13. Travis
Travis
“Aw, come on, man—who the fuck cares?”
“Ryan. She’s ten years younger than me.” It’s the third time I’ve said this to him since we got here, and the third time he’s either shrugged, rolled his eyes, or done both at the same time.
We’re at Cap-Size, one of the many bars he owns. The grand opening for the Onyx Embassy is tonight, and though I knew he couldn’t make it, he did have time to meet me for a drink.
Ryan almost always has time for a drink. Plus, he likes going “undercover” to make sure things are operating as they should.
For Ryan, every new place is more than a bar or restaurant—it’s a concept, and this one is submarine-themed.
On the far side of the room is a massive fish tank with several fish species I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to own. Deep blue bulbs shine through the water, painting the inside of the space with wavering light, like you’ve opened your eyes at the bottom of a pool.
The menu is exclusively seafood, and the drinks are infused with seaweed, squid ink, and essence of pearl.
“And I’m like ten years younger than you,” Ryan says, taking a drink of his fancy cocktail and clapping me on the back. “We’re still friends. No biggie.”
“First of all,” I say, glaring at him, but that has never worked. Ryan is either the kind of guy who doesn’t realize you’re giving him a look at or just doesn’t care. “I am not ten years older than you. You’re thirty.”
Ryan and I met when he was looking for a commercial space to rent. He wanted to open a bakery in Manhattan, and my team needed a coffee shop to take up the ground floor of one of our buildings.
We’d just started recognizing the potential of food and drink in our properties.
From my perspective, having a coffee shop under my apartment sounded like hell.
Potential tenants thought otherwise—it made them feel like they belonged somewhere.
Especially when those cafés and restaurants were owned and run by Ryan.
Up-and-coming celebrity chef. Handsome and single.
Someone had to take over for Bobby Flay, and Ryan isn’t just about the Food Network—he has millions of followers across his social platforms. He’s the first iteration of the playboy chef that’s been accessible to the wider public, and not just middle-aged mothers watching shows about making casseroles.
“Twenty-nine,” he corrects now, sending his own glare my way. I do recognize it, but Ryan is shit at glaring. That comes from his cheery, Nebraskan upbringing, where his parents—I assume—spoon-fed him corn and love while singing him to sleep every night.
“Even so, we’re just friends,” I counter, because I’m not going to argue with him about how soon his birthday is, and how thirty is a more accurate descriptor. “There’s a power imbalance to consider when it’s…”
I trail off. Despite his many attempts at getting me to share details, I’m not going to. I want to keep what Serena and I had private.
“Who is this woman?” Ryan asks as he leans against the bar. “This mystery woman who has you thinking about morality all of a sudden?”
I could tell him that it’s the woman he flirted with at the Onyx event, but he likely wouldn’t remember. Ryan flirts with everyone. Charming is his default setting.
And, if he did remember, I wouldn’t want to lead him in her direction. I didn’t like the way she was looking at him in the ballroom. So, instead of telling him, I steer the conversation in a different direction.
“Are you trying to say that, up to this point, I’ve had no qualms about morality?
” I ask, raising an eyebrow. I’m mostly joking, but a hidden doubt creeps up inside me, reminding me of the man who raised me.
Would it be surprising if I turned out to be another money-hungry piece of shit, with the father I had?
Ryan shakes his head, giving me a look like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
Maybe he does. For some reason, he’s one of the few people I’ve met since starting Onyx who really feels like a friend to me.
“I’m saying, you wouldn’t normally be getting all twisted up in how old she is.
She’s got a college degree. A fully developed frontal lobe.
Sounds to me like she can make her own decisions and doesn’t need you making decisions for her. ”
I work hard to keep my face passive. That’s exactly what Serena said to me right before the second time I fucked her. Ryan shrugs again, moving the little gummy shark around the top of his drink. “And it’s not like you’re asking her to marry you, right?”
Staring at the vile, bright blue concoction he’s drinking, I nod. He’s right—it’s not like I’m asking her to marry me. I told Ryan a long time ago that I had absolutely no plans to marry anyone. Ever.
It would fulfill the last requirement my father left behind to receive his trust. According to my attorney, I can’t just refuse it. Which means I have to make sure I never meet all the requirements for the funds to be released to me.
When I first told him about the situation, Ryan had laughed. He asked why I didn’t just accept the money and donate it all to something that would have pissed my dad off.
It’s impossible to explain how much I need to make sure that money never touches me. I never want any of my success attributed to him in any way. Even my charitable contributions.
So, Ryan is correct. It’s not like I’m asking her to marry me.
But the thought of anyone else touching Serena like I did last weekend makes my brain start to implode in a way I don’t know what to do with. I’m not used to feeling territorial. And when I think of it—the idea of marrying her—it feels good.
Which makes absolutely no sense. The list of reasons why it doesn’t make sense starts with the fact that I barely know her and doesn’t even end with the fact that my brother dated her first.
I have not told Ryan that she is Alex’s ex-girlfriend. And I won’t. First, because then he would easily be able to figure out who she is, and second, because that might change his mind about my great moral standing. Third, because he would enjoy the entire situation far too much for my liking.
“Alright, man.” Ryan does his signature sigh and back-clap as he stands up from the bar, slides his glass in toward the bartender, and glances toward the door. “I have that thing to get to, but have so much fun at your fancy party.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, standing and accepting his bro-hug. When I first met Ryan, he would have been thrilled to come to a launch party. Now, apparently, he’s already had his fill of extravagant events.
My driver is waiting for me at the curb when I walk out into the New York night. A couple leans against the wall to my left, and there’s a group of girls waiting to cross on the opposite side of the street.
While Ryan is becoming increasingly recognizable lately, I’m not.
Or, maybe I am recognizable, but not the kind of person that people feel emboldened to approach.
Countless times, Ryan and I have been together when someone runs up to him, says they love his TikToks, or tried his recipe, or have a tattoo just like his.
And every time, instead of reacting to the person like he should—calling security or telling them to back the fuck up—he just smiles and signs whatever, and takes a picture with them.
I know my name is well known around the city. But I never want to experience that level of fame.
The ride over to the hotel is quiet. My driver has been with me for nearly a decade now, and he knows I prefer a silent ride. A chance to clear my head, often between one meeting and the next.
Now, it’s a chance to try to prepare myself for seeing Serena again.
I should have cut things off with her. That would have been the smart thing to do. Instead, I’m just repeating past mistakes.
Climbing out of the car, I make a late entrance to the party.
Just like before, Serena is across the room, wearing the dress I left for her in our hotel suite, her hair loose around her shoulders, her skin creamy, shoulders freckled. Just like before, she’s engrossed in what she’s doing, the camera like an extension of herself.
And, just like before, I can’t think about anything but how badly I want that woman in my bed.