So when Travis finally lifted the thick, juicy burger to his mouth and took his first bite, he didn’t downplay his reaction. The soft buttery bun with the crunchy toasted side, the juicy and perfectly seasoned burger, the melty cheese, even the onions, tomato, and lettuce were out of this world.
In his peripheral, Travis noticed Jefferson nod once before turning his full attention to the patron—or friend, from the looks of it. Then again, he was probably friends with the whole damned town. Even the fries were perfectly seasoned, and not just with the basic salt and pepper.
Remembering his phone, he glanced down and the food he’d just eaten turned to lead in his stomach.
Travis Cherry—#1 on Washed Up Rock Stars of 2019.
Irritation hit him so instantaneously, so viciously, he didn’t even pause to think about how the hell that notification was the one that had gotten through. He had most social media notifications turned off on his phone. When he glanced again, he realized it had alerted him because apparently it was considered Breaking News. He’d signed up for that shit to keep an eye on important stuff, not learn about entertainment news.
He deleted the notification and finished his burger, and as soon as his plate was empty, Jefferson was back as if his name had been called.
“So?” he prompted expectantly.
“If you couldn’t tell from the mini-orgasm I had from the first bite, that was seriously the best burger I’ve ever had.” Travis hit him with his publicity smirk and pushed his plate away. He couldn’t quite summon the peacefulness that had begun to settle when he’d first sat down, and his gaze drifted to the beer menu again.
“Anything else I can get you?” Jefferson asked as if reading his goddamn mind.
“Yeah, I think I’ll take that beer after all.”
One wouldn’t hurt, right?
TRAVIS
The room swirled in a kaleidoscope of colors. First it was blues, reds, and pale yellows of the bar’s shitty stage lights, still blinding even though no band played. But with a few more staggering steps, blissful dark browns and blacks filled his line of sight.
Blissful… even if they were still churning.
“Fuck,” he groaned to the empty hallway.
At least, he thought it was empty.
And if it wasn’t… well, they better get their smartphones out and cameras ready. They were about to see the Travis Cherry face-plant in the back of a dingy bar hallway in the middle of Nowhere, capital of Who-Gives-A-Shit.
Not that anyone had seemed to even care in the dinky little bar, and that had been the plan. That was the motherfuckin’ goal of the whole trip.
But that was before he’d had five drinks—wait, was it six?—and now he wanted nothing but the comfort of his own bed.
Too bad that luxury was clear across the country.
Grumbling, he continued down the hallway, and his lucky shoes were suddenly anything but. A few weeks ago, the worn sole had totally separated from the toe of the shoe, and now the damn thing tripped him. His body made an awful loud thump as he careened into the wall, and he couldn’t help but chuckle.
What the fuck did he even come back here for?
As he judged the distance to the door marked Men, he wondered if it would even be worth it to travel the mile across the hallway to empty his bladder. His swimming gaze darted to the door much closer, and he shrugged.
With a burst of energy, he pushed off the wall and slammed his palm into the swinging door, his other hand grabbing onto the doorframe to steady himself. To the nearest stall he went, the door crashing open with a bang as he pushed through. The lock clacked and squeaked as he fumbled to get the damn thing to lock before deciding fuck it. His bladder was about to burst and—how many drinks had he swallowed down?
After he was done, he stumbled to the sink and washed his hands like a good boy before taking a deep breath.
He loved the emptiness of his mind when he drank, but hated the way his stomach turned and spun with the room around him. Right then, he couldn’t even remember why he’d wanted a drink in the first place.
“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, and braced his palms on the sink.
“Uhm, bro, I think it does matter. You’re in the ladies’ room,” a deep, amused voice said behind him.
Travis whipped around, or at least that’s what it felt like. In reality, he stumbled a bit and crashed into the paper towel dispenser. To cover up his clumsiness, he dispensed a few and dried his dripping hands before throwing them away.
He missed.
The stranger chuckled, the sound deep and more intoxicating than anything he’d drank. He was drunk, but he wasn’t blind. The muscled guy was blond and beautiful, but not in the fake, spray tan way of L.A. No, this guy had probably grown up throwing around bales of hay or whatever the fuck guys did this far into nowhere.
“You’re wasted,” he observed.
“Am not,” Travis argued.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb with an amused twitch of his lips, and Travis latched on to the way his forearms and biceps flexed as he moved. The guy wasn’t big in a beefy, gym rat way, but strength lined his frame nonetheless.
“So if you’re not wasted, why are you in the women’s restroom?”
Crossing his arms as well, Travis feigned casualness. “The other one was too far.”
Mirth played in those eyes—some mix between brown and gold, and he brushed his thumb over his cheek as he hid a chuckle. “Five feet was too far?”
Well, when he put it like that…
“Okay, fine. I’m a little drunk,” Travis admitted, and brought his thumb and forefinger up, leaving them separated by a tiny amount.
“Well, since you’re only a little drunk…You feel like paying your tab and getting out of here?”
“I can do that,” Travis drawled slowly and blinked. The guy wanted to take him home? Well, alright then. Travis wasn’t one to argue—hell, the last thing he’d expected was to find a hookup in this tiny town, but it seemed luck was on his side.
Maybe the night was looking up.
His steps were only a little unsteady as he crossed the bathroom. The stranger didn’t blink, only turned and held the door open with his body. Travis had to turn to the side to brush past him and, eye to eye, he couldn’t help but notice the flecks of gold in his brown irises. He barely stopped himself from bringing a thumb up to trace his cheek bone.
Then the moment was over, broken apart like the set of pool balls on the table in the main room, and Travis made his way down the hallway. At the bar, he paid his tab and left a hefty tip—Jefferson had to put up with him all night, after all—and tried to ignore the presence of the hot blond leaning on the bar beside him.
Jefferson and he exchanged a few words, but Travis was oblivious as he passed the tab across the bar top.
“Have a good night, you two,” Jefferson said, bidding them goodbye.
“You too,” Travis responded, and then paused because something about that statement was awkward, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. Shaking it off, he followed the blond out of the bar and hissed as the cold hair assaulted him.
“Fuck, it’s cold here,” he complained, and reached in his back pocket for his beanie. “Wait where’s my—oh, thanks.” Travis took the beanie he’d left on the bar from the blond’s hand and tugged it down over his ears. He’d conjured a jacket from somewhere, one of those jean jackets with the faux fur lining.