3. Travis
Perth, Western Australia
Present day…
"How are you feeling?" Luca asks from across the table.
We're out on the balcony of my hotel suite. It's an overcast day. The southerly bluster, as it's known here in Perth, is in full effect with a southeast wind coming in strong. It'll make for choppy conditions out on the water later.
"I'm good," I reply, finishing a mouthful of cereal. "I've got my round this morning, then I'm filming with Troy and Terry in the afternoon."
Luca clangs his spoon against the bowl of oatmeal he usually starts his day with.
When he's eating, which I'm happy to see he is today.
Good.
My plan is working. Least that's one thing going well in my life at the moment.
"That's telling me what you're doing, not how you're feeling," he observes.
I stare out at the whitecaps dotting the surface of the ocean. He's right. I'm avoiding my feelings because, right now, I don't have time for them.
"I'm feeling like I need to stay busy and keep myself occupied so that I don't…"
I don't know how to finish that sentence.
I'm still reeling from the contents of Mom's letter yesterday, but what the fuck can I do with any of that? There are two rounds left in the season—we head to Hawaii once we wrap up in Oz—I have to make it into the finals, we're smack bang in the middle of production with the show, and Luca and I are about as clear as mud when it comes to what we're doing.
Hmm.
Maybe that's one thing I can get some clarity on this morning.
"What are we doing?"
"Uh…" He stops mid-chew. "Eating breakfast."
"I don't mean that. I mean, us. Where are we in terms of…?"
I don't know how to finish that sentence, either.
It's a loaded question, and we both know it.
He swallows, reaches across the table, takes my hand in his, and aims those big brown eyes I'm a total sucker for straight at me. "I have no fucking idea."
I smile. "And here I was hoping I'd be able to get some resolution on this one part of my life."
"I love you," he offers.
"Yeah. That doesn't help."
Or make things any easier.
It's never been a question of whether we love each other or not. If it were, we'd be married ten times over. Our love is undeniable. I can, hand on my heart, say that Luca is the love of my life.
He's my soulmate. My lover. My twin flame. There's no one else for me.
Doesn't mean we can make a relationship work, though.
Fuck knows we've tried. There are just too many factors that conspire against us. It's a shame Shakespeare isn't knocking about these days. He could take one look at our lives and base his next megahit play off it. Forget Romeo and Juliet, say hello to Travis and Luca—way more drama with way less dying.
"I hate that things are always so complicated." Luca sighs, pushing his bowl away.
"Eat." I push it back toward him. "You have a round this arvo. You'll need your strength."
He mumbles something in Portuguese under his breath.
"You know I can't quit the show," I tell him.
"I know."
"And I'm not in control of any other public aspect of my life."
Ain't that the fucking truth.
I've got this image as a bad boy troublemaker, but I'm more of a trouble finder. I never set out to cause problems, they come to me.
"I know that, too. But…" He looks at me across the table. "How much longer, Travis? It's been years."
"Yeah, well. I need a bit more time."
And after the colossal fuckup in the Philippines, I'm down two hundred K from getting Kaide out of jail, so it's going to take even longer now.
"When? When are you finally going to tell me about this Big Dream of yours?"
"Like I said a million times, not until it happens."
"And, what, that's meant to be enough for me? You're just going to keep stringing me along like one of those desperate surf bunnies that follow you around and jump on your dick the second we break up? I'm not like those people."
"I know that. That's one of the reasons why I love you so fucking much."
"You love me so fucking much…just not enough to tell me this one big thing."
"Do you tell me everything?" I shoot back and instantly regret it. "Sorry. Sorry."
I munch down on my cereal, hoping he drops it. I don't want to go there today. Not if he's doing well, which it seems like he is.
It's a fine line I'm walking. More of a tightrope, really, sixty stories above the sky with no fucking safety net.
Thankfully, he lets it go.
"I appreciated you coming back to Brazil with me for Aunt Maria's funeral. Dad was happy to see you."
I crack a small smile. "I was happy to see him, too."
"He's got a soft spot for you. He seems to really like you."
"I'm choosing to ignore the surprised lilt in your voice. And that's cool because I really like your old man, too."
If Luca thinks it's unusual that his simple fisherman dad who lives a quiet life in a small coastal village in the northern part of Brazil gets on well with a chaotic disaster like me, I dread to imagine what he'll say when he realizes the full extent of my relationship with his father.
And I don't even want to picture Rafael Silva's reaction when he finds out what I've been doing behind his and his son's backs these past two and a half years.
Will he care that my genuine, if somewhat unconventional, approach is my attempt at saving Luca's life, or will he be too blinded by rage to see it that way?
"I don't want to trap you," Luca says. "If you want to fuck around, you can."
He says it, but he doesn't mean it. I know him well enough.
Besides, there's a bigger point he's ignoring. "I don't want to fuck around. You know that."
He's probably the only person in the world who actually does.
I have this reputation for being a total fuckboy, and up until the first sex tape was released, my reputation as a bit of a manwhore was justified.
I was traveling the world, high on adrenaline and the constant horniness that comes with being a dude in your early twenties. The wind would blow, and I'd get hard. Of course I was going to fuck anyone I could—male, female, trans, nonbinary.
A body's just a body…and I went through a phase where I loved all bodies.
But then that damn tape came out.
Of all the fallout—and believe me, there was plenty of it—one of the most surprising things was the effect it had on my previously insatiable libido.
My sex drive plummeted.
I lost all interest in fucking.
It wasn't until a good year later that I realized why. Turns out I hadn't been chasing sex, but the thrill of the chase. Once that tape came out and everyone knew me, the hunt got boring. It was too easy because, without meaning to sound like a douchebag, I could get sex with pretty much anyone I wanted.
And where's the fun in that?
I wasn't interested in anything or anyone…until I met Luca.
And the thrill of the chase was back on.
He takes my hand again, brushing his thumb over the top of my palm. "I do know, benzinho."
I smile at the endearment. It means precious in Portuguese, and I like it because what we do have is so, so fucking precious.
And for the most part, unattainable.
"I just feel bad that you have to…limit yourself with me."
I grunt in frustration. "That's bullshit. You know I don't consider what we do to be limiting. That's your hang-up, mate."
"I… I guess."
"No I guess about it. I've fucked around plenty and believe me, I've never had the closeness or the connection I have with you with anyone else. Not to mention the mind-shredding orgasms. Nothing has even come close."
I don't know how many times we've had this same conversation, but I'll keep repeating myself until I'm blue in the face and he finally believes me.
I'll do whatever it takes, including releasing a sex tape starring my dick and a mango to show him—and the entire world—how cool I am with solo sex. It backfired. He hated it, and I picked up a new nickname and gave the haters ever more reasons to hate.
Luca shrugs. "Okay."
Looks like he's still not there yet.
There's a knock at the door. "That'll be production," I tell him.
He spoons the last of the oatmeal into his mouth and goes inside, heading for the kitchen. Luca has never once appeared on the show, even during the patches when we were officially dating.
He's been adamant about that from the start. I used to think it was because his father might have a problem with it, but now I know Luca's got a different reason for not wanting to increase his profile.
"You gonna stay here tonight again?" I ask, joining him by the sink.
"Depends. Am I invited…or will you be otherwise occupied?"
"There's always a place for you in my bed." And in my life. My heart. My soul. "And for the record, even though we haven't figured out where we stand, I'm not doing anything with anyone else."
"You don't have to do that."
"But I want to. I love you, Luca."
We kiss until there's another knock on the door.
"I love you, too, benzinho."
The wind howls across the ocean, the biting spray of salty water hits me in the face, and maaate, I am in my element.
Out here, I can forget about everything.
It's just me, the sky, the water, and the wind. It's an exhilarating freedom I can't even begin to put into words. Sometimes I think it's the only thing that keeps me sane.
Well, sane-ish, because let's face it, sanity in the King household has a pretty fucking low threshold.
I seize on a gust of wind and launch my kite into the air, its vibrant colors contrasting sharply against the moody dark-gray sky. The faint roar from the beach tells me I pulled off the front roll well. Not a complicated maneuver…but I'm only getting warmed up.
Over the next nine and a half minutes, I put on an amazing show that includes a killer back mobe, an advanced trick where I jump, rotate backward, and perform a backflip while simultaneously executing a 360-degree spin.
That, along with my near-perfect KGB is guaranteed to see me advancing to the next round, inching closer and closer to the ever-elusive world championship.
Seven years competing, seven times I've been runner-up.
Not exactly a record to be proud of. Nor do I like the nickname it's earned me—The Choker.
But this year is different. My two biggest competitors—my brothers—are out. That still leaves a decent bunch of surfers, including Luca, in the mix, but I've got this.
I can feel it.
After seven near-gets, this year I will be crowned the world kitesurfing champion. Not to make my father proud, but to make me proud.
I'm riding an adrenaline-filled high after the siren blares signaling the end of the round. I catch some wind and make my way to the shore. Fifty meters out, I can tell something's not right.
I was expecting one camera for the obligatory post-surf interview. So why the fuck are there a bunch of reporters clamoring for prime position on the beach?
Something must've happened for the vultures to be circling like crazy.
Shit.
My stomach drops.
Tim.
That must be it. Mom and Dad's divorce has been the headline story for the past few days, but it's got nothing on a little in-family murder.
I get to the beach and dismount the board and unbuckle my harness. I unzip the top half of my wetsuit because if this moment is going to be beamed around the world, I want my pecs on full display because they're fucking spectacular.
There's a line of reporters being held back by tournament security, shielding me from them as I make my way up the beach.
Well, not all of them.
Michael Paige is with the tournament, granting him access. I've never liked the fucker, and after the way he treated Terry at the opening round interview, I like him even less.
"Travis, congrats on the killer round, man. You really nailed it," he begins, bypassing the usual off-camera courtesy of checking in with me to make sure I've caught my breath and can talk or don't have a massive booger hanging out of my nose before a microphone gets shoved in my face.
But at least he's acting normal. Maybe I misjudged the media scrum? I play along, puffing my chest out a little.
"Yeah, thanks, mate. I thrive in these sorts of choppy conditions, and you know, I managed to pretty much ace everything I did out there. I'm stoked with how I performed, and I'm very eager to see the judges' scores."
"Before we get to that…"
His forehead pulls into an exaggerated frown, playing it up for the camera. He's a terrible actor—and an even more dud root, but there's no need to revisit that night of alcohol, bad decisions, and regret again.
"I'm afraid I have some terrible news to share with you."
"Okay."
I glance around.
Behind the security and reporters, Anderson McNally from the network is jumping up and down like a lunatic, trying to get my attention. He's mouthing something, but I can't for the life of me figure out what.
"It's about your uncle. Timothy King."
My gaze snaps back to Michael. Sorry, Ando, but this takes precedence.
"What about him?" I ask as normally as possible.
I plan on playing dumb all the way to the courthouse. It's a good plan. A solid plan. I mean, I bailed Kaide out using crypto, there's no way they can trace that back to me. I'm in the clear.
I hope.
"We've just received word that he has, unfortunately, passed away."
"Oh."
He keeps that damn microphone in my face, but that's all he's getting from me.
"It appears he suffered a heart attack late last night. Despite paramedics rushing him to hospital, he was pronounced dead on arrival."
"Oh."
Sooo many questions are running through my mind right now—like how the fuck is this the story the media is running with?—but I also realize I need to produce some sort of a reaction here. If I don't, that could raise suspicions. Need to keep up the pretense that the Kings are one big happy family and all that.
I angle my head away from the camera, spear my fingers into my eye sockets as hard as I can, and turn back to Michael with a sting, and better yet, tears in my eyes.
"Oh my god." I bring my hand over my mouth.
A tear starts to fall, and if I wasn't doing my everything to feign sadness, I'd be whooping and hollering at the performance I'm giving. If this doesn't win me a fucking Emmy, then I don't know what will.
"I know this must be extremely difficult for you to hear, Travis," Michael says, trying to match my mad acting skills but falling woefully short. He grabs his earpiece. "Sorry. I'm… I'm getting word that your father, kitesurfing legend Trenton King, has just released a statement."
He has? Nice of him to let us know.
Michael drops his fake concern for me and spins to look directly into the camera. He starts repeating whatever the voice in his earpiece is saying.
"We are deeply shocked and saddened by the sudden passing of my dearly loved and highly respected younger brother, Timothy Jack King…"
While I'm not in the shot, there are still several dozen lenses aimed at me, so it's not like I can roll my eyes or make vomiting noises at the drivel I'm hearing.
While Michael goes on with the statement, at least one of my main questions has been answered.
This story is Dad's idea.
I have no idea how he managed to wrangle it, but he knows how much we can't let Tim being murdered splash back onto any of us and, heaven forbid, jeopardize our future earning potential.
He probably did what I had to do and paid someone a fuckton of money for this story of murder to become one of an unfortunate heart attack.
"Despite the recent news of our divorce, Debra and I and our entire family, including our beloved sons, Travis, Troy, and Terry, are united as a family at this terrible time."
United? What the fuck is he smoking?
As if he's even spoken to Mom about this—they've barely been on speaking terms for years, and that was prior to her filing—and it's the first I'm hearing of it. Bet the same is true for both Troy and Terry.
This statement is a load of horseshit.
"We kindly ask for privacy in this time of grief."
You're a bit late there, Dad.
Well, almost too late.
Anderson breaks through the line, seizing on Dad's announcement as the reason to cut the interview short. He yanks me by the arm, and we trudge off toward the player's tent, the press kept at bay by security but following close behind, anyway.
"Thanks for saving me," I say only half-sarcastically.
"Of course." He's still gripping my arm. "That asshole was way out of line."
"He was. Besides, you want me to save all this shit for the show, right?"
We step into the tent.
Once inside, we only have players and tournament officials to deal with. Luckily for me, the Kings have pretty much pissed everyone off over the years, so we're given a wide berth.
Anderson lets go of me. "That's…true. But I was also trying my best to save you from that whole ordeal in the first place."
"I know," I concede, somewhat begrudgingly.
Terry and Richie seem to think the sun shines out of Anderson's ass, but I'm still not sure. Hard to deprogram a lifetime spent not trusting outsiders. Unless you're in my inner circle, I'm just going to assume you're a dickhead who'll sell me out the first chance you get.
"I don't think you do," Anderson fires back.
We shuffle into the corner behind the Blue Mule table.
I double-check there's no one within hearing distance, then ask, "What's that supposed to mean?"
He lowers his voice. "It means I got word that the story about Tim had broken. Except I thought it was the real story, not whatever the fuck that was. That's why I was going out of my mind on the beach. I was trying to get your attention to protect you. Even got the bruise to prove it."
"Bruise?"
He lifts his white linen shirt, exposing a nasty-looking mark under his ribs. "Ouch. How'd you get that?"
"Overzealous security. I bolted out of here without my Kings of Airlie pass so they didn't know who I was."
"Well…thanks for that. I appreciate it."
Hey, I'm not a total tool. The guy took a hit to the ribs for me.
"No worries. If there's ever anything I can do—" He shakes his head. "Look. I know you. You probably see me as a network hack and trust me about as much as a used car salesman. And that's fine. But the offer stands, okay?"
"Thanks. I appreciate it." Won't ever take him up on it, but that's another story. "So, what next?"
He clears his throat. "The network still wants you and your brothers to film."
I let out a sigh. "Of course they fucking do."