Chapter 22 #2
Plus, yeah, I’m butt-hurt and not the way I wanna be butt-hurt.
Trav’s back, and it had none of the private fanfare I was hoping for.
I had fantasies of me waiting at the door of the restaurant as he hopped off his Harley with swagger that’s equal parts smooth, equal parts danger.
He would have looked at me like he wanted to fucking devour me, and then all he’d do is curl his finger.
I’d run, and jump, and he’d catch me. I’d wrap my legs around his thick-ass torso.
Fuck, okay. Maybe all that was a tad dramatic, but anything would be better than this—me, sulking in a corner while everyone gets to do fun stuff with him but me.
And, like, Hunt’s been working more hours lately. I assume because of all the renovations. Don’t really know, he works a lot. But this leaves me more time to do shit with Trav—no Hunter around to keep me busy with “chores”.
Everyone was there, and I mean everyone.
Even Rhett and Logan, who don’t come to everything, appeared.
That’s another clusterfuck. Bryce Meyer started working here on Dash’s say so, which pulled Maverick from the Elkington woodwork.
Jack and Mercy somehow escaped the too-many Meyer family members, and Stace showed up with the disaster twins, which led to the whole “Cocktail” thing Stacey and Trav do.
Cocktail is a movie from the eighties I’d never watched until Trav begged me to watch it with him, although there wasn’t much begging to it.
This was before we got together, so I was dying to be with him in any way I could.
I would have watched paint dry with him if he’d asked.
Anyway, it’s a movie about bartending or something.
I dunno, I wasn’t paying that much attention to the movie, but there’s a big scene where they do fancy tricks with the shakers as they pour drinks for people.
Stacey and Trav have that scene down to a Flash Mob performance.
Everyone started heavily drinking after that, and I had no desire to participate beyond a shot or two and a beer to celebrate the newly engaged SutterChuck, who could go into the food porn industry if hockey doesn’t work out for them.
Ugh. Gross.
I look away until my gaze finds Trav across the bar, talking to a crowd of customers.
It’s a group of women, all of them with lusty eyes and plunging necklines pointed directly at my man.
Trav’s being perfectly cordial—they’re customers after all—but they want him.
I’d never hurt a woman, but I would drag them out of here and toss them on their asses.
He’s finally here, but he’s not home.
My hand curls around my now warm beer instead.
A war cry roars across the crowded bar. I’d know that voice anywhere; it belongs to my best friend. My head snaps up, ripping me from my private melodrama just in time to see Dash forecheck one of the chaos twins with an invisible hockey stick.
He turns to grab the other one, twisting his fists into the guy’s shirt like it’s a jersey. Someone needs to remind bro he’s not on the ice.
“You Stacey-stealing hussy!” He drags the guy from the dance floor like he’s a rag doll, slamming him into a wall. “Keep your filthy, whore hands off of him. Do you understand me?”
Jaws drop, and people gasp so loud it rises above the music.
Am I the only one who’s not fucking surprised?
I saw this coming from a mile away. I mean, did I know he’d finally snap tonight?
Not exactly, but the thought that maybe someone should cut him off after his fifth shot of tequila crossed my mind.
I wasn’t stopping him. This needed to happen.
Stacey needed a fucking dose of Dash reality.
“Okay, let’s go,” Stacey’s voice booms as he lifts an angry Dash over his shoulder. A swift gush of hot air waves with them as they pass me. Dash’s anger has dissolved into tears.
“You’re mine, Stace. Not theirs. Fucking mine.” He sobs into Stacey’s shoulder. But Stacey’s legs are too fucking long, and the only thing I catch from his response is a gentle “sweetheart”. He pauses as if he suddenly realizes he forgot something, spins around, and heads back my way.
“Fuck, Dirk. I hate to ask this, but they like you for some reason. Can you make sure Alex and Trent get back to the house?”
A beat of anger furls in my chest. This night was already shit.
I’ve spent it aching to touch Travis, while he’s barely looked at me.
I’m trying to assume the best on that one, like maybe he’s just keeping our loosely veiled cover, but it’s still fucking trying my almost non-existent patience.
Now I’m stuck looking after the chaos twins, because I’m gonna say yes.
Fucking unbelievable. I’m not doing it for Stacey, though. It’s for Dash. I’d do anything for him.
“Yeah.” I huff and take a sip of my piss-warm beer.
“Thanks. I owe you.”
I get up immediately—learned my lesson from the last time—and grip each of them by their collars. They’re thin, waifish creatures. I’m used to tossing guys around four times their size. I shove them into a booth.
“You two will remain here until I figure out how I’m taking you home, understand?” I also casually look them over to make sure Dash didn’t do any real harm. They seem okay, and something tells me that even though they look fragile, they’re not.
They exchange a look. “But we didn’t get to talk to the big Daddy yet. Can you introduce us?”
I turn my head in the direction they’re looking, already knowing what I’ll find. Travis. My Travis. Yeah, no. Not in this lifetime.
Taking one of his dainty hands in mine, I shake it in his face. “Lay one of these pretty little fingers on him, and I’ll cut this off.” I make a slice across his wrist just to be sure he knows what I’m saying—he’s gonna lose a hand.
He shivers, but with the way his eyes are blown wide with lust, I don’t think it’s from fear.
“Have you ever considered domination? You’d be good at it.”
What the fuck? I just threatened him, and I meant it, and he’s talking about, what? Dom shit? God damn. Just what kinda kinks are they into?
“No. Not my speed,” I say.
“I called it,” the other one says. “He’s a switch.”
I frown. “I’m not anything. Know what? No talking either.”
“Yes, sir,” they say in unison, miming locking up their lips and throwing away the key.
Fucking Christ, these two. But they help themselves to another tall drink of Travis, and then back to me again.
They share a knowing smile. Did they just figure it out?
How? Was it the threat about the hand? Or something else?
Whatever it is, it’s apparently as obvious as a full moon, and at this point, I wish my friends would pay attention long enough to catch us.
Pulling out my phone, I send Trav a message.
Me
Got a situation here. Have to escort Stacey’s friends back to the house. Should I bother coming back?
Trav pulls his phone from the pocket of his jeans and stares for a minute, turning the full heat of his gaze on me, which has no trouble reaching me even ten feet away.
Okay, I might regret my sassy attitude a little.
Shit, no. Change that to a lot. His expression transforms—pure devil.
One that promises hell to pay. It’s the kind of expression that only a sadistic bastard like Trav can pull off.
His thick fingers tap his phone, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I swallow.
Trav
You’re not going anywhere, pretty boy. You sit your ass in that booth like a good fucking boy, and start your begging now via text, or you don’t get to come tonight. I’ll find a suitable ride home for Stacey’s friends.
My cheeks are on fire. It’s the only explanation for the level of heat in them. It’s not like Trent and Alex know what Travis just said, but the hot embarrassment moves through me as if they had, and arousal like no other floods to my cock.
I sit my ass down next to Trent and Alex. Is that … strawberry? Yep, they smell like strawberry candy. The taller one—still don’t know which is which—points to his mouth.
A sigh releases from my lungs unbidden. “You may speak.”
“We know that look. You’re in trouble,” he singsongs, sitting taller, a self-satisfied smirk curling the edges of his grin. But I get the impression he’s happy for me. Maybe even excited for me.
If only he knew how much torture I was in for. No, scratch that. He read it all in Trav’s demeanor.
He knows.
He’s hoping Travis ruins me.
Fuck, I hope so, too.