Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

“Say something,” she finally squeaked.

“I don’t think I’m the one who should be expected to speak right now.”

Her shoulders dropped. “I’m so sorry, Trav.”

“Why?” I asked dully, the gun that I’d almost used to kill my girlfriend’s lover now held slack at my side.

Phoebe came to her knees, the sheet dropping away as she moved toward me. “Please forgive me,” she pleaded.

I looked away. I didn’t want to see her nudity. It felt obscene after what I’d just witnessed.

She sank down, pulling the sheet over her breasts again as though she’d read my mind. “It’s just . . . I love you. I really do.” Her shoulders lowered. “I just . . . we went to the bar to get a few drinks after the tournament, and I met him there and he was so into me. The way he stared . . . it made me wonder if you really love me at all.” She looked miserable, and despite myself, a twinge of sympathy twisted my stomach. I pushed it down violently.

My gaze caught on a flyer on the floor from the bar they must have been at. It was an ad for dollar drinks.

“You met him at a bar a few hours ago?” Somehow that made it worse. Why did it make it worse? Could it get worse? My girlfriend had gone home with a stranger after a few hours of discounted day drinking.

I thought back to what I’d heard her screaming as the guy pounded into her—the woman I’d considered having children with less than thirty minutes before for Christ’s sake: You’re the best! The best! And damn if I’d willingly be second best to anyone again, especially some young Romeo likely just passing through town, spending a few bucks—literally—and spewing a couple sweet, drunken words to a girl he’d met in a bar.

“I didn’t realize you were that cheap,” I said. Her expression crumbled and she put her hands over her face. I turned, leaving her sex-scented room, walking numbly down the stairs and out the front door. The bouquet of flowers was still on the ground and I raised my leg and stamped on them hard, grinding the blossoms into the dirt.

It appeared Bree wouldn’t need to rename her dog after all.





CHAPTER THREE




Travis



My jaw felt sore from keeping it permanently clenched for the past three days. Every time I relaxed it, the vision of the young naked dude pounding into my girlfriend filled my mind and I practically bit my own tongue.

A car drove by in the opposite direction, nearly sideswiping me when it veered into my lane. “Holy shit!” I yelled, barely avoiding it, my tires skidding in the roadside gravel. I pulled a quick U-turn, flicking on my lights and siren, and sped to catch up to the drunk tourist driving the battered-looking Honda Accord with an out-of-state license plate.

The tan car came to a slow, idling stop on the shoulder of the road that led from downtown Pelion to the turnoff to Calliope. The heat of the day had mostly burned off, and as I approached the vehicle, a soft breeze lifted my hair and set it down gently. It was a strange feeling . . . almost . . . comforting. I relaxed my jaw, a glare off her vehicle casting my gaze downward, over the bumper stickers. One featured a group of cartoon farm animals and ridiculously stated, Friends Not Food, and the other proclaimed, You’re Never too Old to Play in the Dirt, whatever that meant. The back windows were completely steamed up and the driver’s window was already down. Either the occupant didn’t have AC, or was hoping the breeze in his or her face would help sober them up. It was one of those inebriation tells I’d witnessed too many times to count, but I always kept an open mind.

A head poked out the window, arms folding over the frame as she watched me approach, a hesitant smile on her face, one eye squinted against the sun.

“You almost ran me off the road back there,” I said, leaning back, and turning my head toward the rear of her car when her exhaust pipe rattled loudly. The vehicle looked like it was on its last leg.

“I’m so sorry, Officer. I only looked away from the road for a moment. I feel terrible.”

“License and registration, please.”

A flash of irritation lit her brown eyes, but her lips tipped sweetly and she unfolded her arms, turning and rifling through her glove box and then reaching into her purse on the passenger seat next to a spilled plant. There was dirt scattered over the faded fabric. Another couple of plants lay on the floor, obviously having toppled from the seat as well, and three more sat precariously on the edge of the dashboard.

I took the offered cards. California. Of course. It was where all the nuts came from. “Haven Torres from Los Angeles,” I read.

“That’s me.” She smiled brightly, and then reached over, righting the tipped plant next to her. I noticed a drooping cactus wedged between her tanned thighs.

My eyes held on that cactus. I hadn’t realized a cactus could droop. “What’s wrong with your . . . cactus?”

She frowned. “Oh. It’s just thirsty. Very thirsty.”

There seemed to be several inappropriate innuendos I could come back with, and it pained me not to take the opportunity, but this was official police business.

I bent down, lowering my sunglasses and peering into the backseat of her car. I frowned, my gaze sliding over the veritable jungle. “What is this?”

“Plants,” she said.

“Yes, I can see they’re plants.”