Page 19 of Avenged

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Marry Travis for benefits. It was absolutely ridiculous.

“I know. That’s what I did at first, too,” he said. “But then, I looked up some things online, and there are a lot more people doing it than you think. People all over the country are getting married just to be able to get a loan, or medical care, or for tax benefits. I’d certainly get a better write-off if I were married.”

I realized then he was serious. That he’d actually thought this through and had ended his line of thought with us getting married. The fact that he would actually do so to help me took the shield I’d welded to my heart and soul and hammered it right down the middle. It made my heart bleed, oozing through the crack and threatening to allow tears to escape. Because when was the last time anyone, other than Mandy and Leena, had done something so incredibly selfless…for me? When was the last time someone of the male persuasion had actually offered a helping hand instead of a slap in the face?

I looked away because it was impossible to look at the sincerity streaming across his face and not adore it just a tiny, infinitesimal bit. How could you not adore anyone who would offer the biggest thing they could offer to someone as just a means of helping them out? A man who sacrificed so others could have a better life. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, my throat felt like it was closing up, while my heart seemed to forget how to beat.

“I know. I know. That’s what I thought at first, too,” he said and poured himself another drink. That made four. Four shots in probably four minutes.

“I didn’t say anything,” I told him, standing, grabbing the brandy bottle and the glass, and pulling it to my spot at the huge circular table, just out of his reach.

“You didn’t have to. I know exactly what you said in your head. You said it was ridiculous.” He met my eyes, and I looked away, sliding my ring up and down my thumb.

I had thought that.

“Look. It wouldn’t be real, obviously. I mean, it would be real in the sense we’d have to go down to the courthouse and sign papers, but it wouldn’t be real, real. You’d still live here. I’d still live at the cottage. Nothing would change except you’d get to see a doctor.”

“Stop,” I said quietly.

“I can’t. I’ve been thinking about it since Dawson said it. It’s the right thing to do.”

“It’s absolutely not the acceptable course of action.” I grimaced as the formal language slipped from my tongue. I was really good at autocorrecting it before it left my mouth. After Mom died, the school psychologist had seen me on a regular basis for about a year. It was free, and the school pretty much demanded it. The counselor had told me my big words made me less approachable. Made my peers feel like I looked down on them. So, I tried, every day, every moment, to use a filter before I spoke.

But the crazy talk Travis was spewing had me speaking before I could change my words.

He was nodding as if my saying his proposed action was not correct was something he’d already thought about. As if his brain had gone down that road as well but had arrived at a different destination than mine.

“Access to the medical care you need should be one of the divine human rights the Constitution lays out.”

“Declaration of Independence,” I corrected.

“Whatever. You know what I mean. It isn’t considered fraud. I looked it up. It’s only fraud if you don’t marry me, and we say we’re married. In this case, we would be married.”

“I’m not marrying you for benefits,” I told him, but my heart sped up at those words: marrying and you. How was it possible I was having this discussion with him? It seemed like some bizarre TV show. Like I really was being punked by Violet.

His lips quirked as if I’d said something funny, but I couldn’t find anything funny about it. I frowned, and his smile faded away, making me regret my frown.

“It would just be a temporary thing. We can even sign a little contract if you’d like.”

“A contract? You do hear yourself, right? You’re talking about marrying a stranger with a contract in place. Like those mail-order brides or something,” I said incredulously.

“Except the mail-order brides have sex with the guy, and I wouldn’t be expecting sex,” he said.

I flushed a thousand shades of red because I hadn’t been thinking about sex. I hadn’t gotten past the contract part. I finally relented, picked up the bottle in front of me, and poured myself a drink, which I swallowed in one gulp just as he had. I coughed as the bitter liquid burned my throat, reminding me of the last disastrous time I’d drank.

“That is… unless you’d… God, never mind,” he said, but he came over to where I was at and leaned over my shoulder, his hand moving slowly past my cheek and my lips. I could feel the movement stirring my skin to life even though he wasn’t touching me. His face drew closer to mine. So close that if I moved an inch, I could place my lips against his. In a kiss that would be another form of disaster. He stared at me, his warm, amber eyes mingling into my icy, blue ones. Melting me. Or was that the alcohol?

He grabbed the bottle, taking the glass from my hand, and stood back up. My body was pounding, not in pain, but in acknowledgement of his. In desire to be touched. It had been so long since I’d allowed myself to be touched in that way. I watched as he poured himself another shot, downed it, and then sat down next to me.

He poured another drink and placed it in my hands.

“Drink. I think we both need to be a little drunk to have this talk,” he teased. It was a tease, because his lips were quirking again.

I did drink it, but only because I was hoping to shut off my body’s automatic response to his. Only because I felt like I needed the whole discussion to be wrapped in the cotton wool of an alcohol-induced dream.

“Like I said, we can make a contract. Right here, right now. We’ll both sign it. You. Me. Fake marriage.”

The laughter bubbled up from my core and out through my lips before I could hold it back any longer. It made his smile widen, eyes stretching and crinkling in a way that would leave laugh lines later in life. In a way that made me want to touch the corner of his lip. In a way that made me want to keep laughing so he’d keep smiling.

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