Prologue #11
“Corner—whoa! Blades down, Leslie. Don’t feel like spilling my guts on the floor today, thanks,” Trav says in that deep tenor of his that has whatever turns on my arousal, sitting up like a dog. God. It’s so good. Bet it would be even better if he were whispering filthy, filthy words into my ear.
“Hockey players,” he mutters as Jack carries on toward the server station to load his sharpened blades into an insert.
My lips twist into a half smile, and I look up without thinking about it.
Trav’s gaze locks with mine, catching me snickering at the scolding Jack just got.
He winks. My smile stretches into something that could be considered an actual fucking smile.
Those imaginary fireflies? Those little lightbulb-assed bastards are back, and they’re lighting up my whole internal sky.
Trav. Smiles. Back.
And know what I do? I duck my head. That’s the behavior of a shy person, of a person who’s smitten and not the “I totally don’t care that you’re ridiculously good-looking and am most definitely not into you” person that I am.
By the way, my face is on fire. Great. This is just fucking great. Now I’ve got to figure out what the fuck that meant.
No. No, I don’t. It was nothing.
Ugh, but it was also not nothing.
Actually, I do know what it meant. It means that he’s comfortable enough to wink at me, because he’s not utterly captivated by me like I am him. He’s into women, anyway, and that’s how I’m gonna remind myself he’s off limits.
Aweek has passed since what I’m calling the “flirtatious smile incident”.
We’re trying to restock after the devastation that was the dinner rush.
I’m actually cut for once, which means the hosts won’t be giving me any new tables.
I’ll finish the ones I have, and then I’m off for the night.
I haven’t been off this early on a Saturday since …
fuck, I can’t remember. Not that it matters.
Stacey and Dash had some kind of fight. They’re doing this weird thing where they keep each other in their sights, all the while a storm cloud of hurt and anger follows them.
Maybe I’ll stay and have a beer with Casey and Jack.
I’m mentally clocked out as I round the corner, so I forget to say “corner”.
Todd—another server who’s been here since the beginning of the summer—barrels around from the other side.
I catch the flash of steel, and it’s thanks to my quick hockey reflexes that the blades only catch my arm instead of sinking into my stomach.
“Shit, sorry. I should have said corner,” he says.
“Yeah, me too. My bad.”
“How many times do I gotta say blades down?” Trav growls, bowling through servers and bussers to get to me. He sets a full glare on Todd. “You could’ve fatally stabbed him. My office, now.”
“Looks worse than it is, Tra—whoa kay.”
Trav yanks me out of the throng, turning my arm over to inspect the damage. Without warning, he drags me to the sink, shoving my arm under cool water.
“Travis, I’m fine. He barely nicked me.” That’s not exactly true. It’s not a deep cut, but it’ll need some care. He’s gotta calm the fuck down, though.
I’m treated to a searing glower that definitely means, I’ll be the judge of that. He grabs the closest clean towel and wraps it around my surface wound.
“Alderchuck,” he says to the nearest one—Stacey. “Watch the floor for me.”
I have no choice but to follow Trav to the back or else lose my arm. The blood’s already stopped by the time he’s maneuvered me into a chair. He pulls out the First Aid kit.
“You’re overreacting.”
“He coulda killed you.”
“Jack almost did the same thing to you the other day; all he got was a mild scolding.” I regret bringing it up as soon as I say it. The flirtatious wink comes to mind, and I flush all over again. Thank fuck he’s distracted.
But Trav knows as well as I do that even though this time ended up in some blood and the other time didn’t, the level of potential danger was the same. They got lucky, and so did I. He’s stone silent as he cleans me up, carefully wrapping a gauze bandage around my forearm.
I flex and extend my hand to show him everything’s in working order. “See? Surface wound.”
“Yeah, looks okay.”
“Exactly, Trav. I could work the rest of the night if I had to.”
“That’s good because you are. Todd’s going home, you’re taking over his section.”
“Trav, be for real.”
His jaw ticks, the silence speaking for him. Wow, he’s not budging on this. “I’m gonna speak to Todd, you can go back to work.”
So much for a Saturday night off. I storm through the kitchen on the warpath and back to the bar area. The bussers and hosts steer clear of me.
Dash is at the bar top, stacking drinks onto his tray, doing a great impression of Travis as he shoots Stacey death stares. His expression softens when he sees me. “You okay, Dirky? I saw Todd slice you.”
“One hundred percent fine. Your dad totally flipped, though. Did you see how he reacted?”
“I think everyone saw, man. That was awesome. He totally came to your rescue.”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t need rescuing.”
“Still, he did. You’re one of his, so he’s protective of you. Bet he fires Todd.”
“That’s crazy talk. He’s not gonna fire Todd,” I say. “Jack did the same thing the other day—he almost ran Trav right through. All he did was scold Jack.”
Dash laughs, but it’s half scoff. “You can’t see the difference? He’s far less concerned about danger to himself than he is to you or me.”
Ugh, so maybe he does consider me the same way he does Dash.
That’s good.
No, it’s fucking not.
I’m never gonna win that argument with myself.
Todd rushes from the kitchen, clutching his backpack, face red.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Dirk,” he says on the way by, but he doesn’t stop, breezing out of the restaurant.
Did Trav fire him? I gotta go back there, calm him the fuck down. One of the hostees walks up to me, holding three chits in her hand.
“Um, sorry. We triple sat you.”
“What the fuck? I have Todd’s section, too. Didn’t Trav or Stacey tell you over the headset?”
“Nope. Have fun.”
“Here, lemme take two of those,” Dash says. “I’ll make sure Dad calms down. Don’t worry about a thing—he just loves you to death.”
Awesome, he loves me like what? A son? But we’ve never had those vibes. Not from my end anyway. I guess I could say we’re friends, but about the only friend I’d get this protective of is Dash.
The night’s a blur after that. I’m run off my feet by the time close comes around, because of course, my tables decide to stay till the bitter end. Trav’s checked on me about three times since I almost got run through with a knife. Apparently, there’s gonna be a whole staff meeting on knife safety.
When I’m changed and cashed out, I pace outside Trav’s office. Because we should talk, but what do I even say?
“You waiting for me?” he says from behind.
I jump, even though his voice is softer than I ever remember hearing it. I thought he was in his office. “Um, yeah.”
“How’s your—”
“Fine. It’s fine, Travis,” I snap.
“You’re pissed at me,” he says, crossing his arms, not looking all that fazed about me being pissed if you ask me.
“What was your first fucking clue?” I say, knowing Trav wouldn’t appreciate other members of the staff talking to him like this. Didn’t think about it before, but now it stands out. “Did you fire Todd over this?”
“You’re damn right I did.”
“You didn’t fire Jack when he almost stabbed you the other day,” I bring up again, because I don’t think he gets how much of a hypocrite he is. “Fuck, don’t fire Jack.”
Trav runs a frustrated hand through his hair, and for once. “You’re right. I’m a hypocrite, but you…”
You were the one in danger.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but I can see it there as glaring as neon lights. It’s just like Dash said, but I still don’t know why he cares to a level that could arguably be labelled as psychotic.
“Look, we’re gonna have a meeting. Things are gonna be different around here.”
“Unfire Todd. Please.”
Trav’s quiet for several heartbeats, his gaze flicks to my bandaged arm. He shakes his head. “That’s not a good idea.” He studies me. What does he see? Do I have a pleading look about me? Because that’s how I feel. “I’ll make sure he gets hired somewhere else.”
Trav’s tall form barrels past me. He closes his office door. I’ve been dismissed. Asshole.
A million explanations flood my mind, Dash’s at the forefront—it’s gotta be that right? I’m his son’s bestie, so he’s especially protective. Loves me to death. That’s what Dash said. And if that weren’t enough, Trav is into women, remember?
Yeah, I remember, but this feels different. Can’t put my finger on the brand of different, though.
I exhale, stumbling when the oxygen rushes in. Was I holding my breath? Not surprising. Travis takes my breath away.
Finally, a day off, and for some reason, Hunter’s in our kitchen fixing the outlet.
I hide in my room, which might make me a huge dick, but Hunt will enlist my help, and I’m sooooo fucking tired.
It’s been six days in a row at The Wicklow, and I’m dead, something Hunt won’t understand with his ten-day-a-week work schedule.
He’ll tell me I need to build character, or something.
The only thing I’m building right now is a pillow fort to shove my head into, where I’ll close my eyes and maybe fall back to sleep.
But when I saunter out for a beer later, after I know Hunt’s left, I figure out why he was here pretty quickly—Dash was trying to make Stacey jealous.
In news that surprises no one, it worked, and Stacey’s transformed from sweet golden retriever to posturing Doberman.
I breeze by their bickering match and open the fridge, reaching for an ice-cold Corona.
Don’t even think they noticed me enter the kitchen.
“He’s into men, too,” Dash taunts Stacey, referring to Hunt, who, I guess, had mentioned his current girlfriend while he was here.