Chapter 29 #2
But I can’t do it. Physically cannot. Looking into his eyes paralyzes me.
Everyone thinks this shit is so easy. They make it look fucking simple in the movies, in books, but it’s not.
And I know I’m the one who chose to be with Trav, this is my doing and my responsibility.
If I didn’t want to hurt Hunter, I shouldn’t have engaged in the first place.
Logically, I get all that. But I wasn’t operating under logic, I was operating under the influence of love.
I take a deep breath.
“Hunter, I love him. It’s him or no one.”
The room seems to pause, no one willing to take a breath or move. The hard set of Hunter’s jaw eases for the briefest of seconds, and the storm in his eyes calms as if he’s about to relent. But the fury returns just as quickly as it left.
Hunter’s face twists, he winds up and—crack—his knuckles connect with Trav’s face.
Hunt’s hand reaches for me. Trav, who’s already recovered, shoves, sending Hunter stumbling into a table.
Trav’s next to attempt stretching his arm across the gap between me and him, but Hunt’s up, yanking Trav from behind.
Trav only has so much restraint on his baser instincts. He spins, retaliating with a gut punch that redirects Hunter’s breath.
From there, it fucking devolves just like it does on the ice. You’re mad about one thing, but soon enough, you’re mad about another, throwing punches on autopilot while your body continues to inject testosterone into your adrenaline-fueled veins, making the need for blood worse.
The one lone table of regulars—a group of guys my age—turns to watch the brawl, cheering like it’s UFC fight night. I live and breathe fights, I’m used to it, but not when it’s two of the people I love most, trying to grind the other to dust.
But as a beatdown veteran, I know that the only way to work out feelings like this is physically. It’s been building in both of them, so I stand there like a fucking referee, ready to break it up when I can tell it’s gonna go too far. For half a second, I actually feel sorry for referees.
I even get myself some linemen. Stacey and Dash barrel in the door. “Oh shit,” they say at the same time.
“We got here as soon as we could,” Dash says.
“Dash got a text from Hunter looking for you,” Stace says.
“He found me.” My eyes dart between my brother and my boyfriend.
There’s blood now. Hunt’s nose is spouting blood, and Trav’s left eye is gonna have some spectacular bruising.
A loud smash crashes through the air, glass breaking as it hits the floor, as Trav throws Hunt across a table that hadn’t been bussed yet. The rowdy table cheers.
Shit, they’re evenly skilled fighters. Just like I thought. But tempted as I am to see who would win, I can’t let them beat each other to a pulp.
“You get Trav and I get Hunt?” I say to Dash.
Even Stacey nods along with that plan. Trav will calm down when he sees Dash, and I’m about the only one Hunter won’t attack. I wait for an opening and slip in, blocking my brother’s fists from reaching Trav. Stacey grabs Trav from behind, Dash jumping in front so he can see him.
“Dad. Dad. It’s me, Dashie,” I hear from behind.
Hunt’s body is a rage-filled coil, ready to finish what he started if only I’d get out of the way.
“Hunt, stop. Please. You’re bleeding.”
It’s only then that he seems to register his gushing nose. He pinches the bridge, and I grab him a stack of napkins from the bar top.
“I knew you working here was a bad idea. Your friendship with him was always fucking weird to me. I told myself that … that maybe you saw him as a father figure.”
Whoa, nope. Never saw Trav like that, ever. I guess I can see why Hunter’s flipping out so hard over this if he’s going there with it. But he’s so, so wrong.
“Why would I need to see Trav as a father figure?” I say, my voice getting all pitchy and watery. Because fuck that. Doesn’t he know what he is to me?
“Are you making me say it? Because you didn’t have one, Dirk.”
“You were my father figure, asshole.”
“Hey, watch your damn mouth when you’re talking to me.”
“See?” I throw up my hands, letting the tears fly. Didn’t he see himself that way? He often referred to himself as my parent and me as his kid. I thought the Dad thing was implied. Was it just me? Fuck, I’m a fucking delusional idiot.
Hunter scans the room, breathing through his nose like a bull, chest heaving, the sound tight with restraint. His dark gaze falls back to me. “Get your ass home, kid. We’ll talk in private. You. Stay the fuck away from him, or I’m coming back and I’m bringing friends.”
Hunt’s boots click across the wood, smearing blood.
They’ve somehow managed to talk Travis into sitting in one of the wooden restaurant chairs. He’s angry, face swollen, still full of fight. Crouching by Trav as Stacey hands him a bag of ice for his face, and I take his hand. He squeezes.
“I’m fine. Nothing a dirty scotch now and a couple of Advil in the morning can’t fix.”
I sniffle because apparently, I’m still crying. The silent kind that won’t stop, no matter how much I want it to. Warm, wet tears flood over my face. I lay my head in Trav’s lap, and he uses his free hand to run it through my hair.
“I’m sorry. I froze,” I say. And there’s that knot again. It seems to be recurrent, putting pressure on my chest, some kind of silent threat I don’t understand.
“It’s okay, baby,” Trav murmurs.
“Your mom,” Dash says, almost too quiet for me to hear him. “That day when she … she hit you.”
Right. I fucking forgot that he saw that shit—I prefer to forget. I hate that he saw one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. The moment I knew she hated me.
I tilt my head up, sharp as a knife. “Why are Nolans obsessed with my mom?” I snap. Between him and Travis.
“You had the same look on your face just now. I’ll never forget it, Dirk,” he whispers.
“I … I …” The words lock in my throat like they did earlier when I tried to talk about Hunter. “I’d better go, or he will come back here. The last thing we need is him bringing the Italian guys from his construction crew.”
That’s what he meant by “friends”.
Trav stands, and so do I.
“What are you doing?”
“Coming with you. If you think you’re going by yourself, you’re wrong.”
I scrub a hand over my face. I know the look he’s sporting, he’s not gonna budge on this one.
“Hunter’s not gonna hurt me, Trav,” I try.
He locks his jaw, letting the silence speak for him—he’s fucking coming, end of story.
“We’ll come, too,” Stacey says. He’s not asking either. “We’ll sit on Hunter’s porch while you go inside.”
“I’ll watch over Dad,” Dash promises. “I’ll make sure he stays on the porch.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Trav complains.
“Yeah, you do, Dad.” Dash gives Trav his own version of a stare-down. Fuck, I don’t need to see a Nolan battle over that. It’s the best deal I’m gonna get at this point with an overprotective boyfriend and equally overprotective friends.
“Yeah, c’mon then. Let’s clean up and get out of here. But we’re not taking the bike, we’ll take Stacey’s Hummer instead.”
I’d love to give Hunter a few days to cool off, but who am I kidding? He’s not cooling off about this. I’ve been prolonging the inevitable, and I’m out of time.
I use my key to get in and remove my shoes, so I don’t drag dirt all over Hunter’s clean floors. The cozy smell of bread hits my nostrils, and is that … cinnamon? Must be cinnamon rolls. And that shit has to rise, which means he had that going before he came looking for me.
Strolling into the kitchen, I lean against the wall, watching him clamor around the kitchen.
He’s still dressed in the jeans and flannel he arrived at The Wicklow in.
Crusted blood trails down to his lips, and the steel hasn’t left him, hardening his movements.
Pretty sure he’s using baking to cool off, but it’s not working so well.
“Glad to see you still listen. Set the table.”
“Hunt—” It happens again when I look at his face. That knot. The pressure. Getting pretty sick of it. And now, thanks to Dash, Mom is front and center in the stage of my mind.
The sorrow, the rejection, the confusion.
I don’t know what I did to make her hate me so much.
I spent a lot of time ruminating, wondering what the fuck I could have done.
Even though I know Mom’s fight has never been with us—it’s been with herself.
She’s been lost in something since Dad died that doesn’t let her find her way back.
It would be so, soooo appreciated if the logic in my head could get the irrational way I feel on board.
And I … I’ve been so fucking worried that if I speak up, I’ll get the same from Hunt. Even though that makes no conceivable fucking sense. Mom didn’t leave us; we left Mom.
I take a breath, using the time it takes to set the table to collect myself. Is he really planning on serving me cinnamon buns for dinner? He’s lost it. But I continue gathering cutlery, plates, mugs—gotta have coffee with cinnamon buns—and placing them out.
“They’re out there, on the porch,” I say. “It’s gonna rain. We should invite them in.”
“Travis isn’t welcome here. Get rid of him, Dirk.” Saying all that used up the shred of patience he’d finally collected.
I hold still, closing my eyes.
“He took advantage of you. You don’t see it now, you can’t.”
“Do I look like someone who can’t hold their own, Hunt? Look at me. Can you even see that I’m not a little kid anymore?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Then let me make my own decisions.” No, that’s not good enough, and I know it. I turn to face him. “Trav is my decision to make, and I have. I’m staying with him. Hurt him, and you hurt me.”