5. Travis
Troy glances over at the partition separating us from the driver up front. "You sure he can't hear us?"
"He can't," I assure him.
Troy, Terry, and I are being driven to a hotel to film our scenes in a blacked-out SUV that resembles a monster truck more than a vehicle suitable for inner-city driving.
This isn't our usual car, the guy taking us is not our usual driver, and we're not going to the actual hotel we're staying at because why would a reality TV show be interested in actually capturing reality?
It'll be the first time we're on camera since news broke about Tim's death.
That was this morning.
A lot can happen in the short span of a few hours in Kings of Airlie land, and this time, I'm not complaining.
Ratings are down ten percent from last season, but I'm quietly confident that we've brought enough fireworks and drama to this season to rectify that, starting with our shenanigans at the opening round of the tournament all the way to this.
The network must be creaming their jeans. They're onto a winner with us. They have to know this is pure ratings gold.
Tim's passing is currently the biggest sports story in the world, social media is having its largest meltdown since that fake photo of that what's-her-face princess was released, and KPSN has the exclusive access to capture our reactions at a time when every other media outlet is clamoring to get even a No Comment out of us.
Access they'll need to start ponying up a lot more dough for next year. Contract renewals are coming up, and I plan on squeezing every last drop I can out of those motherfuckers.
What can I say? A Big Dream takes big money to achieve.
"Here's what we do," I instruct my brothers. "We have to act legit sad about Tim, okay?"
Troy scowls, but before he can say what I know he's going to say, I get in with, "Mate, if we don't play this right, that fucker will continue to live on in our lives. I know it's hard. I know it's literally the last thing in the world any one of us wants to do, but think of it this way—this is it. After today, once we get through these next few hours of filming, we never have to talk about or think about that depraved sonofabitch ever again. If we play this right. Because if we come across that there's something fishy going on, they will pounce, and this Tim story will hound us. Do we want that?"
"No," they both say.
"Good. Glad we're in agreement."
"What exactly does playing it right mean?" Terry asks.
"We have to act the way a normal family would when they hear their uncle has died. That may mean tears…"
"Like the ones you pulled out this morning," Troy says.
"Exactly."
"I don't expect you to cry," I say to him because after what that bastard put him through, it's bad enough he has to even be in the room for this farcical grieving. "Just look even more pissed off than normal. I'm sure they'll overlay it with some sad music, and that will be what your version of mourning will be edited to look like."
"Extra scowls. Got it."
We both turn to Terry.
"Why are you both looking at me like that?"
"Terry, mate." I shuffle across the backseat, slapping a friendly arm over his shoulder. "I say this with the utmost love and respect."
"I'm officially scared now." He chews his lower lip.
"No need. It's just that, you know… Well, you're…"
Shit, why am I finding this so difficult? Am I getting soft? Is everything finally catching up to me?
"What Travis is trying to say is that out of the three of us you're the one most likely to bring out the waterworks."
We come to a stop at a set of lights.
"Oh."
"It's not a bad thing," I assure my baby brother because in so many ways, he's the strongest one of us. Too bad it's taken me this long to see it. "But you have to bring out the waterworks."
"Oh."
"I've already done it. Troy has his moody, angsty thing to fall back on. But if you don't cry, that'll look sus, like something's up."
"Why?"
"To make it seem that we're really grieving about Tim. Mate, viewers have seen you cry while scrolling through TikTok."
"Puppy videos always get to me."
"There's that time you cried when you dropped the last slice of pizza onto the floor in Hawaii last year," Troy says.
"I stubbed my toe which caused me to drop the pizza, and that's why I cried."
"I'm sure it is, mate. What we're getting at is if you've cried about those somewhat trivial things, it'd be weird if you don't cry about this."
"Okay. I'll try. But how? How do I make myself cry?"
"Just, I don't know, think of something sad."
"Like what?"
"How small your dick is."
I shoot Troy a pointed look. "Not the time, mate."
"Sorry." He ducks his head and stares out the window, getting in some completely unneeded scowling practice.
"I'll do my best," Terry says.
"Thanks, mate. I know you will."
We drive in silence for a few minutes.
"What do you guys think about Mom's letter?" Terry asks.
"I'm trying not to," I answer.
"Same."
"We have another brother. Or sister, possibly," Terry says.
"Allegedly," Troy points out. "It's Mom's word."
"Why would she lie about something like that?" Terry counters. "And it would explain so much about her and…the guy we're never going to talk about again soon."
"Let's revisit this later," I say, peeking through the window. We're pulling up to the hotel. "For now, let's just deal with the current shitshow, okay?"
"Yeah, okay."
"Can't wait."
I reach for the door handle but before I open it, I turn to my brothers. "Remember, boys, no matter what happens, we'll always have each other."
Filming goes surprisingly well, which is a strange thing to say since the topic was the heaviest we've ever dealt with.
On camera, at least.
Terry did great, proving himself to be a serious threat to my chances of scoring an Emmy for Best Bullshit Grieving Performance by a Kitesurfer on a Reality TV Show.
Troy dialed up the scowl factor to the power of ten, so I'm sure he'll get the in shock and angry at the unfairness of it all edit.
And I played the big brother role convincingly like always, which involved absolutely zero acting on my part.
It's who I am. It's what I do.
As much as we annoy the fuck out of each other, we're the only family we can rely on. Our parents should never have been allowed to procreate, and we have very few people we can trust outside of our very small circle. Everyone else either wants something from us or loathes us and everything they think we stand for.
All we have is each other.
We're back in the car after the shoot. "You boys did great."
"You really think that's the end of it?" Troy asks with a strain in his voice I haven't heard in years. I can hear how much he wants this Tim thing to be done and dusted for good.
"Don't see why not," I reply. "I haven't spoken to Dad yet, but depending on what he's done and how well he's covered our tracks in the Philippines, I'd say there's a good chance we can bury this chapter of our lives and never speak of it again."
"Okay. Good."
Terry's on his phone, grinning like a dope. Not hard to figure out who he's messaging.
Troy whips his phone out and his usual growly demeanor instantly melts. Okay, so he's chatting to Kaide.
Not wanting to be the sole single loser, I check my phone, scrolling past missed calls, texts, and messages, on the lookout for one thing.
I see a text from Luca. Are you okay?
He knows I'm filming so I'll get back to him later. It's nice that we're back in each other's lives, even if the exact specifics haven't been ironed out yet.
But I actually wasn't looking for a message from him, so I keep scrolling until I find what I am hunting for.
Gazza: All good, mate. Luca stopped by. Gave him the fruit.
Fuck.
I drag a hand through my hair, not sure which of the emotions spinning through me I should land on. Anger that Luca is using again—fruit is code for pills—or relief that my plan is working?
Finding out that Luca had been taking opiates the night I met his father left me shell-shocked. I'll never forget him sitting me down and then detailing Luca's usage. When it started. How he does it. Everything.
I faced two choices at that moment—leave or stay.
Sometimes I wish I had walked away.
That I don't love Luca as much as I do.
That my need to protect him and be there for him isn't so all-consuming.
But the truth is, I'm in love with a man who's an addict. And despite appearances to the contrary, I'm smart enough to know what that means.
A happily ever after is never guaranteed when you're in love with someone who needs drugs. It's as simple as that.
But I stayed that night, and I've stayed through every fight, every breakup, every rough patch we've had over these past five years, because I know Luca isn't fighting me.
He isn't even fighting the drugs. They're the symptom, not the cause.
He's fighting himself.
And I pray that one day, when he's done battling his inner demons, he'll see me standing there and realize how much I fucking love him.
"This feel good, baby?" I ask, gliding one hand between Luca's pecs while stroking his cock with the other.
His head falls back onto my shoulder, the faint scent of saltwater from his successful round this afternoon lingering in his dark curls.
"So good, benzinho," he murmurs.
I stare at our reflection in the mirror. We're both kneeling on my bed. Naked. I'm hugging Luca from behind. His ripped muscles are taut as I play with his cock and pecs.
He loves it.
He's not the only one. This is one of my favorite ways to get off.
"Need your mouth," he whimpers.
"Ooh, yes please."
I let go of him and move around until I'm kneeling in front of him. I knead his meaty pecs with my palms, then lower my mouth and lavish attention on his nipples with my swirling tongue.
"Fuuuck!"
Is there anything hotter than driving the man you love crazy with your tongue?
I know Luca has a number of insecurities when it comes to our sex life. He thinks I think it's boring. That frotting, nipple play, hugging, touching, and mutual masturbation isn't enough for me.
He's wrong.
I've been and done a lot sexually, but I'm never lying when I tell him nothing comes close to the sexual connection he and I have.
Sex isn't about penetration. I've been inside plenty of people, and it's meant nothing.
But this?
Licking his nipple while my thumb strums his other one like it's plucking a guitar string, running my hands over his silky smooth skin, hearing every sound of pleasure he makes, feeling my own cock harden to the point it feels like it's going to explode…
Nothing beats this.
I stop licking him as his fingers land in my hair, scraping gently against my scalp. They travel to my neck. He gives my shoulders a playful squeeze, then a light massage, before he reaches my nipples.
And holy fucking shit.
I have no way of knowing what a female G-spot feels like, but believe me when I say mine is definitely in my nipples.
Pleasure zips through me as Luca deftly rubs and rolls my sensitive nubs between his fingers.
"Stop it," I murmur against his cheek. "You'll make me come."
That's right, folks. Nipple play makes me come. Hands-free.
Until Luca, I'd never heard of it, much less thought it was even possible.
But it is.
Oh, believe me, it very much is.
"Deitar-se," he says in Portuguese before supplying the English translation. "Lie down."
I'm smiling as I lower myself onto the bed, lie on my back, and spread my legs out wide for him.
He shuffles into position between my thighs and grabs our dicks with one hand.
We've built up enough pre-come between the two of us to make it a smooth glide as he jerks both of us off.
With one hand clamped to my nipple, I reach up and grab one of his, pinching it between my thumb and index finger.
A full-body shiver tears through him that I feel deep down in my bones. We're fully connected. His hands on our cocks, my hands on our nipples. We're a closed circuit of pleasure and love.
I stop playing with our nipples and gently brush his hand off our cocks. Mine flops onto my abs with a forceful thwack.
I reach for Luca and stroke the sensitive frenulum underneath his swollen head and tease his big Brazilian balls with my other hand. I may be well hung, but Luca's got bull-sized balls, and I fucking love playing with them, a mixture of rough and tender that gets his body swaying like a palm tree in the breeze.
"Getting near," he says.
"Same."
I grab both our dicks and start frotting the heads against each other, pulling his foreskin over my swollen head.
"Fuuuck."
After a few moments, I change to a new position. His cock fits in my hand like a key in a lock—perfect shape, perfect size, perfect texture.
Luca pinches his nipples as his cock starts spasming, mine joining in right along with it, both of us swept up in delicious bliss as my stomach gets drenched in nut juice.
One of the reasons why I love Luca's big balls? They produce some seriously thick cum. I'm talking like melted-ice-cream thick here. It's the hottest thing ever.
Luca collapses onto the bed next to me. "That was intense."
I find his hand and thread my fingers through his. "It always is with us."
"Mhmm."
I look over and smile. His eyelids are getting heavy.
That's good.
He's sleeping.
He's coming.
He's competing well, and he’s into the next round along with me.
He even ate most of his burger before, and he had brekkie this morning.
All signs are pointing to my plan working. Because while Luca thinks I'm clueless as to what he's up to, the truth is, I'm two steps ahead of him.
He forgets that I've been around longer than him. That no one in this sport is more plugged in and better connected than I am.
Which is how I've arranged for Gazza, along with every other drug mule in every other place we visit on the tour, to supply Luca with different drugs—drugs that have had the dosage reduced.
I know Luca would never let me help him with his addiction. He's too proud and stubborn for that. But I’m sure as hell not going to sit idly by and watch drugs ravage him and ruin his life. Witnessing how bad things got for him three years ago convinced me I had to do something.
So I am.
It's not a perfect approach by any means. Rafael will probably kill me for it. He and I made a pact to be honest with each other about Luca's addiction. But his solutions—forcing Luca to rehab, twice—have failed.
So I had to do this, and since I strongly suspected he'd be against it, I broke my promise and have kept it from him.
My reasoning is this: By decreasing the dosage in his drugs, it reduces Luca's dependence, so that if he goes to rehab for the third, and what will hopefully be the final, time, the withdrawals will be much easier for him to handle.
But I can only address the physical side of things.
Luca's demons, the things that drive him to abuse, that's work that only he can do.
When he wants to.
If he wants to.
Fuck, I hope he wants to.
A gentle snore pulls me out of my head. He's fallen asleep.
I prop myself onto my elbow, careful not to wake him.
How crazy is it that I'm even here with him?
At the start of the season, on that crazy day me, my brothers, and Richie had spent so long planning, Luca and I weren't even on speaking terms.
Leucate, France
World Kitesurfing Championships season opener
"How about a quick hand job?" I say, stumbling into the player's tent.
I don't have a lot of time if I want the plan to go off without a hitch.
Luca looks less than thrilled to see me. "Forget it."
He's just climbed into his wetsuit but hasn't rolled it all the way up. The sharp lines of his torso and his gleaming smooth skin are like a beacon, summoning me closer and closer to him.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't like you very much right now."
"You don't have to like me to jack me off."
I haven't checked, but I'm pretty sure we're alone. Wouldn't matter to me if we weren't, to be honest.
I haven't seen Luca in months—the result of another cataclysmic fight followed by him going back to Brazil.
It's been torture. My body is starved of him.
I smirk because I know it'll annoy him.
He bristles.
"Besides," I add, throwing fuel onto the fire. "It's never stopped us before."
"Get out, Travis."
"Fine." I just need to get changed.
I drop my backpack on the ground and strip out of my clothes.
And since I'm naked…"See anything you like?"
I wave a hand up and down in front of me.
Luca growls, shaking his head. "Get out."
"But I'm naked."
"That's on you."
"Let me just get dressed."
"Out, Travis. I mean it."
Oh, shit. Is he on something right now? Is that why he's acting so prickly?
I step closer.
"Can you not hear me?"
I need to see his pupils to confirm my suspicion.
Just as I get within viewing distance, I'm doused in white powder.
I start coughing and spluttering. "What the fuck?"
I stare at Luca—well, try to; vision's currently a bit fucked—and cry out, "Did you just throw baby powder at me?"
"I did. Now leave. Please!"
I stumble out of the tent, and holy shit, after all the kerfuffle with Luca, I'm running late.
I wipe a layer of white powder off my watch.
Really late.
In the plan we'd formulated, I'm meant to be doing donuts in the parking lot.
The bell to declare the new season underway rings.
Oh, this is bad. There's no way I can make it on time to where I'm supposed to be.
And then all hell breaks loose.
A car backfiring sounds like a gunshot, sending the crowd rushing from the stands toward me.
I look down.
This is really bad.
Because I'm still stark fucking naked.