travis Nolan is a reformed badass. He used to hotwire cars and do lines of coke off every surface imaginable, or so he’s said. He won’t touch drugs now, but he’ll have a few beers now and then. I’ve rarely seen him over-imbibe. But as much as he’s calmed his life down, he’s still intimidating as fuck.
Travis gestures with his thumb for Dash to head upstairs. That’s where his apartment is. As far as I know, it’s a one-bedroom and not all that big.
“I thought you were running errands?” he says.
“Had to get something from the office.”
Dash’s eyes flick to me, apologetic, before he scampers away. Travis sits at my bar top. I pour him a soda.
“You got something stronger, bartender?”
I raise a brow. Does he mean that?
Travis nods. “Johnnie Walker, neat. Kids’ll drive you to drink, Stacey. Did you do this with your mom?”
No, but I wasn’t your typical kid, and she wasn’t a typical mom. I shake my head. “No, sir.” I slide the tumbler across the bar top, its sharp odor staining the air. Jeez that stuff might as well be paint thinner.
His silence says everything. His anger’s a living, breathing thing, pouring into the air.
“Everything okay, Trav?”
“No.” He rubs a hand over his face and downs the scotch in one go.
Dirk walks by. He’s been here for a few months now. “Want me to talk to him?” he offers. He puts a hand on Travis’s shoulder. Wonder if Dirk knows Travis doesn’t let just anyone touch him?
“If you think it’ll help,” Travis says.
“I know you don’t want him down here, but I think he should be.”
“He’s not ready.”
“He is,” Dirk insists.
I can’t believe this guy. Arguing with Travis. Dirk’s a year younger than I am. He’s a busser. But there were circumstances to Dirk starting here that I don’t know about.
Dirk heads to the back, presumably to go up to the apartment. That leaves us down a busser, and we’ll have to bus some of our own tables. Casey will be thrilled.
“I think I owe you an explanation,” Travis says.
“You don’t owe me a thing.”
He sighs. “Maybe I want to say it out loud, if you’re willing to bend an ear?”
I swirl a bottle of scotch. “Another?”
“Yeah, maybe I will. Over ice this time.”
I pour scotch over ice and wait until he takes a sip.
“Dash went missing after his mom died. He was taken by his mom’s ex-boyfriend.” Travis downs the rest of the scotch, holding his glass out for another. “I don’t know what happened during that time. He won’t tell anyone—except for the police. There’s that at least. I didn’t get him back all that long ago. He’s been staying in the apartment with me. I guess—in a way—I’ve been keeping him prisoner there. That’s what he’d say anyway.”
Did I almost hit on someone who had something terrible happen to them? Fuck. To be fair, he didn’t look like anything had just happened to him, but still. I think I’m gonna be sick. I pour myself an ounce of scotch. There’s no drinking on the job, generally, but I don’t think Travis will mind one given the circumstances. Besides, every shift we have a “safety meeting” in the back, which is code for “end of the night shots” anyway. Trust me, in this industry, we need it.
“I just, fuck. It was the scariest thing of my life, Stacey. Not knowing where he was, if he was okay, if he was alive. My little … little boy.” He holds his glass out. I fill it. “He plays hockey, you know. He’s real good, too. He’s got a shot if I can get him to … fuck.”
He slams his fist on the counter, jostling his glass.
Wow. I knew something was going on as soon as Dirk showed up. I assumed that Travis was helping Dirk with something or the other way around. Looks like they were helping each other.
“I know what it’s like to watch someone you love suffer,” I say quietly. “And not be able to do a thing about it.” My fingers curl into my palms.
Travis looks up from his hands, elbows resting on the bar top. A lot’s playing out on his face. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to put this on you.”
“You’re not.”
“Dirk’s been helpful, and his older brother Hunter.”
“And you have me, Travis,” I promise. I put to rest any ideas of asking Dash out. That’s out of the question. “Want me to train him on barback?” I work bar most often. If he’s barback, he’ll be close to me, and I can watch him.
“Thanks, Stacey. Maybe. I’ll see how things pan out after Dirk talks to him. Dash hates me. If he had anywhere else to go, he would. But he doesn’t.”
H e starts two days after that. Remembering that he’s been through some kind of hell keeps my thoughts from wandering where they can’t. I don’t know what he’s been through, and I don’t know if I wanna to know. I don’t know if it’s safe for me to know because I’d be inclined to hunt down the predator. Dash sets off all my primal instincts. Don’t know why that is, either, but it’s a thing now. I barely know the guy, but if anyone fucks with him, they fuck with me. If anyone hurts him, I’ll rip them apart.
But if I didn’t know something grave had happened to him, I’d never guess. Dash doesn’t let on a single thing. He follows my directions to the letter and he’s physically strong, so he can do a lot without tiring himself. When he’s around me, he’s all smiles and shy glances. Detecting any crack in his foundation won’t be done from a distance. The only signs something’s up come from Dirk and Travis.
“They’re like helicopter parents,” Casey says under his breath as he collects his drinks from the bar top and places them on his tray. “I asked Dash to take out the garbage and Dirk said he was going with him. I asked Dash if he wanted to go next door to the pool hall after work, and Travis told me he was busy before Dash could get a word out.”
I scowl at my brother while I shake the hell out of an espresso martini and pour the frothy drink into a martini glass. “Pool hall?”
He groans. “Not you too.”
I lean across the bar, using hushed tones so no one else can hear me. “Travis trusts me to look after him. All I need is for you and your recklessness to barrel in.”
“I was gonna bring Jack. He woulda kept me out of trouble.”
Jack Leslie is my brother’s bestie. I’m friends with him too, but not like Casey is. And I love Jack to death, but knowing it would be Casey and Jack dragging him to a pool hall doesn’t bring me comfort.
“Seventy-five percent of the trouble you get into is with Jack. No.”
But Casey’s right. Dirk and Travis are a bit suffocating. I might not know the details, but Dash needs room to breathe from those two.
There’s yelling to my right. Dash storms into the empty restaurant from the kitchen, brow furrowed, body as tense as a coiled spring. Travis isn’t too far behind.
He keeps his voice low. “Get back upstairs.”
“No,” Dash bites back through grit teeth like it’s taking all his willpower to restrain himself.
“Don’t make me carry you.”
That’s when Dash knows it’s game over for him. The gorgeous anger blazing in his eyes blinks from existence, replaced by sagging limbs and a deflated posture. What’s going through his head?
“How long, Dad? How long’s that gonna work unless you tie me up, or chain me to something? You gonna do what he did?”
What he did. I’ve learned his name. Robin. Robin better hope that I never find him.
Travis hesitates. That’s enough to give anyone pause. So, I don’t know what possesses me. Just that things run through my mind. Things like Dash leaving for good, things like his mom’s ex-boyfriend coming for him, things like never seeing the sun again.
Before sense and logic can prevail, I’ve got Dash over my shoulder. I’m bigger than he is, and I’m a seasoned hockey player, so it’s not hard. Fists slam my back. I ignore them. Even climbing the stairs is easy, with the fear that he’s gonna run pumping through my veins.
I toss him onto Travis’s couch. It might also be Dash’s bed. Sunlight’s trying to bust through the broken blinds. There’s a lot of wood—the floors, the cupboards, the worn coffee table. The only sign of life in this place is the sofa where Dash’s belongings are strewn. Unless Travis is a Nickelback fan, which I doubt.
Crossing my arms, I stand over Dash, daring him to bolt.
“I wasn’t … I wasn’t actually gonna do it.” I raise a brow. He looks at his hands. “Fine, I was, but I just need a little space and no one’s giving it to me because they all think I’ll break apart.”
He says that last part louder, eyeing the space behind me. Travis and Dirk have come up the stairs, waiting like wolves, ready to pounce.
“I told you, go to one therapy session a week, just one, and I’ll let up,” Travis says.
I turn toward Dash. His lower lip trembles and his hands move everywhere, unable to settle—rubbing his arm, into his other palm, over his thighs.
“I’ve tried it. They make me talk about things I’m not ready to talk about. They want me on medication that makes me feel dizzy—I can’t play hockey like that—and I just … I don’t fucking want to, okay?”
I grip my chest where it hurts. How did I become the mediator? I’d protect him from the world if I could.
Maybe I can.
“Would you talk to me? When you’re ready, of course. I’m not a professional, but I’m good at listening without judgment.”
I’ve heard of people who can’t open up to therapists. Dash might be like that. If that’s the case, I’m better than nothing.
“Is that okay with you, Dad?” Dash says. The “dad” has tone behind it that I can’t make sense of. Dash is almost nineteen. Almost considered an adult in Canada. And Travis isn’t the strict parent kind of guy.
I turn to Travis, seeing if I can read him, but I get nothing. “It’s fine with me. Stacey’s good salt.”
“Bet you wish you had a son like him, huh?” Dash says. And while I can hear the mild bitter notes, behind it is a cavern of need—the need for reassurance. Dash might be angry with his dad for reasons I can’t fathom, but he needs to know his dad loves him.
“Stacey’s alright, but I already got one, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything,” Travis says in that earnest voice of his that could make a vat of tar grow feelings.
Dash’s eyes well up, and he puts his hands over his face. “I hate … can everyone just leave me alone for a fucking minute?”
Here it is. The crack. And it’s a big fucking crack. One large enough for him to slip through.
He can’t be left alone. I get it now. Why Travis and Dirk shadow him.
I act on instinct, slotting myself beside him. It’s a huge fucking risk with how everything’s gone down, not to mention Dash’s every signal says to stay far away from him. But I’m acting on something else.
A murmur in the world that speaks from him to me.
Yanking him to me, I surround him like I want to.
His fingers snare my shirt, digging deep, latching on for dear life. They dig through the material and straight into my flesh. I’ll have bruises later, prints of him, but I don’t mind. I don’t hear a sound from Dash, but I feel wetness seeping through cotton, melting into my skin like water into salt—Dash melting into me.
Travis mouths a thank you to me and has to drag a scowling Dirk from the room. There’s a click of the door shutting quietly, and then no sounds for a long time. Just the rise and fall of Dash’s ribcage as he cries.
I don’t do anything but hold him until he pulls back, wiping his face with the back of his arm. “Sorry.”
“Nu-uh. We’re not gonna do that,” I say.
He freezes. “Anyone ever tell you, you’re an odd mix of teddy bear and overbearing drill sergeant?”
“My brother, minus the teddy bear part. That one’s new.” I’m the furthest thing from a teddy bear, but it’s possible—maybe—that I’m being soft with Dash.
Dash takes a slow breath. “So how does this work? Do I have to bear my soul to you immediately?”
“No.”
“He’ll want me to.”
“This is between me and you. We’ll go at the right pace. I’ll make sure.”
Dash freezes again. As if I’ve said something important. Something pivotal. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Okay.”
“But—”
“Here it is.”
“I’m going to prod you a little. You’re not obligated to answer when I do. Just tell me you’re not ready if you’re not, okay?”
He nods.
“And I need something from you.”
“What?”
“One hundred percent honesty, which is not the same as the truth.”
“What does that even mean?” He groans. “Maybe I shoulda picked therapist.”
“You still can. You can at any time if this isn’t working for you. No hard feelings.”
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t know what this says about me, but as torturous as I know it’s gonna be, I want it. I want you.”
There’s an ache in my chest, a tug, a binding.
It’s not until later, days later, that it occurs to me that he was in my arms, and it was the most natural thing in the world.
D ash climbs onto one of the tall bar stools, taking a seat. He’s not working today, but I am. It’s the midpoint of the day, the lull, and there isn’t much to do. I’m wiping down the copper bar top for the sixteenth time today. This thing gets sticky, and with the traffic it sees, I’m sure there are undiscovered species of bacteria roaming around on it, trying to find a home.
“Can I see some ID?” I ask him. My lips fight to tug into a smile. It’s like that whenever he walks into a fucking room and that’s a problem. I limit the number of times I let myself. I’m Dash’s mentor now, I don’t want to give the wrong impression.
He rolls his eyes. “Make me something virgin,” he demands. “Please.”
Virgin means no alcohol, but my mind wanders … Is he a virgin? I don’t mean to have that thought, I’m a bad person for having that thought, but my brain thought it without my damn permission. It’s hard enough to keep my mind from wandering to things in the general direction of me and Dash because, well, just because.
Point is, if he was a virgin and Robin took that from him, I’m gonna…
My lungs heave a forced breath, and I exhale slowly, getting to work on something for him. I remember the pink neon from his Nickelback shirt the other day, using pink grapefruit juice to make him a Paloma, sans the tequila, of course. I give it extra flare with a fresh cherry pierced with a pick, stabbed into a triangle of pineapple.
“For you.”
He takes a sip, nodding his approval. “I like it. Keep ‘em comin’.”
I smirk and check my screen for any new drinks that might have come through. Just a diet soda and a pint of Canadian. I get that up for the server who isn’t Casey or Jack today. They’re at Kits Beach, working on their tans and scoping out the men in Speedos. Jack suggested Wreck Beach, and I gave Casey a dirty look. Wreck Beach is a nude beach, and while I don’t have a problem with that, it’s also a party beach where rules are overlooked. They sell beersicles for fucksakes. It’s a great place for those two clowns to get into trouble while I’m not around to stop them. I can’t really tell them what to do, but I can give them what they call my “dad” look. Sometimes it works.
And other times, it doesn’t.
“You haven’t asked me anything,” he says.
“Astute.”
“ Stacey. ”
“Did you expect me to drill you?” Fuck, that sounded dirty, but I didn’t mean it like that. “With questions.” Dammit, it’s like the day I walked into the wall but with words.
He bites his lip. He wants to laugh at me, doesn’t he? “Kinda, yeah.”
“Do you want me to?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” He hides in his hands. He does that a lot.
“What’s the trouble between you and your dad?”
He groans. “Next question.”
It’s hard to know where to start, but that’s why he’s sitting at my bar top. He wants to try. He wants me to guide him. He trusts me—for whatever reason—to be his guide.
Mom’s voice whispers to me. Don’t get to know his pain first, baby.
Right.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Seriously?”
“Answer the question, Dash.”
“Whoa. When you do that I just…my tummy swoops.” He swallows. “I think you already know it.” He swirls the pink grapefruit with his straw.
My chest lifts and sugar-coated warmth settles there. Yeah, knew it was pink.
For the rest of the afternoon, I fire questions at him. Even though we’ve worked together for a couple of weeks, I don’t know a lot about him. It’s a weird realization because at the same time, it feels like I’ve known him all my life. I knew of him in high school, always thought he was kinda cute, but we hung around different crowds. I was distracted with my brother, making sure he was on the straight and narrow and that he didn’t fall apart over Mom’s death, I didn’t have time for dating—according to high school me—or making too many friends.
Hell, I don’t make a lot of time for it now. Most of my current friends are via my brother, and the last guy I dated wasn’t nearly as interesting as Dash.
Fuck. I’m doing it again. I need to stop thinking about dating and Dash in the same breath.
I learn how much he loves soup and hot cider on a cold day. About how he wants to travel. Nickelback’s only his second favorite band, his first is Creed, a band T-shirt he doesn’t have but Travis does, and he hopes it’ll be bequeathed to him someday.
“I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” he tells me. “Dirk and I used to drive Hunter crazy when we’d spend what little money we’d earn from offering our landscaping services to the neighborhood on a mountain of gummy bears and licorice.”
“Landscaping services?”
He laughs. Not sure if I’ve heard him laugh since he’s been here. “Mowing lawns and weeding gardens.”
“I’m not into sweets so much myself,” I tell him. “I’m more of a potato chip kind of guy, but I’ll make an exception for anything with chocolate and caramel.”
“That tracks.”
“Why? You sayin’ I’m not sweet?”
“No,” he breathes. “You’re kinda strait-laced, though.”
“I am not. I can be fun.”
“Name one fun thing you’ve done in two weeks,” he says.
“I’ve…” He’s got me. I don’t have shit. But I can’t be the fun twin. Casey’s the fun twin. We can’t both be the fun twin. “Alright, so I’m not the fucking circus, but I can have a good time.”
“Not the same thing. Maybe you should unclench your asshole once in a while,” he suggests. It’s not said with mean spirit, but there’s a needling quality to it.
My cheeks heat—is he flirting? Fucking hell. We cannot flirt.
I narrow my eyes. “I didn’t realize you were a brat, Dash Nolan.” I can’t say I’m not happy to see it. It’s the first spark I’ve seen from him. Now that I’ve seen the spark, I know that it’s what’s been missing all along.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t shown signs of whatever happened to him, it was that I didn’t know what to look for. But his dad knew. I hate that I didn’t. I always want to know what to look for.
Dash ducks his head. He runs a thumb over the glass in front of him. I catch the ghost of a smile.
My screen pings; more drinks up. After I’ve made those, I lean against the counter, observing him. His demeanor’s changed. His happy-go-lucky smile’s wiped from existence, blank eyes staring into his drink. He clears his throat before I can ask him another question about something—anything—that’s personal, but also surface-level.
“There’s trouble between me and Dad for a few reasons. One,” he lists off, “Dad made sure he got guardianship, but it’s more like a conservatorship. He’s afraid I’ll…” Dash makes a throat-cutting gesture across his neck.
I figured that was the worry from the way Travis and Dirk have been shadowing him like ninjas.
“And? Is there any weight to their fear?”
“No, god no.”
“Honesty, Dash, remember?”
“I remember, and I mean it. Even at my darkest, I didn’t want that. I know why he thinks it, though. I kinda sorta said I didn’t want to be here, but I meant here as in the apartment. I wish I could move out of his apartment and have my own space. He took it to mean the other thing.”
“Yeah, not the best thing to say to your worried dad and, um, overprotective bestie?”
“Very overprotective,” he agrees. “And, yeah, not my brightest moment, but I have a lot of trouble articulating what I mean. I know what I feel, but it takes a few tries to come out right.”
Casey’s a bit like that only he’s a lot more confident about just saying whatever. Unlike Dash, we—Mom and I—gave Casey a safe environment. He’s not afraid to get it wrong a few times before he gets it right.
“And the other stuff?”
“This is where … this is …” He claws at his shirt where his heart’s supposed to be. He huffs. “Everyone told me Travis was a bad guy.”
“Travis?”
“I hate what I thought about Dad. Hate it. It’s easier for me to call him Travis when I talk about what an asshole I was.” He frowns and lays his head on the bar top. Sunlight bounces off the copper highlight in his dark hair, making all the tresses bleached by the sun dance and sparkle.
But I don’t miss the movement over by the booths along the far wall—Travis off in a corner, pretending to clean something as if his intuition’s tingling. Yeah, makes sense. He’s keeping an eye on his cub, ready to swoop in if needed. The conversation’s taken a turn, but I’ve got it. I don’t even know why I’ve got it. It’s not like I’m an expert. It’s not like I’m that much older than Dash with a whole bunch of wisdom he wouldn’t have.
“Why are you an asshole?” I can tell him he’s not an asshole until I’m blue in the face, but that’s not gonna get him to stop believing it.
“How could I believe that about Dad? Dad’s, well, scary sometimes, honestly, but he’s also the guy who saves tired honeybees.”
Trav does. I’ve never learned so much about our dwindling bee population. He’s run into the bar numerous times, yelling for someone to get him sugar water, stat. He feeds it to the struggling Apis mellifera—learned that from Travis—until the little creature flies away to hopefully live out the rest of its best honey-gathering life.
“You were a kid. We’re still kids.”
He nods. “I’m telling myself that until I know it’s true, but I’m not there yet, and I feel like a dick.” He swirls his empty glass. “Another one, bartender?”
I take the empty glass and get to work on another virgin paloma.
“I’m angry, too, and I lash out. He doesn’t deserve that. He should have a better son.”
“Maybe he could.” I pretend to think about it.
“Hey, you’re not supposed to say shit like that.”
“What am I supposed to say, hmm?” I lift a brow. Waiting.
“That … that he loves me no matter what. That he’ll forgive me. That there’s nothing I can do to make him not want me.”
“Mhm. And how do you know that?” It’s one thing to say something, but finding evidence of a claim is the real power.
“Because he’s helicopter parenting an eighteen-year-old. Because it must fucking suck to share a one-bedroom apartment with your grown-up son, but he’s putting up with it anyway. No, scratch that, he’s not just putting up with it, he refuses to let me leave.”
“There you go.”
His jaw drops. “How did you do that? You sure you’re not an undercover therapist my dad hired to sneak therapy into me? I think I actually believe what I just said.”
“I think somewhere inside of you, you know I won’t let you believe a lie, even if it’s a nice lie.”
“Yeah.” He fiddles with his hands.
“And that thought’s gonna return, Dashie, but now you have a new story to replace the old one with. That’s your homework. When that awful thought creeps in, remind yourself of the truth.”
“I’ll do it, but did you just call me Dashie?” He raises a brow.
“I … I, uh …” Fuck. It’s hot in here. Why’s it so fucking hot in here? “Isn’t that what your dad and Dirk call you?”
He shrugs. “Yeah.”
Why is he noticing shit like that when I do it? Fuck, though. I’m so busted. It’s still a term of endearment. Was that okay?
“I give nicknames to everyone,” I add for good measure.
“Sure, you do.”
“I do.” He’s not buying it, and not only will I be fired, but Trav is gonna put my head on a pike outside as a warning to anyone who inadvertently flirts with his son.
Dash takes mercy on me, turning his attention away from my slip. “I know my dad’s over there watching us. You think he’d mind if I hugged him?”
“I think it would make his damn day.”
“He doesn’t seem like the hugging kind of guy, and I … I kinda need…”
I still have imprints from his fingers digging into my shirt the other day. Dash is touched-starved as fuck.
“He’ll be elated, Dash.”
“M’kay.”
I lean against the counter on the bar well side and watch. Dash patters over to his dad, running hands through his hair, rubbing a hand over his wrist—all self-soothing gestures.
C’mon, Travis. Take the hint. Take the hint and hug your boy.
As if I willed it into being, Travis opens his arms, Dash slips into them, the instant relief plain in his saggy limbs. Travis holds him in a vice grip, and our gazes meet across the empty bar.
Later, Travis gives my brother and me a raise.