Playing With Fire

Chapter Forty-Two

                                           Recap 

             Was.

            A sick sensation crawls through my veins as I realize he used the dreaded past tense.

            “I’m sorry.” I muster, suddenly feeling rude for bringing her name up.

            Distinctively, I remember the way Travis’s mom looked when she saw me. She was awestruck—filled with disbelief and relief at the same time. It didn’t register then, but now that I know…she though I was her deceased daughter.

            “Why?” He snaps, irritated, “You didn’t do anything.”

            “I know.” I whisper, staring off into the distance.

            I may not have done anything, but I did make him hurt again—by making him think about her.

            It wasn’t long ago when I was introduced to Layla as her stepsister. But even now, I can’t imagine losing her. Having that type of connection with someone—one that you’ve lived with all your life—and then one day, they are just gone?

            Unbareable.

            “She’s dead,” Travis bites harshly, glaring at the marble on the floor, “And her blood is on my hands.” 

                                   Chapter Forty Two 

             I stare at Travis in complete and utter astonishment while he buries his head anxiously in his hands.

            “You don’t mean that.” I say gently, watching as his back expands when he takes slow, deep breaths.

            When he lifts his head up, he flashes me a chilled look.

           “I do.” Travis persists after releasing my gaze, “That’s the thing—she was in my hands.”

         I start to shake my head but he reaches out and places a firm arm on mine to stop me from interrupting him.

            “Faye, she died in my hands.” His features turn stoic and his eyes glaze over, as if they refuse to go back into the past and relay what he is feeling. He swallows and closes his eyes while taking his arm away from mine.

              “Was it—“ I start to inquire before stopping my train of wording.

              It had to be.

          Why else is he so adamant about his whole situation—about James and the other elusive members. I remember the time I saw him mercilessly throw punches at a man. Behind the wall, shaking in my toes, I wondered how he could do so and not feel a thing, not regret his actions one bit.

          “The gang?” Travis finishes my sentence seemingly unfazed.

            I hold his penetratingly eden stare as a response to his question.

              The corners of his mouth lift and he lets out a humorless laugh. Abruptly, he brings his palms to his knees and pushes himself off of the toilet seat. Stiffly, he stalks towards the door, and I’m completely sure he’s going to walk out on me. However, moments before reaching it, he turns around and begins pacing, his eyes darting around as if unwillingly reliving the memories.

         “Travis, don’t.” I order, viscerally despising the way a hysteric crease marks an indent on his forehead.

           “You need to know.” He argues, still pacing.