I meet his challenge with my best glare.
He laughs again, lips curving wickedly. “Come now, don’t be angry at me.”
I don’t get to answer, because the moment is cut short. “Travis!” Chief’s booming shout cuts through the tense silence. He comes down the stairs with a grin so wide it hurts. I mumble, half-protest, half-relief, and back up the steps.
He loves Travis like he is his own son.
Jaq appears behind him, and I immediately frown. She hasn’t even bothered to get dressed properly, and she is grinning at Travis like he is meant to see her and fall to his knees. She is wearing my father’s shirt and by the look of it, nothing else. Her makeup is smudged, mascara coating her cheeks, and I don’t dare think about why.
“Ew,” I mutter.
Travis and Chief swivel to stare at me, as if they’re unsure if I actually just said that out loud.
I did.
I’m in a bad fucking mood.
“Sorry, dad, but shame on you,” I add, voice cold.
Then I turn and walk away.
Nobody says anything, and I am glad because I’m at breaking point and if they push me, I might just lose it. I slip into my room, slam the door, and lean against it, trying to hush the frantic pounding in my chest. I convinced myself I’d never see him again—then here he is, as careless and magnetic as ever. Hecovers everything with humor, and it fucking hurts me because he is acting like my pain doesn’t matter.
Like none of it ever mattered.
My fingers curl into a fist. I need to get out of this house.
I’m going for a swim. Thank everything my dad lives on the coast.
Twenty minutes later, I’m clean and dressed, descending into the living room where they’ve all gathered around with a few beers and a few extra bikers. Heads snap up when I enter. I force a smile and keep my gaze deliberately low—until I catch his eyes. His grin is slow. That gorgeous dimple pops. My breath sticks in my throat.
“I’m going for a swim,” I mutter.
“Alright, kid,” Chief says absently.
I head for the door, each beat of my heart echoing in my ears. Outside, the salty wind tugs at my hair as I cross the road to the beach. I remember the first time we swam together, me eight, him thirteen—he was tall and lean, sandy hair just darkening, those eyes steel-grey and kind.
“Mischief, you have to get in that water sometime,” he teases, splashing me with water as he stands, nearly waist deep, a grin on his face.
“It’s cold and salty,” I’d protest, huffing and crossing my arms. “I told you, I don’t want to swim.”
“Of course it’s salt, it’s the ocean. Trust me, it’s worth it. Get in. Just try it.”
“You can’t make me,” I threaten, crossing my arms.
He’d chase me, laughter rumbling as he scoops me up and flings me into the surf. I scream, thrash, tell him I’ll never forgive him and try to pummel him with my small fists. “I hate you, Travis Phoenix!” I holler between punches.
“You love me!” he laughs, splashing me again, the salt water burning my eyes.
I crack, my laughter echoing through the day. We run back up to the sand, waterlogged and breathless. “Trav,” I say, dropping down onto my towel. “One day when you’re famous, can you take me to those places where the huts go out into the middle of the crystal blue ocean.”
He chuckles. “Famous?”
“I’ve heard you singing in your room. You’re going to be famous one day.”
He snorts.
“Whatever you say, Mischief.”