Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
We finish up, and with our new friends, head over the street.
This could either be a very good, or a very bad idea.
I guess we’re about to find out.
Inside the cocktail bar, the neon lights pulse in shades of red and blue, painting the floor in splashes of color. A lazy rock beat thrums from the jukebox in the corner. The air smells of beer, perfume, and some kind of fried food—comfortable, familiar. We slide into a booth upholstered in burgundy leather, backs pressed against the fake vinyl. Reagan and I order the fruitiest cocktail we can find, while the three men take beer.
“What, too masculine for a cocktail?” I tease.
Jacob laughs. “I can’t have you thinking I’m not man enough. Not yet at least.”
Conversation sparks between us easily. Jacob is so friendly and effortless to talk to, considering that men who look like him aren’t always easy to converse with. He tells me he’s training to be a police officer—steady, disciplined, determined. I tell him I’m just home for a visit and still deciding if I am going to stay or not. I lean forward, elbows on the table, my heart fluttering in my chest. For a moment, his presence sweeps away the sharp ache in my chest where Travis used to be.
For a second, just a second, I almost forget about Travis. Almost.
The evening runs away from me, drinks multiplying faster than the minutes. Reagan is on the dance floor, doing her thing, and Jacob talks about his rookie training nightmares, and he isn’t shy about asking questions, either. Where did I grow up—here, right? Where did I run to? Did I like the city? Every few minutes, he grins to let me know he is enjoying my conversation.
The jukebox flips over to some classic anthem, and a group of guys by the pool table start singing along. Loudest among them is a man with a mohawk, half his hair bleached white, and I can’t help but laugh as he breaks it down. For a minute, I feel good. Not healed, not even numb, just a little closer to myself. It’s nice to think of something other than Travis for one night.
Two hours on, the bar has grown tight with bodies and sound, and I’m about to excuse myself for a bathroom run when I feel every cell in my body stand on high alert. Like it knows before I do. I don’t see him at first—I hear him. Travis’s laugh, loud and booming, even over the music. I twist, facing the direction it came from when I see him at the bar in a black shirt that clings to his chest, hair all messy and his grin easy.
A grin I haven’t seen in a while.
He doesn’t see me straight away. Three girls flank him, like none of them are quite willing to step away and let the other girl in. Travis is in his element, laughing in that full-body way that used to make me feel invincible and now only makes me want to run in the opposite direction. Jacob follows my stare, and when I look back, his eyes are wide. “Is that Travis Phoenix?”
Before I can answer, Reagan is back at the table, placing her hands down on it, sweat trickling down her forehead. “Do you want to leave? We can leave?”
Jacob looks confused.
“No.”
My answer is final.
A few minutes later, Travis spots us. Spots me. And he wastes no time. His eyes don’t move past my face, not for a second, as he closes the space between us. The women at his side peel off, disappointed, like they know instinctively this is not about them and he is suddenly not interested in them hanging off him.
“Is there a reason he is coming over here?” Jacob asks.
“Ah... well, he, ah, is kind of my ex.”
Jacob doesn’t get the chance to answer before Travis is at our table. But he stands up first. He’s tall, and for a moment, I wonder if Travis would back down from someone bigger than him. But Travis is a different kind of big—the kind that doesn’t show up in height or width, but in the way he can fill a room with his anger and willingness to do basically anything.
“Hey,” Jacob says, level, and extends a hand, not showing an ounce of intimidation.
I respect that.
Travis ignores it. “Violet.”
He leans across the table, palms flat, so close I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
Great.
He’s drunk.
So am I.
This doesn’t tend to end well.
“What are you doing here?” he goes on when I say nothing.
“Having a drink,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “With a friend, so if you don’t mind, I would appreciate getting back to it.”
“I do fuckin’ mind.”
“Man, you want to maybe calm down?” Jacob says, still standing, still staring at Travis.