Chapter 2
I CRADLE THE PHONE between my shoulder and ear, thumb buried in my other ear as my best friend Reagan’s voice echoes down the line.
Even through my muffled protests, she’s practically vibrating with excitement.
We have been best friends for the last three years, and even though she has met Travis before, and knows about us, she still loses it like it is everything that he is around.
“Oh my God, are you serious?” she squeals, her breath coming in rapid-fire bursts.
She is a huge fan of Travis, like lose her voice, desperately fall to her knees kind of fan.
“Of course I’m serious,” I reply evenly, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s just Travis Phoenix.”
A sharp snort crackles through the receiver. “It’s Travis freaking Phoenix.”
I roll my eyes at the empty kitchen ceiling. “Whoopee.”
“Has anyone told you lately that you’re... impaired?”
I grin, leaning back in my swivel chair. “Most days.”
Reagan’s giggle is like a home comfort. “Well, you can stay chill, but I totally care. I’m thinking I’ll swoon, drop my pen at his feet... you know the drill. Can I come over now so we can plan my grand entrance?”
I laugh, picturing her wildly rehearsing in her bedroom mirror. “You need professional help.”
“Seriously!” she insists. “Short dress, no panties—do I crash his condo or bring him back to mine?”
I flip my dark brown hair in a practiced toss. “His.”
“See? I knew you’d side with me!”
I laugh. “I have to go, I’ll call soon.”
“I’ll be thinking of you,” she sighs dramatically, “while we’re out there plotting to make sweet little Travis babies.”
I hang up, shaking my head at her ridiculous enthusiasm. With that mental image burned in my mind, I head upstairs to change. In my room, the golden late-afternoon light slants through half-drawn curtains, making the pink walls look almost orange.
I slip into a sleek, off-white mini dress—long enough to flatter my legs, short enough to turn heads—and brush on a swipe of dark eyeliner.
My reflection catches my eye: the confident curve of my hips, the steady lift of my chin.
It took me a while to figure out who I am, but I am slowly learning, and I like what I see.
Downstairs, the chaos of the MC hits my ears before I even open the door to find my dad before I go.
The smell of stale beer and motor oil grips me.
Clusters of men lean against motorcycles or sit on chairs, arms draped over half-naked women, bark-laughing about last night’s bar fight.
Yet when I step into the half-lit garage, everything hushes.
Halting in my tracks, I feel their gazes settle, heavy and reverent.
I’m used to it—being Mischief comes with its perks—but today it feels like steel rails pinning me in place.
Bill, the club’s Vice President, sidles up with a crooked grin. “Well, Mischief, you’re looking very grown up these days. I swear last week you didn’t look this good.”
“Spare me, Bill,” I grin, because he says the same thing each week. “Keep that up and Chief will have your ass on a hook.”
He lifts his brow, amusement flickering. “Not me you should be worried about, darlin’. Chief’s gonna flip when he sees that dress.”
I huff and then pivot, spotting Chief leaning against the doorway, a beer dangling from his fingertips. His tough exterior softens at the sight of me, but his dark eyes narrow. I force a bright smile. “Hey, Daddy!”
He sets the beer down with a thump. “You can’t think you’re going out in that?”
I tilt my head. “Why not?”
He steps closer, voice low. “It’s short. Too short.”
I can’t resist, “Yes, that’s the point...”
He exhales, frustration humming in his chest. “Mischief...”
I cross my arms. “I’m not ten anymore. I can go out if I want, wearing what I want...”
He does not like that. His jaw ticks. “And I’m still your fuckin’ dad.”
I bite my lip. “I am just going into town, I won’t be far, and I’ll call if I need anything.”
I’m trying to calm the bear just a little.
He walks over, stopping in front of me. “Not happy about this, you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Anyone looks at you, even for a fuckin’ second, you call me and I’ll be there.”
I have absolutely no doubt. I offer him a smile and then turn and get out of there before someone convinces him not to let me go out.
I pass through the doorway—only to crash right into Travis.
His hands clamp on my shoulders to steady me, and the scent of pine and leather floods me like a jolt of electricity. I look up at him, breath catching.
My throat seizes.
He steps back just enough to size me up, gaze trailing over the hem of my dress to the arch of my ankle. “Is he seriously letting you out like that?” His voice is flat but tinged with something sharper. Concern? Jealousy?
I square my shoulders. “What does it matter to you?”
His eyes darken. “Because I know what fuckin’ men think when they see women dressed like that.”
“Well, lucky for you, I’m not your problem.”
I turn to walk away, but he stops me, yet again. “I still fuckin’ care about what happens to you.”
I meet his stare, unblinking. “Well, you don’t need to. I’ve grown up. I’ve changed. Years of living and learning made me more than that love-sick girl you once knew.”
He steps back, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle jumping. “Where are you going?”
“None of your business. Have a good night, Travis.”
I turn on my heel and leave. He watches me go, every unsaid word hanging thick between us. Then I’m gone, the night swallowing me as I step into a world where I write my own rules.
For once.
“VI, I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE he is actually at your house,” Reagan says, her voice a mixture of awe and exasperation as we stroll beneath the dim glow of the street lamps. The sidewalk is slick from an earlier rain, and the distant thrum of late-night traffic hums in the background.
I roll my eyes, pushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Are you honestly still hung up on this?” I ask. I shiver as a wave of wind washes over me, making me realize just how little I am wearing.
She shakes her head, fanning herself lightly. “I can’t get over it. It’s hilarious that you just think of him as a guy you know, but to the rest of the world, he’s Travis Phoenix. The Travis Phoenix. It’s insane.”
“Well, he was never that to me. I knew him before he became all rockstar famous.”
“True. I guess you two are like some kind of soulmate drama mix...” She trails off, searching for the right phrase to finish her already insulting sentence.
“We are not soulmates, Reagan,” I cut in, a dry laugh escaping me. “One kiss when I was seventeen. End of story.”
“But it’s so much more than that,” she insists, her eyes alight. “You were inseparable back then. You told me everything—how you laughed together until three in the morning, how you fell asleep on his shoulder during movies, how he was always there for you and he made you feel safe...”
Her romantic version of events makes my chest tighten. I drop my gaze to the pavement. “That was teenage nostalgia. He left, I moved on. No hidden storybook romance here.”
“Okay, okay,” she says, holding up both hands in surrender. “But tonight—can we just pick up a couple of drinks, lose ourselves on the dance floor, and maybe make out with strangers because I have not made out with a stranger in quite some time and I think I could use the distraction.”
A mischievous grin tugs at my lips. “You read my mind.”
We push open the door of Franklin’s Bar and are immediately swallowed by warm light and pulsing music.
The scent of sweat and spilled beer mingles in the air.
Towering shelves of liquor bottles sparkle behind the bar.
We each order a pale ale, clinking our bottles in a quiet toast, and then find a small booth near the corner.
Three drinks in and Reagan is already pulling me toward the dance floor, led by a lean blond guy whose smile could power a small town. I think that’s what they call the all-American boyish grin. He knows he’s good-looking and has been eyeing Reagan off since she came in.
I manage to convince her I need another drink, before slipping to the bar, finding myself a stool and smiling at Reagan who is wiggling her hips on the dance floor.
That’s when I see him approaching—dark hair slicked back, eyes as black as obsidian, lips curved into a half-smile.
He slides onto the stool beside me, exuding a quiet confidence.
“Can I buy you another drink?” he asks, voice low and smooth, like velvet over steel.
I hesitate, but the intrigue in his gaze wins me over. “Sure,” I say, finishing my beer and nodding at the bartender.
Moments later, he’s leaning close so I can hear him over the music. “I’m Josh.”
“Violet,” I reply, surprising myself at how soft the introduction sounds. The name falls between us, warm and unguarded.
He offers a dimpled smile. “Nice to meet you, Violet.” He gestures toward the dance floor. “Care to dance?”
I glance at my now full beer, then at his earnest expression, and stand.
I keep the beer close, I’ve heard of the spiking that can happen in these parts.
We move into the crowd, bodies swaying in time to the beat.
There’s nothing invasive about his touch—just a respectful guiding hand at my waist, a steady rhythm that matches my heartbeat.
For a while, it’s easy to forget everything else; Travis’s unexpected visit, Reagan’s excited chatter, the weight of nostalgia settled in my chest.
One drink turns into two. Laughter bubbles up between us, spontaneous and bright. Before I know it, we’re tangled in a corner booth, kissing softly. It isn’t planned; it’s the collision of loneliness and longing, the desire to feel something new when the past has just knocked on my door again.
My peace doesn’t last long, without warning the booth shakes as someone grabs Josh roughly and hurls him right out of the chair and onto a nearby pool table.
My heart lurches. Travis is there, all six foot of him, holding Josh against the table as if he weighs nothing.
His eyes are wild with frustration and jealousy, something I never thought I’d see on him.
Not when it came to me, anyway.
“Travis!” I holler, rushing forward and taking his arm, pulling him with all my might.
He releases Josh, but the expression on his face is one of pure rage. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the tension in his neck. “What’s wrong with you? Do you even know this guy?” he hisses.
“I just met him,” I snap. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but a woman suddenly squeals his name and before I know it, he’s surrounded. Hurt by his actions, I quickly back out of the bar, Reagan following behind me. I don’t even look back at Josh.
Poor guy.
I am raging footsteps and curses all the way home, to which Reagan follows, agreeing with my every curse in Travis’s direction.
“He really is so over the top when it comes to you,” she puffs, keeping up with me.
“He has no right. No right,” I seethe. “He disappeared. He left me alone. Now he thinks he can come back and what, just tell me who I can and cannot talk to?”
By the time we reach Chief’s house, I’m panting, adrenaline crackling through my veins. Reagan flops onto the porch swing, exhaling, a light coating of sweat on her face. “That was intense,” she whispers, her eyes shining with amusement.
I lean against the railing, trying to calm my racing heart. The front door bursts open and Chief comes out, staring at us and crossing his arms. “Heard you two caused a scene at the bar.”
I snort. “No, Travis caused a scene at the bar. We were enjoying our night.”
“Not what I heard. Heard you were makin’ out with some guy.”
“And?” I say, throwing my hands up. “I’m an adult.”
"In my house—" his voice deepens, but I cut him off.
"This isn't about your house. Travis started a fight in a public place and you're acting like I'm the problem." The alcohol makes my words sharper than intended. “I can do whatever the hell I want, and I sure as hell don’t need to listen to what he wants.”
Chief's jaw tightens. "You were making out with a stranger."
"Yes, as I said, and?”
Chief exhales slowly. "Just get some sleep. We'll talk when you're sober."
I shrug. “Fine.”
Reagan takes my hand and we disappear up to my room, closing the door and collapsing on the bed before breaking out into a fit of giggles.
“Your dad is so intense!” she laughs.
“Yep, he still thinks I’m seventeen. He forgets I can make out with men now, without his judgment.”
“The horror,” she gasps, pressing her hands to her face. “Anyway, tell me, who was the mystery guy—Jake? Josh?"
"Josh," I say, remembering his dimpled smile. "He was kind of cute, and a good kisser.”
"Travis looked ready to commit murder," she grins, wiggling her brows.
"Travis has no claim on me," I mutter, though something twists in my stomach. "Never has, never will. Whatever protective act he has going on, it’s only to make himself feel better.”
She nods. “Yeah, well, he was always overprotective.”
I yawn. “God, my head is going to hurt tomorrow.”
She laughs. “Mine too. I’m going to shower and sleep.”
We do just that, showering, drinking some water, and crawling into my bed before drifting off.
Hours later I wake, desperate for the bathroom, my head pounding.
I tiptoe down the hall and just as I reach the bathroom, the door opens and I slam right into Travis.
He’s not wearing a shirt, and I’m immediately engulfed in his thick, muscled body and warm heat.
He doesn’t move, not for a few seconds, and then he steps back just enough that I am still trapped between his presence and the wall.
It’s dead silent.
Dead.
I don’t know what to say. I can’t even think.
My breath hitches and I am so aware of him that I can’t focus on anything else. He leans down, his breath against my ear as he murmurs, "If you think I didn't miss you every day I was gone, you're wrong. You were the only thing that kept me sane, Mischief.”
Then he steps back and disappears into the spare room, leaving me standing alone, my anger tangled with a longing I thought I'd buried years ago.