Page 128 of Tied to You

Unsure of what to say but knowing how I can comfort him, I look away, letting him watch as I press my hand flat to his chest. His heart’s rhythm thuds under my touch and his chest expands.

Touch is good. Touch is his language.

My feet step closer as I’m about to rest my head on his chest.

“Don’t waste your time,” he says flatly. Lost.

I step back and stare at him wide eyed. “Travis?”

Shrugging me off, I shuffle back, creating unwanted distance. “I said, don’t waste your fucking time on an animal like me.” He growls this time, his voice deepened by alcohol. Clearly the Vodka he’s got in his hand now is the end of his night, rather than the beginning.

Did he ride here?

Not looking at him, I make my way to the front door. I open it quickly, seeing his bike fallen to the ground, the front headlight smashed and dented. “What the hell, Travis?” I turn to look at him.

He’s watching me again. This time though, he shakes his head at me like I’ve done something wrong.

“Have you hurt someone? What were you thinking?” There’s anger in my voice. His stupidity to drink and ride rattles me.

A great wrench of sadness tears through him before swiftly being replaced by a deadly glare. It grips his handsome features, making them grey, exposing some of the demons dragging him down. Rather than say anything, he scoffs at me.

“What did you do?” I close the door behind me, my own glare being returned to him. I need him to talk; to tell me what the fuck he wasthinking.

It has no effect. Travis turns, drinking from the bottle and heading to the bathroom, completely ignoring me.

I watch on as he slams the bathroom door shut behind him, and I’m left standing on my own, how I have been since Rocco dropped me back here yesterday.

I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve waited like I was told to. But he’s given me nothing. He wasn’t the one to call me. He wasn’t the one to ride me home. It’s obvious talk of family has collided with whatever’s happened in the past fourteen hours, but that’s not an excuse to push me away.

I’m the one who can comfort him.

I’m the one who loves him.

I’m also the one unable to walk away and simply let this go now. No. My own frustrations begin to prickle under my skin. My blood turns hotter, my bitterness biting at my last restraint. Before I can talk myself down, I stride to the bathroom door and swing it open, my body vibrating.

Travis is under the shower, sat on the floor, the bottle still firmly in his hand, no water running. When I see his battered clothes, the anger flooding my veins doesn’t go away, but I manage to swallow some of the fury wanting to lash out. “What happened to you?”

Something’s gnawing away inside of him. Something he can’t handle. He drags his eyes up to meet mine. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

“Not until I know what happened today. Travis, you rode your fucking bike home half-cut. You could have killed someone.”

The anger flashes back, spreading through him like molten lava. I see it rise from his toes, all the way to his face. Just when I think he’s going to speak, the bottle in his hand is launched to the other end of the shower, smashing against the tiles.

I may jolt, but it will take more than that. “You don’t scare me,” I tell him honestly, seeing his breathing quicken.

“I wish something fucking would,” he half slurs, pushing his fists to the ground and dragging his body to stand, facing away from me. I have no hope of catching him if he falls, but I watch on, hoping he maintains his balance.

As though exhausted from trying to hold his own weight, he lets out a sigh, his entire body visibly slumping. My eyes are stuck on the clearbullet hole on his back. It makes me tremble as he begins slowly undressing himself.

He removes his cut, letting it fall to the floor, then does the same with his already unbuttoned shirt. His hand drags through his dark hair as his head points toward the ceiling.

I watch his back muscles tense and ripple as his hands move to his belt.

“There’s only one thing that scares me,” I whisper gently.

He laughs at me, his hands slowly working the strap. “I seriously doubt that, baby.” He staggers, hitting the tiled wall with a thud and a groan as he drags his jeans down and off his feet.

I step closer wanting to help him, but I know he won’t appreciate it. “Well?” I ask.