Stay in your Lane (On Hold)

Chapter One ~ Pretty as Pie

Chapter One

I had to be high on disinfectant spray, because there was no way Travis Baker just won the freaking pro tour.

I sprayed another set of bowling shoes and blindly stuffed them beneath the front counter. My eyes stayed fixed on the television mounted from the ceiling. Travis's trademark smile was wide. He always did have the most beautiful teeth. White and straight, his incisors just a little too sharp, making him seem even more like the wolf I knew he could be.

Warmth squeezed my heart as memories flashed to the forefront. His body pressing mine into the wall. His hands gripping my dress, pulling it up.

The words I'd said to him.

The way he'd disappeared after.

A leggy blonde threw her arms around Travis's neck and kissed his cheek hard. I focused back on the shoes, spraying them a little more than necessary. The bowling alley was in an uproar. It didn't seem to matter that Travis had hightailed it out of here without so much as a kiss-my-ass goodby. They didn't care that he hadn't been back in nearly eight years. Tonight, he was from Bugtussle, Alabama.

"I taught that boy how to replace the carburetor in his push mower!" Billy Ray shouted as he sloshed beer onto his already stained shirt.

"Big whoop, Billy! He didn't win world's best mechanic!" Joe Bass hollered back.

"I bet his ass could!"

Laughter echoed.

"Hey, Ashley!" Johnny Jenkins called. "Didn't your daddy teach him how to bowl?"

I ground my teeth. "He didn't teach him everything." A lie. As much as I would love to say Daddy had saved some wisdom for me alone, I knew it wasn't true. Daddy had infuriatingly always made sure Travis and I got equal treatment, despite my being his only child.

The men continued on, and the bowling alley filled with the name Travis Baker. How long would I be forced to hear about him? To have what I'd lost rubbed in my face? A week? A month? Forever? They wouldn't shut up until something bigger happened, and nothing ever did.

I pulled a deep breath in through my nose, only to have disinfectant burn my nostrils like salt in a freshly reopened wound. Travis had made it. He was living my dream, doing the things I'd wanted—was supposed to do. Instead, I was here with sweaty shoes and a mostly drunk Friday night men's league, working front counter at Bugtussle Lanes.

"How are you feeling, Travis?" a newsworthy voice said.

I looked back at the TV. A reporter held a microphone up to Travis, who was at least a foot taller. Broader. Beautiful. The blonde girl was gone. The crowd was distant behind him.

"I feel great," Travis said.

Great. He felt great. That was great. I bit the inside of my cheek. I had no right to hate him. It was my fault he'd left. But did he have to go and do all the things I didn't? Did he have to build the life I wanted? Perhaps he did. Perhaps that was justice, karma, or God's will. My atonement. My comeuppance.

"Do you have any plans now that the tour has ended?"

Travis looked at the camera, and my throat went dry. Not because he was gorgeous; he always had been. No. It was the glint in his eye. That look. The one I'd only ever seen when he was about to be the biggest jerk-faced toad. It felt like he could see me, and he was laughing harder than he ever had before. "I think it's time I went home for the holidays."

I stared. He stared back.

"No better way to celebrate," the reporter said.

No.