Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
Trav
Iwanted to kill him, which doesn’t say much about the man I’ve become.
The years distance me from my old life, but one trigger, and I’m back there, using my fists to solve my problems. Blaze, with a hand on my man, that’ll do it.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’ve taken great pains to keep them out of my new life.
Blaze explains. It was Maxwell. He sent someone up north with a message that I needed help.
My biker brethren might be violent, vulgar, uncouth motherfuckers, but they value loyalty above all else.
Showing up was about the only thing they could do.
Calls and other forms of communication are kept to a minimum—too traceable.
Even my annual trip isn’t planned in detail.
I’m supposed to show up “for two weeks every year”.
So long as I show, we’re good. I usually go at the beginning of the summer, because that’s when it works for me.
Dirk gets him set up with a beer, which I didn’t fucking authorize, nor do I appreciate it.
I want him far, far away from Blaze. I almost told him to go to Hunter’s.
Hell, I almost called Hunter. But it was too late, anyway.
Blaze has already seen Dirk, and from the way he keeps leering at him, he must know we’re together.
He’s an asshole like that—it was a way our crew liked to test to see how serious we were about someone.
“Keep your ass over there,” I tell Dirk. “I’m letting you stay, but you’re gonna stay where I tell you to.”
“Wow. Thank you, sir. Is this the part where I pretend to be good?” he says, being a sarcastic brat.
He’s the one trying to prove a point, but maybe he needs a lesson, too.
Blaze chuckles low and rough. “You gonna let him talk to you like that, Trav? Damn. You’ve gone soft. If you were mine, you wouldn’t smart-mouth me like that twice.”
There’s no teasing tone, just an underlying threat. Dirk’s shoulders lock, and it’s sinking in—Blaze is the kind of predator that doesn’t chase, he studies. By the time you feel the danger, you’ve already been marked.
“That’s enough, Blaze.” With Dirk sequestered to the kitchen and Blaze on the couch, I cross my arms over my chest and lean against a wall that’s roughly in the middle, putting myself between them. “What were you told?”
Blaze kicks his muddy boots onto my couch, making himself comfortable. He takes a long sip of beer, wiping the blood off his chin with the back of his hand. “We were told that the asshole who took your son’s getting outta prison, and you might need our help.”
I bet Maxwell made it sound urgent, too, because they don’t send someone for nothing, especially not when I’ll be going to them soon.
Dirk’s gaze burns into my skin, waiting for what I’ll say.
“It’s complicated. I’ll reach out if I need you.”
“It wasn’t just the message; it was the fact we got one at all. Didn’t sit right with us. Dom wanted me to check on yah.” Blaze finishes his beer, swirling the bottle in Dirk’s direction. “I’ll take another, sweet cheeks.”
“No,” I bark.
“Wasn’t gonna, Trav. He can get his own damn beer.”
“Okay, I see why you like him,” Blaze says. “He’s fun.”
Blaze lounges like he’s planning to stay awhile, water dripping off his jacket, and it’s his grin that gets me. That grin was the start of a lot of trouble. It wasn’t all debt collecting and brass knuckles. We had fun, too.
Dirk uncrosses and recrosses his arms, studying my every move, probably my expressions, too, attempting to decipher my grand plan. But I don’t have one. Maxwell planted his rotten seed, and it was left to grow vines, choking me for all he cares.
“Tell Dom I’m fine. I appreciate the house call, but I’ve got it handled.”
He nods. “At least you know we’ve got your back. Christ, Trav.”
Setting the bottle on the coffee table, he stands up, hard boots clipping his way over to me. “Don’t wait too long to visit us this summer, eh? I know you got a pretty thing here, but distractions are dangerous.”
Blaze looks around like he can’t quite decide if he should stay or go.
“We used to call Trav the saint,” he says, focusing on Dirk, and my damn cheeks heat. “He didn’t let anyone mess with crew. He rained hellfire if you tried. He was our protector and their nightmare—that’s why he was so revered. That’s why Dom gave him privileges he doesn’t give to anyone else.”
Dirk nods, still not forgiving Blaze for being a crude asshole, but I can see the wheels turning in his head.
The weight of both worlds boxes me in—Trav, the saint, and Trav the dad and restaurant owner—competing for dominance.
They can’t run parallel to each other; my past will bleed over to my present if I let it in.
Even thinking about calling on my old life opened some universal door and look who walked through.
“Not how I am anymore,” I argue.
“Bullshit, Trav. Okay, so maybe you’re a little different.” His eyes flick to the fuzzy pair of slippers I took from Maxwell’s spa. My cheeks heat. “But protecting people’s in your blood—and you somehow managed to get away without real blood on your hands. That’s rare.”
I’ve never killed anyone, is what he means. I’d come close, and it wasn’t off the table; I just hadn’t needed to. But there’s a message in there.
The weight of his palm settles on my shoulder, steel gaze pinning me. “If you do need our help, don’t get your hands dirty, Nolan. I’ve already got more than enough blood on mine; no one will ever tell the difference.”
Something substantial settles in my chest. It’s nice to know they’ve got my back, even if I never ask for their help again.
“Alright, time for me to go. I can tell you don’t want me anywhere near him, and I don’t blame you. I’m totally his type.” He winks at Dirk. Dirk scowls. “See you soon, brother. Bring him if you want.”
Yeah, no fucking way. Dirk’s not coming within a foot of the clubhouse.
“I don’t have a crush on Leather Jesus, Trav,” Dirk says as soon as he’s out the door. “But even he thinks you shouldn’t do this. That’s what he meant, right? With all the ‘don’t get your hands dirty’ talk?”
I curl a finger. “C’mere, pretty boy.”
He wanders into my arms, and I grip him tightly, burying my nose in his hair, inhaling him, making sure I’m still here in this reality. Dirk calms my nerves without ever having to do a thing—just by being here. I exhale into relaxation.
“Yeah, that’s what he meant.”
“Great, so let them deal with it and be done with it.”
“If you think it’s that easy for me, you don’t know me so well, baby.”
Dirk sighs. “Yeah, I know, but it was worth a shot. Man, that guy was a dick.”
“Mhm. You sure you don’t have even a little crush on him? He’s a walking red flag, which is totally your type,” I tease, letting my fingers crawl up his shirt and toy with the area below his navel that makes him shiver.
“I like my red flags with splashes of green,” he says, head dropping back, eyes fluttering closed as I continue to make him feel good with touches alone.
Haven’t even gotten near his dick yet. It’s only now that I remember he’s in the middle of a shift, but fuck it. I need him. Need to claim him again.
“Consider me crimson for the next twenty minutes, baby. I’m about to do some very red-flag things to you.” I drag him to my bed, but my gaze can’t help but snag on the couch as we pass by.
The mud left behind from Blaze’s boots taunts me, and there’s even a little blood on one of the cushions, proof that the visit was real, and a metaphor for how messy and stained my life would get.
May
We settle into a rhythm, thank fuck, but maybe settle is too strong a word. We’ve carried on, but there’s a bowstring between us, wrought tight with tension.
His face that morning about killed me. Over rubbery eggs and rapidly cooling coffee in my tiny kitchen, there were several heartbeats I couldn’t move, sure it would startle him right out of my life.
On the one hand, I don’t blame Dirk, who would?
No one wants a partner who's always one beat away from his criminal past.
But.
But.
He said he loves me. What if “criminal” is what I am? What I’ll always be? Shouldn’t he love all of me?
No, now you’re being a fool, Trav.
If I go through with my plan for vengeance, Dirk needs to be far away from me. That’s the right thing to do. You’ve got to love someone enough to let them go.
I think. I’ve heard it said anyway.
The thought of it makes me murderous.
There are too many other prep cooks coming in and out of the main kitchen for me to do what I’d like to him, but speaking of prep cooking, that happens early, ass-crack of dawn early. He’s already here, even though he didn’t stay over, and even though he got home late from a shift the night before.
He’s a damn spy, but an adorable one, watching my every move. I’ve caught him looking at me in a funny way I can’t put words to, but I think it has to do with his mutterings about conjugal visits. Is he trying to imagine what it would be like to visit me in prison?
I heave two boxes of steaks onto the counter next to him. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
Dirk doesn’t look up from where he’s measuring cooked macaroni, but his pause is a half-second too long. “Nothing.”
“Mhm.” I step into his space. Not touching, just close enough to set his nerves on fire. I do that to him, make it hard for him to concentrate. “Dash was conceived in prison, if you were wondering.”
He stills. “You’re joking.”
“I am,” I say with a chuckle. “But couldn’t help myself with all your talk of conjugal visits.”
I raise a challenging brow. You’re so busted, pretty boy.
“I said that once.”
“Twice, and you were picturing it.”
He finally looks up. “Kinda have to, don’t I?”
We’re right beside each other, but he seems so far away. I don’t know whether to be happy or heartbroken that he’s not planning on bolting at the first sign of trouble, because it’s costing him.