Devil's Despair: Travis's Stand Part 8

"Why?"

"Because you're different when you think no one's looking."

"I hadn't noticed."

"Lucky for me, I have."

His eyes soften and his head tilts to the side. "Maybe I'm different because it's you who's looking at me."

"Stop," I plead.

He does, then answers my initial question. "'Play Me That Song.' It's country, you wouldn't know it."

Gasping dramatically, I put my hand over my chest. "You like to play to country music?"

"Sometimes."

"When no one's looking?" I ask, now with a short smile.

"Only when I think you are," he returns, causing my face to fall.

He's making it impossible for me to forget our time together. And he's doing it on purpose.

"Guess that fits you. I remember the pictures of you in your cowboy costume." I try not to laugh out loud. It's tough, but I manage. Bean gave us pictures of us when we were younger, and Hayden brings them out from time to time to humiliate Travis.

"Don't go there, squirt."

Bringing me out of laughter, I ask him something I've wanted to ask for the last couple of years. "Why do you still call me that?"

"Squirt?"

"Yes."

"Habit, I guess."

"Habit or that's how you still see me?"

His eyebrows furrow. He makes things difficult to explain. "See you? Sarah, I haven't called you that for years, you just never noticed until now."

s.h.i.+t. How'd I miss that?

"You've all called me squirt for as long as I can remember. It's a childhood nickname. I'm not a kid anymore."

I hear him utter, "Obviously" under his breath, but then he asks, "Would you rather I never call you that again?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he says, leaning in and moving the hair from my face and gently placing it behind my ear.

I avoid closing my eyes and just tell him, "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Once we sit back again and get comfortable, I ask, "What'd you do tonight?"

"This."

"All this?" I mock, swinging my arms around my body. He backs up to avoid them.

He stretches his arm across the couch behind my back and kicks his bare feet up next to mine on the table. "Stayed in."

"I see."

"Is Devon taking you out again?"

Silently, I want to admit that my answer should be no. Maybe, that Devon annoys me too. And maybe that I missed him the entire time I was gone. "Probably."

"He's not your type."

"You said that."

"He's nothing you'd need."

"You said that, too."

"I don't like him."

"Travis, stop."

"If he hurts you, Sarah. Even a little, or at all. . . ."

"He won't."

He finishes what I wouldn't let him say out loud, "I'll kill him." His hand comes down from the couch and he runs his fingers gently over the crown of my head. "I didn't mean to be a d.i.c.k before you left."

"You weren't." I shrug. "You were Travis."

"I was d.i.c.k to him, not you."

"Is that an apology?"

"f.u.c.k no."

"I'll pa.s.s on your apology to him next time I see him."

"Wasn't a f.u.c.kin' apology."

"Didn't think so."

I grab the beer sitting between his thighs and he tenses slightly until he sees what I'm doing. I lift it to my mouth slowly, waiting for him to stop me. He doesn't. Instead, he watches me bring it to my mouth and take a drink. As carefully as I had removed it, I put it back between his legs. He reaches across and roughly wipes the beer foam from my upper lip. I sit in awe as he puts it to his mouth and removes the foam with his tongue.

"Want to watch TV?" I ask, before I start to stand. I feel the desperate need to get out of the room for a few minutes.

"I'd rather watch you, but okay. Just don't think I'm watching Snapped."

"Find something you want to watch then. I'm going to change."

His tone is surprised, if not accusing. "Find something I want to watch? What the f.u.c.k is that?"

"That's what I said."

"Devon's made you f.u.c.kin' soft already. That was too easy."

Bending down toward him, I push him back further into the couch. I clutch his thighs as he waits to see what I'll do. My arms brace on either side of his head and I tilt my head to the side. "I'm never going to be soft."

"You're right," he answers, grabbing my wrists. If it weren't for the beer in his lap, I imagine I would've ended up in it had he used an ounce more force. "He's not for you."

"Who is?" I ask with feigned innocence, walking the fine line of our evolving "friends.h.i.+p."

"Me." His answer doesn't surprise me, but my body warms hearing it stated so plainly. "Go and change back into clothes that I like seeing you in."

I stand, look down on him and question, "You don't like me in this?"

His eyes travel up and down my body, exposing me in a sense. The shadow from the television's light doesn't offer enough light for me to truly catch his expression.

"The next time you wear clothes like that, I plan to be the one taking them off."

"Okay," I say with the little breath that hadn't escaped me, and I make a move to turn around and walk away.

Forgetting I was going to tell him something earlier, I turn around, look down, and find his eyes on my body.

Every f.u.c.king inch of it.

I freeze, his eyes lift to mine, and his intense, hungry look causes brief s.h.i.+vers to run down my back and then scatter throughout the rest of my body.

"I'll go change," I say again, this time with more emphasis as I point to my room and start to walk away.

"I'll find something to watch," he mumbles while adjusting himself to get comfortable in his seat.

Travis This isn't good.

Not any of it.

What's worse is that I don't know what to do about it.

I'm denying myself until she's ready, and it's f.u.c.king exhausting. Take tonight for instance, when she came out of her bedroom wearing that dress, about to go out on a date with a man I hate, I was p.i.s.sed.

But I was also jealous. Of him.

She's finding her own way now and I'm struggling to let her have that for herself. I want her to embrace her freedom, but it leaves me wanting a piece of her I'm not certain I'll ever have. She's in denial, but I'm determined. Between the two of us, we're at a constant give and take, but neither of us is close enough to the end to see how good it can be. Neither of us is sure what the other is fighting for or against.

After Lacey and Raegan left, I called the guys to see if anyone was able to get out for a drink. I needed the distraction. They were busy so I sat around the apartment, listened to music, watched television, and drank.

My mind was with Sarah. Because of this, I've agreed to talk to Ellie.

I called Ellie and made plans for dinner Sunday night. She works most weekends and is on call a lot so it makes it difficult to really plan anything around her schedule. From the sound of her acceptance, she was happy to hear from me. I was hesitant to commit to any plans, but I thought about what Lacey had said. It pains me to admit that she was right. Just because I'm not looking to be in a committed relations.h.i.+p with anyone but Sarah, doesn't mean I should stand in the way of her happiness with whomever she chooses.

I hate this.

"Ready," I hear Sarah call on her way to the kitchen.

She flips the overhead light on and I hear her behind me grabbing something from the refrigerator. I don't look back, but try to quickly find something I want to watch. Otherwise she'll snag the remote and force me to painfully endure one of her ridiculous G.o.dd.a.m.n shows.

Sarah's addiction to the television has lessened, but still, she knows the television schedule like most women know shoes and purses.

"Find anything?" she asks, plopping down next to me with another water for her and a fresh beer for me.

"Nope," I answer, accepting the bottle from her outstretched hand.

"Worthless," she calls me as she s.n.a.t.c.hes the remote from my lap and flips it to some ridiculous pop music channel. The screen fills with a reel of photos of Adam Levine and I hear Sarah sigh.

Whatever.

Putting her drink down on the table, she leans into me and rests her head on my shoulder as the volume goes up. The perfume or spritz s.h.i.+t she put on earlier envelopes the area around us.

"I'm tired and my feet hurt from those G.o.dd.a.m.n shoes."

"Tragic," I respond, not feeling the least bit sorry knowing Dev-f.u.c.k got to enjoy watching her legs walk in them.

"It really is. I think I have a blister."

"Suppose looking hot must be hard on the feet." I sigh with no emotion.

Sitting up, she drops the remote on the table, turns to me, and gives me her full attention. Her voice sounds almost accusatory. "You called me hot."

"Yeah, so?"

"Shocking. I used to be cute."

"You were never that." I smile because it's true. There are several words to term Sarah as a child and "cute" isn't an accurate description.

"Wow. Hater."

She starts to stand up and I catch what she's wearing, again.

About a week after Sarah moved in, I noticed some of my s.h.i.+t had come up missing. It started with a pair of jogging pants, then I saw a pair of my boxers in her room. She did laundry, I wasn't going to question it and even if I did it would surely lead to an argument. It always did.