Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
Late April
Off-Season, Baby!
Dirk
Did I just fucking arrive in Vancouver? Yes.
Is it real fucking suspicious that I had to go to the restaurant now?
Yes. But I don’t give a fuck. It’s playoff season for everyone else.
We’re done, but our friends are still battling it out in the NHL.
It’s always a bummer to be knocked out, but not as much of one this year.
I’m aching to be with Trav, and Dash is aching to be with Stacey—even if he won’t admit it.
I have no doubt that’ll sort itself out now that we’re home.
We get a little time to breathe after another dramatic season before the rest of the guys get home, and new off-season drama begins.
Fuck, if I ever wrote a “tell-all” book about hockey players and how dramatic we are, no one would believe me.
I lied—just a small one—and told Trav I wouldn’t be home until tonight. I convinced Dash to leave with me at around one am, just after the wind-up party. I didn’t drink, so I could drive, but he did. I was able to put his drunk-ass to bed when we got home and slip out undetected.
Using my key, I creep into the restaurant. It’s hard to sneak up on a guard dog like Trav, but I know to skip the creaky third step up to his apartment, and to go slow with the door, because no matter how many things he gets to fixing, this door isn’t one of them.
Which leads me to believe that’s on purpose.
I open it enough not to activate the squeak in the hinge, and squeeze my big ass through the small crack, holding my breath until I’m inside.
A light dusting of rain whispers against the window, all the world feeling hushed, wrapped in gentle silence.
Even the birds seem to be sleeping in this morning.
His wide chest rises and falls, heavy with sleep, a large foot attached to an even larger calf poking out from tangled blankets. He could take up the whole bed; at his size, he should, but there’s a wide space left beside him.
Has he been sleeping like that the whole time? Leaving my side of the bed free?
I watch him for a few heartbeats, taking in his stubble-roughened jaw and the flame of dark hair jetting over his scalp—a scalp I can see because he has a fucking undercut.
He’s on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, bicep thick but at rest. Even asleep, he’s formidable, a body built for war, still giving untamed beast despite how docile he is right now.
Which reminds me, I didn’t think this next part through.
My life is at genuine risk. I got this far, but as soon as I set any piece of me on that bed, Trav’s gonna wake up.
Between fight, flight, or freeze, Trav’s fight.
There’s a very real chance he’ll pull that knife he sleeps with from under his mattress.
Getting stabbed would suck.
Carefully, I shed my clothes, and then okay, I’m going in, starting from the end of that bed, right from that calf. My knee sinks into the bed, and my hand has just enough time to skate across the coarse hair of his legs …
His body snaps, a huffed growl leaving his rumbly chest. He moves so fast, I don’t know how I end up plastered against his body, but I am, and his arms have locked into a stranglehold around my waist, trapping me. It’s a trap I don’t want to break free from, so I don’t even try.
“That was fucking suicidal, pretty boy,” his voice, rough with sleep, murmurs, but he’s quick to find the heartbeat under my skin, brushing his lips over it.
Maybe I should feel scared, or warned, or relieved I’ve survived, but I don’t. Instead, my throbbing cock’s the loudest sensation, screaming at Trav to fucking touch it. I whimper.
His body moves behind me, still tense with barely leashed rage, and a looming darkness that engulfs my senses.
“If you’re gonna wake me up like that, you’d better be prepared to have your throat fucked,” he breathes.
“Uh-huh. Please.”
He spins me, so I’m facing him, detangling his limbs from the mess of sheets. He spreads his legs, eyes still droopy with sleep. Does he know I’m here? Or does he think this is a dream? Let’s make it one to remember.
I deep-throat him, taking him all the way in.
Man, I missed this so much. Video sex is better than nothing, but it’s not the same.
A thick hand threads into my hair, holding it in place as his hips thrust in quick, jerky movements.
There’s some grunting, some aaahhhs, and some “holy fuck yeahs” before hot cum paints the back of my throat.
Pulling off his cock, I sit back on my knees and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Good morning,” I whisper, so I don’t wake the birds.
“Oh, it will be. My turn to welcome you home.”
Trav flips me on my back, and his tongue proceeds to do things to my ass I didn’t know were possible. So much for not waking the birds, I scream loud enough to wake up the whole world.
“Ican’t believe you’re here,” he says, reaching across the table to brush a thumb over my cheek. His hand drops back to his fork, and he shovels more eggs into his mouth.
My jaw hurts from sucking his cock, and from smiling.
It’s just after eight am, no one else here to barge in or steal our moments.
Yeah, it doesn’t feel real yet—the hot coffee in my hand, the mundane clink of cutlery, the way his muscles flex and extend as he slices into his omelet.
He never put a shirt on, and I’m not mad about it.
I’ve dreamed of being here like this with him for months—just existing in his space with him.
But there’s been something else on my mind. I don’t want to ruin the tranquility or the newness of us blooming right here at this breakfast table, but the dark clouds aren’t just outside the window, they’re darkening inside me, too. My fingers tap the mug as I chew my lip. How do I bring it up?
“Uh-oh, I’m in trouble,” he says.
“Not trouble,” I say, leaning in. I keep my voice even. “But how long are you planning to make me wait?”
His spa day with Maxwell was almost two months ago. I can’t say I’ve been patient, or that the thought of whatever hell Maxwell told Trav hasn’t kept me awake some nights.
“I wish I could tell you to let me take care of it—”
“Trav.”
He huffs and launches into it. Robin is getting released early. The five words echo in my head, rattling around like loose change. But there’s something else too, something he’s not saying. The pinch of his brows betrays him. Unfortunately for Trav, I know him too fucking well by this point.
“You want to go after him.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t not say it either. Well then, tell me I’m wrong.”
He taps his fingers on the table. “It’s complicated.”
I shake my head. “No. Absolutely fucking not, Trav.” Then I wait. Wait for him to railroad me like I’m a kid.
Trav sets his fork down, picking up his coffee mug, swallowing down hot gulps along with whatever stupid thing he was about to say.
“Not used to that,” he says, running his hands through his hair. I sit back, hardening my body just in case he’s planning on arguing. “Can we talk about it?”
“Talk about what? Seriously, what’s the plan? Maiming? Beating? Murder?” I say, hushing my voice.
“He did things to my son,” Trav says, gritting his teeth. “The world is better without him in it.”
He was left to imagine what those things were—Dash wouldn’t tell him. Honestly? Probably for the best. This is bad enough. But it’s the first time a version of Travis from his past, the one whose rage has real teeth, appears. I’ve only heard stories of this Travis, but now he’s in the room with me.
“And the law—”
“Fuck the law, Dirk. The law’s releasing him.”
“This is crazy, Trav.”
He doesn’t flinch or blink, sitting there as certain as a stone, like he’s already made peace with what comes next.
Maybe he hasn’t done anything like this in a long time—that I know of—but this?
This is his way, and I learn something new about my man.
He hasn’t spent all this time reforming himself; he’s been practicing restraint.
All that menace, all that need for revenge, shakes the cage of Trav’s willpower every damn day, begging to be released.
“Look, nothing’s decided yet. Can we leave it for now?”
I want that more than anything, and I don’t know what else to say about it until I’ve had some time to think. I nod, but words are trapped in my throat. He said it was bad, but this is worse than anything I tossed and turned about.
“This stays between us,” he says. “I’m going to tell Dash about Robin, but now’s not the time.”
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.
“Yeah. We can talk upstairs. You can get back to work now, Dirk.”
Dirk. He rarely calls me Dirk anymore. “Yeah, no chance in hell, Trav. I’m coming.”
The arguments are waiting to spill off his tongue.
This guy is his past come to haunt him, someone he’s wanted to keep far away from his new life.
But this is what he invites in when he makes deals with the devil.
He’s gotta see that, and me in the same room with “Blaze” is the wake-up call he needs.
“Alright, c’mon.”