Page 82 of Bulletproof
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The ringtone that signaled an incoming text message jerked Derek from asound sleep. His eyes flipped wide open and he lunged toward the nightstand.
Travis: My future, bleak and uncertain, fills me with despair. And you’re still there.
Derek: I’m always here. Do you want to talk? You can call me.
A long moment passed before a reply came back.
Travis: 10 Things I Like About You, by T. Fontana
Travis:#? (I lost count) I like that you always reach out to me.
Derek loved the little love bites that Travis texted. He played with words and their meaning, whether in a message or in a song, but it shed no light on the man’s emotional state. Derek watched the screen, hoping and wishing that Travis would reply with sentences. Impatient with worry, Derek typed frantically.
Derek: Just tell me if you’re OK. Yes or no?
Travis: No.
Derek’s stomach fell and his heart pounded in his throat. Fuck these damn text messages. He held down the big button on his phone and said, “Call Travis” into the mouth piece. The call went straight to voicemail, and Derek’s head fell into his chest with frustration. His phone dinged.
Travis: Don’t worryabout me. I’m dealing.
Derek let out a deep breath, partly from relief and partly because he didn’t know what the hell else to do. Travis had a head as hard as a fucking rock. The guy had fortitude, he had to admit. Travis wanted to handle his own shit, and was doing it, without Derek’s help.
Derek: You’re bulletproof.
He imagined Travis smiling at the message.At least he hoped so, but there was no response.
He pushed the covers down with his feet and sat with his back against the headboard. The guitar pick necklace was still around his neck and he caressed it between his fingers before shuffling through the music on his phone. He sat throughHunger Strikeby Temple Of The Dog. He listened to the soulful voice of the late, great Chris Cornell,and felt the iconic songwriter’s presence. He moved on to Linkin Park’sNumband stared at the ceiling as he thought of the duality of Chester Bennington and Chris Cornell’s stage persona and the person that no one knew who lived inside of them, and the tragedy of both their lives. Then he thought of Travis, who also possessed the duplicity of happy and sad.
Cursing, he punched hispillow and threw it across the room. He stomped outside to the deck and flopped down onto the cushioned lounge chair, paralyzed and worn out. He sat there, immobilized, and found serenity in the soft blue sky that covered him, and hoped it offered Travis a lifeline. The warm sun shone down from above, enlightening him with the promise of better days ahead for both him and Travis, just as the playliston his phone, still in his hand, transitioned toHopeby We Came As Romans.
