Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Travis steadies himself, jaw clenched. "Vi—"
"No!" I push him again, harder this time. "What do you want from me, Travis? What sort of fucking game is this?"
His eyes darken. "You know exactly what I want."
"You will never get it." The words rip from somewhere deep and wounded. "You broke my fucking heart. You left me behind like I was nothing, and now you think you can just use me whenever you feel like a trip down memory lane?"
Reagan steps back, her eyes wide. Travis steps closer, closing the space I created. "This isn't a game."
"Everything is a game to you." My voice drops to a whisper, raw with pain. "I'm not one of your instruments you can pick up and put down whenever you feel inspired."
His fingers reach for my face; I jerk away. "Stay away from me." I back toward the exit, vision blurring. "You don't get to decide when I matter again."
He stands frozen, something deep flashing behind his eyes. "Mischief—"
"Don't call me that." I turn and push through the door, leaving him in the hallway with nothing but echoes and the ghost of what we were.
“YOU’VE GOT TO BE FUCKING kidding me!” I huff, flinging my phone across my desk so hard it sends pens flying.
“It’s—” Sally starts, but I cut her off.
“Don’t you dare say it’s amazing, Sally! Look at this,” I pick up my phone and shove it at her, so she can get a real glimpse of me draped all over Travis Phoenix, our bodies mashed together in a steamy onstage kiss. “How the hell do I get this removed?”
Her eyes go wide. “I don’t know what you can...”
“Oh my God,” I press my hands to my face. “Chief is going to murder me if he sees this online. I’m calling him.”
Her eyes widen. “Travis?”
I blink. “Yes, Travis.”
“You have his number?”
I exhale, rubbing my hands down my face.
To them, Travis is a major rockstar, to me, he is the kid I grew up with.
I dial his number and throw it on speakerphone, keeping my head in my hands.
“Violet,” he murmurs, his voice low and slightly different after our fight.
“Tell me you can have that photo removed from the internet, Travis.”
“Ain’t that easy, kid.”
“If Chief sees that, he’ll flip. You know that. My face is all over the internet, I can’t even imagine what’s happening on social media.”
“It’ll cool down. Chief doesn’t look online, you know that. He’s too old school.”
“What if someone shows him?”
“We’ll handle it if that happens. It ain’t a big deal.”
“You can’t be fucking serious?”
“Not livin’ in the past, Violet. We can’t just remove things now. Once they’re out, they’re out. Trust me, it won’t be as bad as you think.”
I made a frustrated sound. “God damn you, Travis.”
“You keep saying that,” he murmurs. “How about tryin’ something different.”
“I’m not in the mood, I’m really not.”
“Come to dinner with me.”
I pause. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
“No, I’m a man who is tryin’ real fuckin’ hard to fix what I broke. I get it, you’re mad at me and you have a right to be. But for the friendship we had, let me take you out.”
“Travis...”
“Please, Mischief,” His voice softens. “Just give me an hour. If you hate it, you walk and I’ll leave you alone, for good. I swear it.”
I close my eyes. He always had a way of wearing me down. “Okay.”
“I’ll get you around seven.”
“You know where I live?”
He snorts. “I know where you and your mom live, yeah. Not rocket science.”
“That’s creepy.”
His voice drops low. “See you later, Mischief.”
I hang up and exhale.
Why am I so weak when it comes to him? I text Reagan.
V - Travis just asked me to go to dinner.
R - Are you freaking serious? Girl, I hope you said yes. Oh my God!
V - I did, but only so he will leave me alone.
R - We both know you don’t want him to leave you alone.
V - I can’t handle him leaving again, I really can’t.
R - Fair call. I love you. Tell me when you’re getting ready and we can FaceTime.
V - On it.
I tuck my phone away and drop my head onto the desk.
This is probably a very bad idea.
The day crawls by, and when I finally get home it’s six o’clock on the dot. My heart skips as I tear through my closet. Why do I always wait until the last minute? I wrestle into my dress, tug at my hair, I check the clock: 6:52. My pulse is racing.
At exactly seven the rumble of a motorbike shakes the porch. Travis kills the engine, swings off. All black again—leather jacket, slim jeans—hair neater but still perfectly tousled. He looks at me with that same slow, appraising gaze.
“Well, fuck,” he says, voice low. “You look...unbelievable.”
My cheeks flare. “Thanks,” I manage, breath catching.