Ten

As it turns out, my good intentions were bested by fate, or the Goddess, or at the very least something completely beyond my control.

The following day, with only the purest thoughts about Jamie in my head (okay, maybe not pure, but nice thoughts nonetheless), I step out of the Donkey with a tall chai in hand and—bam!—someone barrels into me so hard that I wind up flat on my back on the sidewalk, wearing every drop of my chai, my books and papers scattered around me like the chalk outline at a murder scene.

“Shit,” I hear a gravelly voice say, and I know that voice. My response is nearly Pavlovian, even though I’ve only heard it once before. I can’t help it. His voice is droolworthy. “Sorry, dude.”

Travis hunches over me, his blond hair falling all around his face. From this angle he looks like he walked off the cover of a Harlequin paperback. I imagine the title would be something lame like Rebel with a Cause, and that the heroine would slowly turn him from a bad boy to a suitable gentleman she could bring home to Mother. As long as he kept that wild streak in the bedroom, of course.

Which isn’t too far off from the fantasies I’m sure I’ll have about him later. But at the moment, with chai all over me, that’s neither here nor there.

“Caffeine really isn’t that life or death,” I say, trying to temper my annoyance with humor.

He merely quirks a smile down at me. “I suppose not. Not if I’m gonna take out innocent bystanders in my quest for espresso.”

He leans back and offers me a hand. I take it, shoving my humiliation aside as he helps me to my feet. Before he lets go and starts to help me gather my things, I notice his hands are rough, calloused—the sure sign of a practiced guitar player.

When I have all my possessions back in my arms he stands back, hands shoved in the pockets of his black skinny jeans, looking at the ground. “Shoulda looked where I was going.”

“It’s okay.”

“You’re wearing your coffee, man.”

“Chai.”

He looks up, rolling his eyes. “Whatever. Let me buy you some more.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“If I don’t, I’ll feel guilty for weeks. Let me get you another.”

I cock my head, studying him. Those amber eyes are soft, not hard, and apologetic. “You’ve quite the conscience for a badass.”

“Who says I’m a badass?”

“Isn’t that the look you’re going for?” I gesture vaguely at him. “The leather jacket, the boots, the half-shaved head, the smudged eyeliner that’s probably left over from last night.”

Travis takes his hands out of his pockets and holds them up in the universal sign of surrender. “Okay, Mr. Observant. What are you, a psychiatrist or something?”

“A writer,” I say back, and Travis actually looks impressed by that. “And if it’ll quiet your conscience, buy me a cup of chai.”

“What the hell is that stuff, anyway? You smell like cinnamon.”

“You’re not generally supposed to wear it,” I say, glaring at him. “And it’s tea.”

“Smells like fruity hippie shit.”

“It is, which is why I like it.”

His face snaps up, his eyes meeting mine. We stare at each other for a minute, at some sort of stalemate over our difference in beverage choices as if it signifies an insurmountable difference in our personalities, and then he shrugs it off with a snort. I am, apparently, forgiven for being a hipster.

“Wait here,” he says, lips parting into the sexiest, most promising smile I’ve seen. Ever. “I’ll bring you more fruity hippie shit.”

Two minutes later he’s back and I’m holding a new cup of chai and the old chai on my clothes is starting to get really cold. Which kind of sucks in early November. Travis takes one look at my shivering self and shakes his head, his hair flopping over his eyes.

“Come on, my apartment’s right across the street,” he says, stepping out into the street without even a glance of concern toward oncoming traffic. “You’re freezing. You can borrow one of my badass jackets.”

I follow him, sprinting into the street to catch up—not without looking both ways first, mind you. Travis isn’t lying. His apartment is literally across the street, and he’s fitting his key into the lock as I reach him. He kicks at the bottom of the door a couple of times and it swings open, revealing a flight of stairs.

Travis gestures for me to go in first, but I hesitate. He rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to harvest your organs or something.”

I know that. Or at least I think I can sense that about him, but still. It hasn’t occurred to me until now that I just followed a guy I don’t even know to his house. Alone. But I can’t really voice those fears out loud, that would be insulting to both of us, so I just stand there like an idiot.

“How old are you, exactly?”

“I’ll be eighteen in a month,” I say.

He nods, flicking his tongue ring against his top lip. “So when do kids these days outgrow that whole stranger danger thing?”

“I’m not scared—”

“Tell you what,” Travis says, and he takes a step closer to me so that our chests almost meet. The chai is cold against my skin but I feel his warmth beyond that, and my body aches to get closer. And it’s such a good ache. “Come in, and I promise I’ll put my kitchen knives away. Maybe I’ll even keep my hands to myself.”

I make a noise that may or may not be a small moan. “Okay.”

He leads me up his stairs and into a small apartment at the top, which looks to be about three rooms in total. The staircase comes up to the living room. There’s a kitchen next to it, and a little hallway where his bedroom must be.

Not that I’m even thinking about that.

I stand at the top of the stairs, watching as he digs through a pile of clothes on a futon against the wall. The whole place is kind of a mess, the way I figure college students live, with posters of bands and women with huge boobs on the wall. Then he whips a T-shirt at my face that I catch before it hits me. It’s black, and on the front, in a deep turquoise color, the name Liquid is printed. The letters themselves look like they’re dripping.

“Your band?” I ask, and he doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised that I know this information. He continues rummaging in the mess of clothing.

“Yeah. They sell like shit. Want another?”

I look at the shirt and smile. “No thanks. I’d like to hear your band, though.”

He straightens and looks at me. “You’re seventeen?”

I feel myself blush, suddenly embarrassed by my age. “Yeah. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.” I sink at that answer. Almost out of college. Almost into a different stage of life altogether. For some reason, age feels like a bigger stumbling block between us than his penchant for posters of women in leather bathing suits. “But I’m asking because you could hear us, if you went to the Smiling Skull tomorrow night.”

He goes back to searching and pulls out a jacket that, surprisingly, isn’t leather, but is black all the same.

I take the jacket from his hands with a nod of thanks. “I can’t sneak in there. No way.”

“No, but I could leave your name at the door. If I want you there, they won’t ask questions.”

My mouth falls open. “And you want me there?”

He jerks his shoulder. “It’s the least I can do, after soaking you in chai. Don’t expect too much, though. Vanessa’s been playing like shit lately and Brendon’s voice is still screwed from his cold.”

“Landon says you guys are really good.”

Travis blinks at me. “Well, if Landon says so . . .”

I close my eyes, embarrassed again. “He’s my best friend. Kind of a self-proclaimed music critic. If he says you’re good, you are.”

He shrugs. “We’ve got a few possibilities. Indie labels, maybe something bigger.”

“Wow,” I say lamely. “So you’re what, going to drop out of school?”

“Already did.” I blink, and Travis rolls his eyes with an impatience that tells me he’s already been over this with multiple people. “College isn’t for everybody, man. Don’t start.”

I shake my head. “I’m not. If I had your talent I wouldn’t go to college either.”

“You don’t know anything about my talent. Yet.” He clicks his tongue ring against his teeth. “But you will if you come see us. Invite Landon too. Whoever. If they’re with you, they’re in.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Whatever. You gonna put that stuff on or just stand there freezing?”

“What? Oh.” I look down at the clothes he’s given me and realize he wants me to change. Now. In front of him. I am rarely self-conscious about my body, but for the first time in years, maybe since Landon undressed me the first time, I feel bashful.

Then I square my shoulders and tug my shirt over my head, because damn it, this is why I do sit-ups.

Before I have the Liquid shirt pulled down over my skin, Travis’s hands are on me. On the skin of my stomach. I let out a yelp, startled, and he just chuckles, his breath coming out in hot bursts against my neck as he pulls me against him.

“Sorry, I know I promised to keep my hands to myself . . .”

“No, it’s just . . .” Wow, he’s close and he smells so good and his hands are like fire on me. I struggle to pull myself together and nod to the posters over his shoulder. “You seemed like maybe boys weren’t your thing.”

“Boys are just one of my many things,” he growls out, and pulls me closer so that his hands fan out across the skin of my back and our mouths are close enough to kiss.

And Great Goddess I hope we’re going to.

“Oh,” I whisper. “Good.”

“Yeah, it’s good.” Then he does kiss me. Kind of. He licks at my lips, sliding that metal knob in his tongue between them to part them, and then he kisses me. He tastes like he smells—spicy and dark, and I swear for a second that this must be what danger itself tastes like. The good kind of danger. When your heart is racing and blood is pulsing in your veins and you know something’s coming. Something amazing.

When he pulls away all I can do is hold on to his shirt, steadying my swaying body, like how the drunk college kids hold on to the lamp posts uptown on Friday nights. He chuckles again.

“What name should I leave at the door?”

“I’m, um . . .” Shit. What is my name? Travis laughs, wicked and mocking, and it clears my head just enough to remember. “I’m Sam. Sam Raines.”

Travis takes the black jacket from my hands and helps me into it, clearly amused. I’m moving slowly, still like a drunk, and I think I might actually be in shock. Kissing Travis Blake was definitely the last thing I imagined I’d do today.

“Get home safe, Sam. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He takes my chin in his hands, forcing me to look at him, his skin as rough as his manhandling of me. Part of me feels insulted by that; part of me hopes he’ll do it again. “Bring my jacket back. And tell your mom you won’t be home until morning. We’ve got plans after the show.”

I suck in a breath, thrilled and terrified at what he means, but I nod to him and say as casually as I can, “See ya,” before heading down his stairs without a backward glance.

The note I pass to Landon through Rachel Gliesner the next day at school simply reads, Tonight. The Smiling Skull. Pick me up at 9.

Of course I get a note back in big capital letters saying, WHAT??? that I don’t answer. At least not until after Latin, when Landon corners me in the hallway.

“How?” he says.

“Travis is going to leave my name at the door,” I answer, trying not to look overly pleased with myself. That only leads to more questions from Landon, which I shrug off by saying I just bumped into Travis at the Donkey yesterday—literally, ha—and he promised to get me in. I leave out the whole thing about borrowing his jacket and the spilled chai in general, and I most certainly leave out the part where Travis kissed me dirtier than I’ve ever been kissed in my life.

Not that it matters. I was only up all night thinking (er, fantasizing) about it.

“Tell Meg if you see her before I do,” I say, knowing that sending her a text will be useless. Having a cell phone out during school hours means instant detention at Athens High, and Meg is one of those strange people who prides herself on going her entire high school career without receiving a detention.

At lunchtime, I head to the art room. Jamie’s whole being lights up when he sees me, and my stomach clenches with guilt about Travis. But that wasn’t my fault, I reason. Travis kissed me without provocation. Hell, he practically jumped me. There was nothing I could do. Besides, it’s not like me and Jamie are a couple. We haven’t even gone on a date yet.

“Hey,” he says, coming over to me and plastering himself against my side. He’s gotten a little bolder with me since I asked him out, and I’m really beginning to love that he doesn’t hesitate to touch me anymore.

I wrap an arm around his waist and hold him close. “Hey. What are you working on today?”

His smile is proud, but of the shy variety. “I finished the Jubjub earlier, so I was just going to clean up.”

“Can I see?”

He nods at me and lifts a paint-stained finger in the direction of an easel in his corner. I leave him to wipe off his hands and make my way to the canvas. The finished Jubjub is electric magenta and purple, soaring among stormy, silvery clouds. It’s beautiful as it struggles against the thunder, its eyes focused on something below, its expression almost human and full of desire.

“It’s amazing, Jamie. How do you do this?”

Jamie comes to stand by my side, looking at his painted bird with a critical eye. “You like it?”

“I love it.”

“Then it’s yours.”

“What?” I turn to him, startled. “You can’t . . . you should sell this or something.”

Jamie shakes his head and looks me in the eye, determined. “I want you to have it. Unless you’d rather have another. Like the phoenix or something. It’s not done yet, but you can have it when I’m finished. Or any of them. Whichever you want. Or if you don’t want them I can paint something else.”

I pull Jamie into my arms, nearly crushing him to me. “Are you sure?” I ask him. It’s unbelievable that he would want to give me the painting, but then, if he’s the real Perfect Ten, that seems about par for the course.

He pushes me back, just enough so he can look into my eyes. “Yeah. But only if we’re still on for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, yes,” I say even as my mind drifts off to tonight, when I’ll be listening to Travis’s band play and who knows what else afterward. The guilt punches me in the gut again.

“So what should I wear?”

I give him a sheepish smile. “I don’t know what we’re doing yet. Been trying to wrack my brain for an idea since I asked, but nothing around here seems suitable.”

Jamie gives me one of his smiles, his special brand of coy. “I don’t care what we do, Sam. I’m still just kind of in shock that you’re interested.”

I can’t help but chuckle a little. “Why is it shocking that I’d be interested in a gorgeous, talented artist?”

Jamie grins. “Gorgeous, huh? If you say so.”

“Jamie, if I could paint, you’d be my first subject.” He laughs and it’s like a summer breeze flowing through the room. Just then, an idea blindsides me. A brilliant idea that might really impress the gorgeous artist. “Hey, would you be willing to wake up early and travel a little tomorrow?”

He narrows his eyes, suspicious. “How early?”

“Like, nine-ish? I want to take you somewhere.”

“If you must,” he says, feigning irritation. His eyes are laughing. But then he gets a horrified look on his face. “Wait . . . I don’t have to wear a suit, do I?”

I laugh and wrap my arms around him, and his body fits so well into the folds of mine that I almost sigh. “No. Jeans are fine. But look good, Fisher. I don’t want to be able to take my eyes off you all day long.”

“Color me intrigued,” he says, slow and sly. “I’ll definitely look my best.”

His best, I realize with a slight groan, could actually kill me.

I spend the rest of the lunch period helping him wash out his brushes, our soapy hands touching often under the water in the sink, accidentally on purpose, my stomach in a nervous knot over our date the next day, Travis almost—but not quite—forgotten.

The bouncer at the Smiling Skull looks as though he could pick me up with one finger and snap my neck with two. Which is why I sort of stutter out my name as he looks over the lists on his clipboard. He finds my name but gives me a suspicious look, flashing a menacing yellow-toothed smile at me before saying, “You give anyone any trouble and your ass is brass.”

If he were anything but a four-hundred-pound biker I would have criticized his use of a rhyming cliché, but the mental image of being pulverized by his huge hands makes me think better of it.

I grab both Landon and Meg and step inside the bar. It’s just as rough as I always pictured it. Everything looks a little beat up, including the people. The floor is covered with something sticky, my guess is residue from about forty years’ worth of beer spilling from frosted mugs. And it’s green inside. I don’t know whose bright idea it was to paint the walls kelly green, but for a townie bar, it’s almost comical the way everything’s lit up like Kermit the Frog. Makes the huge skull and crossbones painted above the bar look a little less threatening.

“I still would like to know how you did this,” Landon says, and Meg nods vigorously in agreement. They both did their best to look the part tonight, dressing in nearly all black, tight clothes, hair messy, and Meg’s even wearing a metric ton of black eye makeup. It would have looked good on Landon too. Would have made his pretty eyes stand out against his pale skin, but I don’t comment on that.

“The powers of persuasion,” I say as an answer, which doesn’t convince either of them in the slightest.

“With Travis Blake? Yeah, right,” Landon snorts, and then, as if I’d planned it, Travis appears behind me, one arm snaking around my waist possessively.

“You’re here,” he says, and nowhere in his voice is there a note of surprise.

“Had to return your jacket, didn’t I?” I say back, touching the collar of his jacket, which I’m wearing.

“Looks good on you,” he says, then leans in, mouth on the shell of my ear, my back pressed tightly against his front. “Going to look good on my floor tonight.”

I hiss out a curse. I’ve never met anyone like him before, never known anyone who could say such filthy things with such powerful confidence, never known someone whose voice alone could make my knees buckle. And I’ve certainly never met anyone who could make me enjoy feeling like I’m nothing but a possession. I can’t make sense of it or of him. My brain is a mushy mess of rights and wrongs, contradictory feelings, and in the end, all I can do is agree with him.

“See you after, then?” he asks, already knowing my answer. “Enjoy the show.”

He nips at my neck before leaving, disappearing through a door next to the makeshift stage by the bar. I turn to Landon and Meg, barely seeing them because I can’t think and I’m pretty sure my body is full of aching, burning fire.

It’s Meg who speaks first. “What was that?”

“What?” I ask her.

“What do you mean what?” She’s staring at me with a weird expression on her face that just might be awe. “Are you some sort of groupie now?”

“No,” I say, defensive. “He invited me to the show yesterday and we talked a bit. That’s all.”

“And what about Jamie?”

“I’m seeing Jamie tomorrow.”

“And having sex with Travis tonight, apparently.”

“I never said—”

“Please, you all but promised him just now.” Now Meg is angry. But it’s like she’s not just angry, there’s something underneath. Worry, maybe. Or worse, disappointment. I feel my cheeks flush with a bit of shame and try to explain myself.

“I like Jamie. A lot, okay? But it’s not like it’s serious yet. I barely know him. And Travis . . . he does something to me, you know?”

“Yeah, I bet I know what he does to you,” Meg says, disgusted.

“Yeah? So? I’m not allowed to flirt or have fun? Just because you think Jamie’s the one your precious goddess sent—”

“He might be!” Meg exclaims, then she lowers her voice so only me and Landon can hear. “But you know Travis isn’t. Just look at him.”

My anger flares. “Being a little judgmental, aren’t we?”

“Please. Do you honestly think you’re the first name he’s put on a special list? You’re probably not even the only one tonight.” Meg nods to the front of the stage, where quite a few beautiful human beings, boys and girls, have gathered, vying for the front row. “Is that what you want to be? Just one in a crowd?”

“Maybe that’s the way it would be, but maybe not,” I say.

Meg’s eyes widen. “Good Goddess, Sam. Please do not be one of those people who think they can change someone else. Especially someone like Travis Blake. He probably doesn’t even know what the word monogamous means.”

I snort. “I can’t believe you, of all people, have the nerve to say that to me.”

“Don’t you dare make this about Michael.”

I grab my hair in frustration. “I know. I can never make anything about Michael, can I?”

Meg ignores me and turns to Landon instead. “You talk some sense into him. I need some fresh air.”

Meg stalks toward the door and I turn toward the stage, which means I don’t have to look at Landon. I feel him next to me, watching me. He shifts uncomfortably, then says, “Low blow, man.”

“Whatever. It’s true.”

“Still,” Landon says. Onstage, someone is testing microphones. “You know she’s right about Travis.”

I want to scream or kick something, but instead I only grit my teeth. “Maybe.”

“Don’t be mad. I’m just confused, that’s all.” Landon’s voice is so calm it makes me feel completely out of control. “I mean, I know you. You’re way too smart to have to be told all the stuff Meg just said. So I guess I just don’t know what you’re doing here.”

“I don’t know how to explain.”

“Try.”

Because he’s Landon, and I can always be honest with Landon, I finally look at him and say, “I got a little freaked out. With Gus.”

Landon says nothing, but makes a circular motion with his hand, signaling for me to go on.

“I stopped him. When we were kissing and it was clear he wanted to keep going, I stopped him. And he called me out about it.”

Landon waves my words away. “Then it was instinct. You knew he wasn’t as into you as you wanted him to be. Which is why I’m so confused that you’re going home with Travis tonight. I mean, you said you didn’t want a hookup.”

“I know,” I admit, somewhat ungraciously. I glance over at the stage. No sign yet that the band is ready, and Travis has disappeared. “But . . . about Gus . . . I don’t know that it was instinct, Landon. I think I was just scared. It was a little overwhelming with you and me.”

I pause while Landon chuckles. “Everything about us was overwhelming, Sam.”

“I know. But . . .” I shrug and Landon nods, and I know he’s picking up what I’m laying down. “I don’t have that kind of fear with Travis, like I did with Gus.”

“Fear that you might get hurt. Fear that it’s all going to get screwed up.”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re not invested with Travis. So it’s easy.”

“Yes, exactly!” I proclaim, relieved. “It’s easy. There’s nothing riding on it. Nothing holding me back. In a way, he feels . . .”

“Safer?” Landon ventures.

I look at him. Over the last few years his face has lost some of the boyishness I liked so much about him when we first met. His round features have sharpened a little, and maybe it’s not that his face has hardened, but it’s not as soft either. He’s more handsome than cute. It fits, because at this moment, he seems light-years more mature than me.

“Safer,” I agree.

Landon crosses his arms over his chest, thinking hard. I can practically see the gears up there turning. “I can see that. By your logic, it would be a lot easier to go home with Travis, as opposed to Gus or even Jamie, have some fun, not worry about what it means in the morning because you already know. But . . .”

“I should have known there was a ‘but.’”

“I think you might miss out on the best part that way.”

There is far more truth and emotion in that statement than I can handle at the moment.

It’s then that the lights suddenly go down and Travis and his band, Liquid, walk out onstage. There’s screaming, even before the first chord, and Travis looks out over the crowd. His eyes lock on mine, holding me hostage until he finally breaks the gaze and looks down at his guitar. After a few beats from a kick drum, his hands go flying, and music spills from his guitar like it had been trapped within, dying to get out.

Their lead singer has a hell of a voice, their bassist is incredible, and their drummer is most likely a prodigy. But I keep my eyes on Travis. He’s the real star. Even though the others put up a valiant fight for attention, there’s something about Travis that pulls. His hair hangs down in his face, obscuring eyes rimmed with liner, a focus so intense on his guitar that I’m actually jealous of the instrument.

I turn to Landon and see that I’m not the only one who feels a pull toward Travis Blake.

“Would you go home with him?” I ask, a delicate question shouted over the noise.

Landon’s eyes never leave Travis, but his mouth forms a smirk. “There’s a lot to be said for safety, sometimes.”

I laugh and go back to watching the band.

Meg returns a few minutes later, arms crossed over her chest and cheeks flushed. Although I’d like to assume it’s from the cold outside, she focuses a lethal stare in my direction, and I know she’s still angry as hell.

“Hey,” I shout to her. “I’m sorry. I was a jerk. You were just being a concerned friend again. Which is awesome.”

She nods. “I’m going to stop it if I keep getting my head bit off.”

Point taken, I nod back and I think and hope that argument is over. For now. She’s staring at Travis now too, and although I can tell she’s trying not to, her body’s moving a bit to the music, her old ballet instincts taking over with graceful swaying even with a guitar wailing and synthesizers throwing down a heavy beat.

“So what did you decide?” she asks.

As soon as the question is out of her mouth, a bleach-blonde waitress saunters up to us in a pair of ripped jeans and a leather vest. Only a leather vest. She looks like she walked out of one of the posters on Travis’s wall. And even though none of us are particularly interested in the female gender, all three of us stare.

“From Travis,” the blonde says with a wink, and leaves a drink with each of us. I look at Meg, who is trying her best not to look scandalized, and then take a sip. I almost choke. It’s like battery acid. I’m not a big drinker but I know enough to recognize that whatever it is, it packs a hell of a punch. But then the crowd erupts and I turn to watch the band again. Travis is on his knees, ripping into a guitar solo that sends electricity through my body. Then he looks up at me through the fringe of his bangs and licks his lips.

My body lights up again. I could swear the whole room senses something between us, and I can’t help but smile triumphantly.

That gorgeous rocker on the stage is mine. At least for tonight. And maybe that’s not a bad thing.

“I don’t really have to decide anything right this minute, do I?” I ask my friends. Meg shoots me a look, but Landon’s eyes twinkle with mischief.

“Not right this minute,” he says, then he taps on my glass. “I’m not sure this will help, though. At least not in a good way.”

I look into the clouded purple contents of the drink Travis sent to me like it’s a crystal ball with all the answers. I see nothing about my future in its depths. I wave it in front of Meg’s face. “Can you read vodka swirls? Or is it only tea leaves?”

Meg gives me a slight knock on the side of my head. “Think with your brain, Sam. Think about Jamie and your list. You don’t need tea leaves to hear what the Goddess is saying to you.”

“Maybe. Or maybe She’s telling me to go for it.”

I give Meg and Landon a wicked smile, down my drink, and signal to the waitress for another.

I’ve had three of those purple drinks by the time Liquid is done with their set, and I wouldn’t call myself trashed, per se, not in the strictest sense of the word. More like euphorically intoxicated.

Landon and I dance nonstop, and Meg joins in when she’s not taking our cups away or chasing waitresses off. Apparently Travis told them to keep the drinks coming, and Meg has taken it upon herself to ration the alcohol. I’m assuming so we don’t embarrass ourselves. Or more importantly, her.

When the show’s over, the place goes dark for a full minute and the crowd begs and screams for more. But in the blackness, I feel strong, lean arms around me and I know the audience isn’t going to get an encore. Travis has saved the encore for me.

He’s kissing me as the lights come back up, and when he pulls away, Landon and Meg are staring, jaws dropped.

“Thanks for the drink. Or drinks,” I sort of slur out. I sway a little to the music still humming in my brain.

“It’s called a Black Widow,” he says, eyeing me. “They’re pretty but lethal. How many did you have?”

“Three,” Meg answers for me at the exact moment I hiccup through the words, “Just one, I swear.”

Travis chuckles, and Good Goddess is he sexy when he chuckles. I lay my head on his shoulder. His whole shirt is soaked with sweat. He smells like someone who has been doing cardio for a few hours, but yet, somehow, he doesn’t smell bad at all. Just sort of manly. Rocker godly. I giggle into his wet shirt.

“Feeling okay?” Travis whispers to me, and I pull back so I can look into his face. It’s like he’s said some magic spell and now we’re the only two people in the room.

Heh. Magick.

“I feel awesome,” I hear myself answer. And then, with all the finesse I can muster (which isn’t much after three Black Widows), I cram my tongue down Travis’s throat. He apparently isn’t too surprised, or maybe he’s just used to people sticking their tongues in his mouth, because he kisses back without the slightest flinch. When we pull away, we’re both panting, and my ego balloons at that.

I go to kiss him again and he stops me, his hand cupping my jaw. “We should get out of here,” he murmurs, glancing around us pointedly. I follow his gaze. Most of the young crowd that came here to see his band have left, and what remains are older men who look like they’re ready to round up a posse and be a little less tolerant of the boy in eyeliner kissing another boy.

“Huh. Yeah. Where should we go?” I ask, doing my best to act innocent. I fail and giggle, and there goes the last of my dignity.

“I think he needs to go home,” I hear Meg say somewhere off to my right, and damn, the spell is broken.

Travis’s hand is on my chin again, turning my gaze to meet his. “You really had three?”

“Just three,” I say, to clear up the confusion.

“Right. A mere three Black Widows.” Travis is amused. “I forget how to play guitar after three.”

“But you’re so good at guitar,” I say, and it’s all whiny. Landon snorts and I reach behind myself to give him a playful punch. I miss.

Travis breathes a very creative curse. “I told Melanie to go easy on you.”

“I can handle liquor,” I say with a pout. Then I sort of sway into him and bump my nose on his shoulder.

“Obviously,” Travis says, but he’s not upset. He’s still just amused, perhaps even entertained. Ha, now he’s the one getting the show.

“You need to go home, Sam,” Meg says again.

Travis doesn’t take his eyes off me. “You want to go home?”

“With you,” I say. Finally, the answer to the question that he never really even asked, the question I’ve been debating all night. And now? There’s not a doubt in my mind. Even after all the discussion and arguments with my friends. And maybe it’s the Black Widow (nope, Widows, plural) talking, but I feel like I can trust him. Like maybe he has no intention of seeing me again after tonight, but he has no intention of hurting me either.

Travis grins at my friends. “I guess he’s decided.”

That’s when Landon straightens to his full height, which is just about the same as Travis’s, and shakes his head. “I don’t think so, man. He’s wasted.”

“He needs to sleep it off. And probably take some aspirin,” Meg says.

“You think I don’t know how to handle a drunk friend?” Travis asks, and I think we all know that out of the four of us, Travis most likely has substantially more experience helping drunk friends than we do. I mean, he’s a rock star.

I giggle uncontrollably again and Travis shrugs my arm over his shoulder so that he can support my weight.

“It’s the handling him I’m worried about,” Landon says. It registers somewhere in my hazy brain that he says it with more anger than is really necessary.

Travis just stares at him. “Really? Who are you? His mother? His boyfriend?”

“I’m just a friend.”

“A friend who doesn’t think Sam is capable of making his own decisions.”

“You call this being fully capable of making his own decisions?” I sense Landon is gesturing at me, and I’m pissed at his implications, and all that manifests as giggles. Again.

But then I’m being transferred to Meg for support, and Travis and Landon step away to the side of the bar. I can’t hear what they’re saying over the other voices in the room and the classic rock coming from the jukebox that I hadn’t noticed before, but I can see that whatever is being said is not pretty. Then Travis leans in to Landon.

For a second I think Travis is going to kiss him. I mean, as far as strategies go, it wouldn’t be a bad idea. Kiss Landon as stupid as he kissed me the other day, then we can sneak out the door. But Travis says something directly in Landon’s ear. Landon stiffens, but then something changes. He blows out a breath and nods to Travis. Then Travis is back, his arms around me.

“I promise, I’ll get him home in one piece,” he says to Meg, and I nod.

“Trust me, it will be okay,” I say to her.

She looks like she’d like to fight about it, but Landon shakes his head, and she relents. “I’ll tell your mom you’re staying with me. Goddess, Sam, be safe. Text me. Continually, okay? Like every five minutes.”

I can’t promise her that, but I tell her again that everything will be okay. With one last glance at Landon, Travis turns us toward the door. He leads me outside to a bright orange Mustang that looks like it’s on the verge of death. He helps me into the passenger seat and squats down next to the car. His shirt is still soaked with sweat, and his hair, I notice now too, is damp as well. He has to be freezing in this night air. I can’t help myself. I reach out and touch his hair. He smiles at me, warmer than he ever has before, and gives my hand a squeeze before reaching under my seat and rummaging around for something.

He finds what he was looking for and hands it to me. It’s a plastic bag from a local pharmacy, with the receipt still in it. I pull it out and read. He bought three things: Mountain Dew, 16 oz., Haribo Gummi Bears, 1lb., and Rolling Stone, September issue. I feel like this receipt sums up Travis in a way anything I’d write could not.

I look at Travis in question. “A plastic bag?”

He jerks a shoulder. “In the words of the great Garth Algar, if you’re gonna spew, spew into this.”

I don’t ask him who Garth Algar is. I’ll Google it when I’m sober. And luckily, I don’t need to use the bag as Travis drives.

Travis’s apartment is entirely too bright when we enter, but I like that it’s a little familiar, as if that somehow makes all of this strange night not so out of the ordinary. I wobble slightly at the top of the stairs, and Travis catches my elbow, steadying me.

“Good?”

“Good,” I reply. Then start off down his short hallway, toward his bedroom.

“Hey, Hemingway, where you going?”

“Bedroom,” I say, although the echo in my ears sounds more like “bwedvoom.” Way to go, Sam. Then I get it. I turn and point at Travis. “Ha, you’re funny. And smart.”

“Nah, I’m just using all my writer material on you. I mean, who else am I going to use it on?” Travis takes my hand. “Water. Ibuprofen. Then bed for you.”

“But, I thought—”

“I know what you thought. I spent the better part of the night thinking it too. But you, Mr. Self-Control, had to go and have three Black Widows.”

I open my mouth to protest but Travis has fully adopted the role of the responsible designated driver for the evening. “Nope,” he says, wagging a finger at me. Then he sighs when I pout. “Okay, maybe a little kissing. But then sleep. And if you still want to be in my bed when you wake up sober, we’ll see about something more.”

He gives me a bottle of water, a couple of pills, and crawls into bed with me. There are several more protests, which are silenced each time by Travis kissing me, and after a while I do fall asleep, visions of a sexy rock god dancing in my head.

My skull is splitting open when I wake up. I check to make sure it’s still in one piece, and that’s when I remember I’m not in my own room, but in Travis’s, covered in his dark gray comforter. I sit up so fast I could swear my brain sloshes against my skull, and I grab my aching head and moan.

“You okay?” a scratchy voice says in the dark. Travis. Although my eyes haven’t adjusted well enough to see him, I can feel the heat of his slim body against mine. “Need to throw up?”

I shake my head, which hurts, and say, “No. But I need to pee.”

He gestures to a door across the hall, and I get up, carefully. I pee (how can I pee for five minutes straight when I’m this dehydrated?), flush, and fall with graceless apathy back into his bed.

“Here, drink this,” I hear him say, and I open an eye. Travis is sitting up, offering me a bottle of blue Gatorade. “It’ll help, I promise.”

“What time is it?” I ask, my voice weak and whispery.

“Almost three a.m. Now drink.”

I stare at him, confused, so he waves the bottle in front of my face. I take it and weakly unscrew the cap before downing half of it. I look around myself. Travis’s room is how I pictured it: messy, masculine, and all shades of gray and black. His bed is hard, a little lumpy, and none of the sheets are tucked in at the sides. There are more posters of scantily clad women covering his walls, but also posters of the Cure and Depeche Mode. On the shelf next to the bed, there’s even an autographed picture of Travis with someone, and I have to squint to make out the writing.

“David Bowie?”

“Yeah,” Travis says, not taking his eyes off my face. “He was a great dude. Positive vibes all over the place.”

I drink more of the Gatorade and his hand wanders over the comforter, coming to rest on my knee.

“My head hurts,” I say dumbly, because I don’t know what else to say and all I really want to do is curl up under the covers and die.

Travis nods and motions for me to drink more Gatorade, which I do. I screw the cap back on the bottle and hand it back to him. It’s then that I notice for the first time that he’s placed a bucket next to my side of the bed.

“You thought of everything.”

He shrugs. “Brendon has a tendency to drink too much. So does Vanessa. I’m a seasoned caretaker of drunkards.” He squeezes my knee. “You all right? Remember everything?”

I try to think, but my thoughts are muddy. “You guys sounded awesome. The waitress wasn’t wearing much. Meg and I fought, but Landon seemed okay until you came along. Then we came back here and . . .”

Travis looks down. “And we made out more than we probably should have. You were pretty trashed.”

“But that was it.”

Travis nods.

I close my eyes. So many what-ifs and should-haves and could-haves crowd my thoughts, so many possibilities that could have turned into regret, and he took all of those possibilities away and made me safe instead.

I swallow. Hard. “Thank you, Travis.”

He understands what I’m saying to him. “Of course.” He grins, wide and entirely too proud of himself. “I’m a gentleman and a scholar.”

I laugh, which makes my head throb in ways I didn’t know it could. I must make a noise at the pain because Travis reaches out and runs a hand through my hair. The gentle lift makes my scalp tingle and numbs some of my headache.

His gold eyes are fixed on mine, and his voice is gentle. “Any particular reason why you drank so much tonight?”

“I don’t know,” I whine, and hate how pathetic I sound. “The Black Widows were good and . . . I was a little confused, I guess. So I just kept drinking them.”

“Hell of a way to search for clarity.” Travis shrugs. “Whatever your method, dude. I’m just sorry I didn’t have Melanie cut you off after the first one. At least Meg was there for you. And you should have warned me you were bringing a boyfriend along. I mean, shit. I thought he was going to kill me for a second.”

“What?” I ask, my still-drunk brain futilely trying to catch up. “Jamie?”

“Jamie? I meant Landon. There’s a Jamie too?” Travis snorts at me. “And here I thought I was the one being a player.”

“Landon’s not my boyfriend.”

“But Jamie is?”

“No, he’s not either. Why would you think Landon’s my boyfriend?”

Travis lies down on his side, stretched out next to me. He’s changed out of what he was wearing onstage, and now he’s in a pair of green flannel pajama pants and a wife-beater, revealing artistic tattoos on his arms that I’d ask about if I wasn’t in so much pain. “Oh, just his totally over-the-top ‘hurt him and I’ll kill you’ act.”

“He’s just protective.”

Travis’s lips twitch. “Sure. Dude hated me.”

I force a laugh, which makes my head feel like it might burst. “He wants you for himself. He was probably just jealous.”

Travis eyes me. “I don’t think it’s me he wants.”

If I had any fight in me, I would argue with that and explain that Landon and I are just friends. An especially close type of friends, I suppose, but still, just friends. “I’m sorry if he was rude,” I say instead.

“Nah. He was fine. There was some yelling involved. Bared teeth, that sort of thing. Nothing I can’t handle.”

I remember now. How Landon acted, how Travis took him aside, out of earshot. I roll over on my side and look at Travis.

“What did you say to him that made him change his mind?”

“I told him he could punch me in the face if I laid a finger on you while you were drunk.”

“You didn’t.”

“Why do you doubt me?”

I stare at him, then chuckle. Gingerly. “Well, I’m not sure he’ll be happy that he doesn’t get to punch you, even if I get to keep my virtue.”

“Your virtue? Please. I’d guess Landon took your virtue long before last night.”

“Shuddup.” My cheeks grow hot, and Travis laughs a gravelly laugh. I choose that moment to move closer to him (hey, I’m an opportunist), and he follows my lead, pulling me until we’re facing each other, our legs wrapped around each other’s backs.

“Feeling sober?” he asks.

“All too sober,” I say, and the joke lands with a thud.

“Clear head, though?” he asks, and as he does, he nips at my bottom lip.

“Um, well, not when you do that,” I say as his lips trail lower, straight down my chin to my neck.

His laugh now is low, sexier. Dangerous. “Trust me, at least?”

“I think so. It’s me I don’t trust,” I say. “I haven’t acted like myself since I first saw you. You do something to me.”

“I have that effect on men.” I feel the curve of his smile against my neck. “And women.”

I hum. “I bet you do.”

“But you can trust me, Sam. Badass jackets and eyeliner aside, I’m not a bad guy.”

Then Travis shifts us, expertly, and suddenly I’m flat on my back and his weight is on me, all one hundred and fifty-five pounds (rough estimate) of pure James Dean swagger. And I can’t say I mind.

“And it’s a good thing I’m not a bad guy. ’Cause I wanted you. Real bad. Still want you.” He leans down and kisses me, just as dirty as the first time, all messy tongues and teeth and spit. His hair falls into my face, and I reach up and take it into my hands, surprised at how soft it is, and at the groan that comes from his mouth as I tug it a little. “You’re hot. This geeky, smart kind of hot.”

I lean my head back so that he can nip at my neck. “You’re into geeks, huh?”

“That’s top-secret information. I’d only admit it under severe torture,” he answers between bites, and although I’m hardly the sadistic type, I have to admit that kissing like this is the best kind of torture there is. I’m about to crack some stupid joke about the UN approving making out as a torture technique when his hand wanders down. Too far down.

I freeze up, suddenly all too aware of the direction his hand is going, of the direction we’re headed.

Travis notices the change immediately and draws back, sitting back on his heels. “Sorry, I forgot how old you are.”

“It’s not my age,” I say, although the petulant manner in which I say it does nothing to prove that. “I’m not a virgin.”

“Nah,” Travis says, a smirk playing at his lips. “But you haven’t since Landon, have you?”

I don’t like the implications behind that statement, and I most certainly don’t like how he knows that so confidently.

“I want you,” I say to him, because that’s the biggest truth of all the truths wandering through my hazy head right now.

“I know,” Travis agrees, but somehow manages not to sound cocky. “And it’s okay to be scared of that.”

I don’t argue with him. What’s the point? He sees right through me. Instead, I reach up and brush his hair back from his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he replies, then he stands up, stretching. “Look, I’m not one of those relationship guys. I mean, I may be a good guy, but I’m also a musician, ya know? So I’m not promising anything, but . . . I would like to see you again. Maybe someplace that doesn’t serve Black Widows.”

“Really?” I ask, unable to believe it. He wants to give me a second chance.

“Yeah. I mean, nothing serious, okay? I don’t do the whole romance thing. I just want a shot with you when you aren’t drunk. Or hungover.”

I laugh, but I have to look away from him because it is seriously regrettable that I got too drunk to really enjoy him tonight. I sit up and start looking for my phone, but Travis is a step ahead of me. My phone is resting on top of my clothes, neatly folded, and when I investigate my messages I can see Travis has already added himself in my contacts, and Landon and Meg have texted me a million times checking up.

“I’ll drive you home. You could stay but I’m not sure how long I can keep up this good guy act with you in my bed,” Travis says while I tug on my clothes. His eyes watch me carefully, greedily, and I feel more than flattered when he runs his tongue ring around the rim of his lips, licking his chops like I’m the most appetizing dessert he’s ever laid eyes on.

It’s almost three thirty when Travis pulls his beat-up old Mustang up to my curb. I tell him thanks, which covers all manner of sins, and he leans over, kissing me again. This time it’s soft, teasing, neat—all of which he negates by nipping at my bottom lip before pulling away.

“Call me,” he says. “Or I’ll call you. Whatever. I don’t really wait by the phone, ya know? But God help us when you’re ready. I’m going to eat you alive.”

Hours ago I would have seen that as a threat, but now I just smile in return and hope he doesn’t make promises that he doesn’t intend to keep.

“Later,” I say as I step out onto the sidewalk. The Mustang is gone before I reach my door. I let myself inside, swallow five aspirin, and lie down. I have to meet Jamie in six hours, and I refuse to look hungover when I pick him up because, Goddess knows, that boy will look gorgeous.