Page 144 of Forbidden Hockey
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Dirk
Iinhale the stale scent of “deep fryer” and beer as I glide across the wood floors—home sweet home. Couldn’t text Trav at all while I was camping with Hunt, and it was the longest four days of my life. I came straight here.
Looks like the lunch rush is dying down. I’ve already checked the schedule for today, Dash’ll be here soon to take over the bar, which means Stacey’ll be here soon, too. But there’s enough time to surprise Trav with an “I’m home from bushwhacking” blowjob.
That’s my intent anyway, but … what’s Rhett doing here without Logan? No, shit. That’s not Rhett, it’s fucking Mayor Elkington. He’s got to have some kinda special access to the Fountain of Youth because he sure looks like Rhett. They could be twins. What’s he doing at the bar by himself? I don’t think an Elkington should ever be left unattended. Even Logan will admit that. What’s Trav thinking, leaving him out here just drinking whatever expensive fucking shit he made Trav open for him?
His dark blue eyes catch mine. “Boulder. Sit. Have a drink with me. Bartender,” he calls.
What is happening right now?
My gaze drops to the empty place beside Maxwell. The amber liquid over ice isn’t telling on its own, it’s the olive that gives it away. I’d bet my entire bank account that if I had a sip, I’d taste the olive juice with that whiskey.
Trav.
As if he can hear me thinking, he appears from the back, sees me, and mutters an, “Oh, shit.”
I cross my arms. “Not happy to see me, Travis?”
Okay, so maybe I do call him Travis when he’s in fucking trouble, because I have words.
The Wicklow door swings open again, gusting in Edward Arovini. Yeah, the guy whose family owns the Vancouver Orcas. He’s also way overdressed for The Wicklow.
Maxwell’s standing up, and I’m forgotten. “Another time, Boulder. C’mere, precious.”
Eddie blushes head-to-fucking-toe. “Maxwell.”
Is his “Maxwell” like my “Travis”? It sounds like it is. But Eddie’s on his way over to him, giving “rabbit happily on his way to being eaten”, and they disappear into the broom closet.
Trav’s more worn than usual, as if the past he’s always running from has caught up to him. The smile he saves for me has vanished from existence. No softness, only hard edges, dark eyes, clenched jaw. He’s stiff, too, but not the same way marble is, with a predator’s readiness, waiting to strike, waiting to tear into danger.
It’s only been four days, what the fuck happened?
“C’mon,” his rough voice scrapes out, and I follow behind him to his office, where I shut the door behind us.
I catch a whiff of nicotine that says he’s smoked a lot more than the two cigarettes I left him.
“You reek, Trav.”
He combs the long pieces of his hair back with his fingers and watches me as if he doesn’t know whether I’m friend or foe, but only for a moment. He exhales away some of the animosity he’s carrying.
“How was your camping trip?” he says.
I know he’s deflecting, but maybe that’s a good idea. My Travis isn’t here. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say “the Travis I’m used to” isn’t in the room right now. I’ve already decided the many shades of Travis are him. But I need his softer side back. I won’t get far with this one.
Though … it’s super fucking hot. Just sayin’. This one can toss me over his shoulder, abduct me, take me to a little cabin in the woods, tie me to the bed, and have his evil way with me.
An oddly specific fantasy, I know. I’ve pictured it more than once.
“Had its ups and downs. Mom was harassing Hunt again, which triggered the need for the last-minute camping trip. We drank beer, cooked eggs and beans over a fire, and Hunt laid out all his hopes and dreams for me.”
Should I touch him? Would that help, or will I lose some fingers? Let’s find out. I reach for his hand, clasping it, praying that whatever magic exists between us reaches him, too. That loveisthe greatest power on earth, and it can release him from whatever’s gripped him.
His hot palm collides with mine, and he stares, watching me interlace our fingers as if he’s witnessing something precious.
