The two of them disappear. I huff and then step through the door. My pink room welcomes me and feels like the only place old memories are safe. I unpack my basics and then I collapse on the beanbag, plug in my phone, slide earplugs in, and let music wash over me.
An hour slips by in dreamy waves. Then I am jerked out of it when the doorbell rings. Who the hell rings the doorbell? Everyone just walks in this house. Ding dong again, more frequent. Why isn’t Chief answering? Drag queen diva duties, I bet.
Ding dong, a third time. I yank out an earbud. “Alright, I’m coming—keep your shirt on,” I mutter.
My god.
I stomp down the stairs, and when I reach the door, I see it’s locked. That’s why the doorbell is going. I mutter a curse, then swing open the door and freeze. Every muscle in my body tenses at once, like I've been hit with an electrical current.
Travis Phoenix stands on the threshold, backlit by afternoon sun, one shoulder propped against the pole outside like he owns it. My heart slams against my ribs—a wild, caged thing—and my mouth goes dry. The air between us feels charged, dangerous.
His eyes flash with something dark, something different, and it sends shivers down my spine.
"Mischief," he drawls, voice deeper than I remember, rougher around the edges. "Well, I’ll be damned.”
The sound of my nickname in his mouth makes my stomach hollow out. Years of silence, and he thinks he can just show up with that lazy smile? I want to scream at him, demand to know why he left without a word, why he never called, why he fucking threw me away. Instead, I'm rooted to the spot, betrayed by my own body's reaction.
He's transformed from the lanky boy I knew into something else entirely. His shoulders stretch the worn fabric of his black t-shirt, and faded jeans hang low on narrow hips. Tattoos I don't recognize snake up his forearms and disappear beneath his sleeves. His dirty blonde hair is shorter on the sides now, longer a and messy on top, and those storm-gray eyes still see too much. The boyish softness is gone, replaced by sharp angles and a day's worth of stubble that makes him look dangerous.
I've watched his shows, seen him on billboards, but the screen flattened him, made him safe. In person, he takes up too much space, steals too much oxygen. The scent of him—cologne and something woodsy—hits me, and memories flood back with such force I nearly stagger. I remember the midnight rides on his bike, his arms around me as he taught me to throw a proper punch, the way he used to look at me like I was something precious.
Until he became famous, a rockstar, someone too good for the likes of me.
I hate how my body remembers him. Hate how, despite everything, something deep in my chest unfurls at the sight of him.
"Cat got your tongue?" He grins, dimple appearing in his left cheek, and I remember pressing my thumb to that exact spot once, wondering what it would be like to kiss him there.
I should slam the door in his face. I should tell him to go to hell.
Instead, I stand frozen, caught between the girl I was and the woman I've become, while Travis Phoenix walks back into my life like he never left it.
God damn it.
I don’t think I am ready for this.
“SORRY, DO I KNOW YOU?”
It’s meant to come out as sarcasm, but instead, it comes out as if I am snapping. Maybe I am. I don’t know how I feel in this moment, my mind is going a million miles an hour. My pulse hammers in my ears as he tilts his head. Great—now he’s laughing at me.
“Baby, you wound me,” he slaps a hand over his chest and pushes off the pole, immediately making me step back, as if getting too close might be dangerous.
Lord knows it probably is.
“Why are you here, Travis?” My words come out clipped and I try to keep it together, to act like I don’t care, but I do. I care so much it fucking burns.
He leans in, one eyebrow arching, grey eyes flickering with amusement and something darker. “Last time I checked, I lived around these parts.”
“Since when? Last time I checked, you up and left, not telling anyone where you were going and now you’re acting like you should just be welcomed back.”
“You’re full of fire, Mischief.”
I ignore him. “Why are you here?”
“Business,” he murmurs, then changes the subject. “You’re lookin’ mighty fine, Mischief. Never could picture you all grown up, but I’m certainly not disappointed.”
My stomach twists. I force a growl and turn away, heart spiking. Two minutes and he’s already burrowed under my skin.
“Are you going to invite me in, or is there a secret password?”