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Months pass, and Travis cannot bring himself to return to the diner.
He’d intended, originally, to go back to you with an apology for his behaviour. For responding to your interest with nothing but vitriol and paranoia, and hopefully the record straight after missing such a long-standing window of opportunity.
Then a few days passed, and he’d told himself to give it a week.
After two, he decided he’d bite the bullet and just do it after patrol. That same night, Max Brinly was bitten by Chris, and suddenly every spare minute of the Sheriff’s time became devoted to babysitting.
Sitting on the front step of the Hackett’s Quarry Summer Camp lodge, Travis can’t help but feel the sting of embarrassment over how things had turned out. The red and blue flash of patrol vehicles from the city stamp his nose and cheeks, and he thanks god that everyone who’d made it out were receptive to the idea of giving false statements together. Sparing them all prison time was the aim, but if it meant he didn’t have to admit to using a nursery rhyme as a basis for convincing Laura to help him hunt down Silas, he’d have run with it even if they had a better cover-up. The plan had been a disaster anyway, with Max ending up halfway up a tree and Laura teaming up with yet more kids who were all too willing to bully Travis amidst the carnage of the night. What might have been a savoured victory for finally putting Silas down — perhaps the one thing Travis could have claimed pride for — was cut short by Ryan taking a single look in his direction and asking: “Dude, where did your hairline go?”
Even after all of it, after curing his family, ensuring everyone saw the sunrise, and promising to make sure any charges wouldn’t stick, Travis was still tasked with getting Max down from that goddamned tree.
Dried blood chips on the Sheriff’s neck when he turns his attention to the boy, sitting on the gravel driveway and numbly nodding along to Laura’s loud plans to procure a new car. The shock of the night has yet to leave her system, and until then, she’ll remain in commando-mode, ordering her fellow survivors about. The counselors all her own age have little patience for her antics, however, so she defaults to Max and Travis to get the reactions she needs. At first it was annoying. Now, it reminds him of how Kaylee used to whine and bicker at Chris whenever she didn’t feel like she had total control over a situation. It’s a nostalgia he knows he likely won’t feel again once they all get loaded into the patrol cars, so he indulges the girl. Gruffly bites back when she makes jabs at him. Reminds her whenever he can of the needle-and-thread stitch-up that Ma had to perform on him thanks to Laura’s ineptitude with a firearm.
He doesn’t want to admit it, but a part of him is gonna miss having to keep her and her boyfriend alive.
“Hey, T.” Beside him on the step, Bobby speaks up, coated from head to toe in red, same as everyone else barring the city cops dotting the driveway, taking statements and checking injuries. “Is that girl wearing my baby clothes?”
Travis glances to where Bobby’s indiscreetly pointing; a blonde donning the same overalls he’d given Max to wear in his cell — currently storming toward the boy in question.
“You!” The girl roars, pulling the couple’s attention away from one another. Laura moves to step in front of her partner who’s already turning white as a sheet, successfully halting the girl. Barely. An accusatory finger is shot over Laura’s shoulder, her presence otherwise ignored. “You freckled little rat!”
“Laura?” Max squeaks, shifting further behind her, and Laura puffs out her chest. It’s exactly the confrontation her endorphins are craving.
“Excuse me, ponytail?” Laura sneers at the girl. Their hair is styled identically. “His name is-“
“First you try to gouge my throat out — and then you — ugh, move!”
“Emma! Slow down!” The Jacob boy squeezes himself between the girls. By the look on her face, Laura counts the intervention as a victory. “How d’you even know it was him? It could’ve been anyone-“
“I know it was him.” Emma snarls. “He’s got the same look in his eye! Give me back my clothes!”
“Hey!” Max finally pipes up, barely concealing the crack in his voice. “You took my clothes first!”
City cops descend on the brewing altercation just as a metallic shine flashes through the trees. Familiar colour, slowing to a curious stop.
A pang of anxiety has Travis sitting up straight, recognising it. Your gait, approaching the property, weaving between vehicles and confused policemen with growing urgency, your work uniform a stark contrast to the dark blues and coppered reds of everyone else.
He turns his head away just in time, right before you hone in on him. Dread creeps up his spine at your attention, and even as you hurry over he pretends not to notice you until you’re right in front of him, beckoning his gaze with a mutter of his name.
Travis may be terrified of you, but Pa taught him to be a gentleman. He pushes himself to a weary stand, whole body aching. Once he’s at full height he’s filled his etiquette quota and takes the immediate opportunity to dodge meeting your gaze again.
“You, uh — you shouldn’t be here.” He grumbles. “Police business.”
“Is that your blood?” Your searching gaze is relentless. He must smell horrible. “God…Travis, are you okay?”
By now, the bickering on the driveway has crawled to a stop. The kids are watching. The cops are watching, not realising quick enough that you’re not an involved party.
“What’d I say?” Travis grits at you uselessly, only putting up a half-hearted, exhausted fight when your fingers perch his jaw, swivelling his head as you check him over like a fretting guardian. When you spot the little round tear in his uniform, registering the particularly soaked fabric on his torso, he pulls away, shielding it from view. “It’s mostly not mine. Okay?”
“Mostly?” You repeat, not taking a hint, chasing him into his space to continue your investigation. “Sheriff, you got shot. Who fucking shot you?”
It’s instinct, the glance he shoots Laura’s way. You don’t track it, thankfully, but he catches the girl’s eye. Never has she looked more delighted. In a smarmy, sadistic kind of way. Like she knows how much he’s suffering with you fawning over him like this. Like her putting a bullet in his side did him a favour in the end. His own shock is beginning to retreat, chased away by a bite of fear of how he might react to you once it does. He can’t let himself feel anything right now, let alone the things you make him feel. Any softness would break the dam of emotions he’s been fending off.
“Look I’m—“ Travis clears his throat before it can squeak, trying to pivot to another subject, “I’m uh — sorry I haven’t stopped by.”
“Excuse me, ma’am, this is a crime scene. You need to move on.” A voice pulls you out of his space, frowning through questions that can’t be answered.
“Stop by, then.” You tell him, stiffening when a uniformed arm tries to guide you away. “Do what you need to do, then come by the diner. I’ll get you something to eat.”
Something in his chest wrenches at the offer. Travis grimaces. “You heard ‘em. Get outta here.”
You don’t give in, barely letting the officer herd you a few steps back. “Promise me.”
“Ma’am.” Travis finds his throat tightening, his own body punishing him for the gentler tone he takes. The look he gives you is a pained assurance. He’s fine. He’s okay, as long as you don’t probe him hard enough that he has to think about it. “You can’t stay.”
You back down; thank god. Offering an understanding he doesn’t deserve. Your hand straightens his tie clip. The pad of your thumb rubbing near-dry blood off the metal. He’ll be thankful for the endorphins keeping him from blushing later.
“Wash up, Sheriff.” You tell him. “Come by the diner.”
“I-“
“Nope, you’ll be there.”
“…Fine. I’ll uh…” Travis looks at his shoes. Then at the middle distance over your shoulder. “I’ll drop in.”
With that, you let yourself be pulled away, escorted back between the cars and trees until you’re out of sight, and Travis releases a weary huff. He stands there lamely in front of the lodge, watching until there’s no trace of you left to track.
Then, his gaze flickers to the group of teenagers on the driveway, enthralled.
“No way.” A boy standing with Ryan grins, his wrist a bound, soaked stump. “The Sheriff has a lady.”
Travis looks to the nearest officer. “I don’t want to be put in a car with any of those kids. Understand?”
Being law-enforcement has its merits when it comes to crap like this. No doubt the camp counselors are grilled to hell and back for their shaky yet corroborated retellings of the night. Travis is held until everyone else has been interviewed, intended as the trump card to dismantle the lies of the kids. City and rural cops rarely saw eye-to-eye, but despite the Hackett family owning almost all the land in the county, they were well-regarded for being community pillars, at least before the accident. They weren’t social people, but they kept the highways on the map and businesses open. Travis wasn’t proud of his actions in recent years regarding the missing hikers, but barring the cover-ups, he was known to be a hard ass. Strict even with his own family when any other man with his degree of power might have tipped in the other direction.
Bobby is taken to hospital after his questioning. When the Sheriff is finally visited, he gives an identical account to the kids he’d otherwise be delighted to throw charges at, and with no small amount of reluctance, he’s let go.
Good thing they let him take his patrol car, too. Just as he’s pulling out of the driveway it occurs to him that the trunk is still full of silver bullets.
The drive back to Hackett’s Quarry is an hour of cycling through blaring quiet and cabin noise on the highway, and cursing to himself as he tries to juggle steering with re-calibrating the radio stations that those damn kids have messed around with. Slowly, the environment grows more familiar. Old habits creep in more and more with each passing landmark. He finds himself glancing often at the rear and side view mirrors. Checking around corners. Searching for movement in dusty windows.
How long will he keep this habit up now that there’s no longer anything lurking in the dark, he wonders.
Travis keeps his eyes on the road when the Hackett estate passes by in his periphery, dilapidated and lonely. For once, he doesn’t quite feel like the mess is his to clean up. He’s surely expected — with a less than warm welcome — to return to his family in solemn celebration and mourning. Six years of full-time strategy and hunting. Six years of the lawn going un-mowed. Six years of broken plumbing and busted breaker boxes and termites chewing through the foundations. He’ll be expected to help cobble all their lives back together now that whoever’s left finally has the freedom to return to society, but his own selfishness is already putting its best foot forward.
He’s so goddamned tired.
One day of his own respite. Surely he’s entitled to that much. To burn all of the collections of scans and loose papers in his own home and finally throw the trays of bullet moulds into the trash. To turn the TV on for the first time in years and reacquaint himself with how normal people are supposed to speak.
Minutes pass alongside closed-up shops, and so does the diner. The roadside lights are out, but the glow from the kitchen signals an enduring presence.
Given how much of the staff have disappeared over the years, it’s likely you in there. Reduced operating hours due to the drop in tourism. A testament to the Sheriff’s dedication to driving out as many newcomers as he possibly could – up until today.
Travis snaps his attention back to the road ahead of him. He already knows he’ll try to avoid honouring your agreement. Maybe it’ll piss you off enough this time that you’ll give up. Forget he exists. Let him just go back to watching you buzz around the diner from his booth as nothing more than a patron. Always welcome, no matter how unapproachable he makes himself to you, but firmly never anything more.
…
He’ll sleep on it. Maybe. A free meal would be nice, and he could always just threaten you with arrest if you get too nosy. Once he showers all the blood out of his hair for the last time and scrubs the stink of dog out of his skin, he might stop by, if only in an attempt to resume old routines.
Once he eventually trains up some new deputies, it’ll go back to being the spot for work drinks.
He ought to make a better impression than waiting until he’s absolutely forced to.
He manages to stretch out his excuses for three days. At first it’s genuine; there’s so much to clear out of his apartment. So much to tidy and re-organise so he can make some kind of sense of his living situation and figure out how he might start cobbling his life back together. When the first twenty-four hours passed and he realised he hadn’t visited the diner yet to face the music, he just…kept going.
Once his place was damn near close to a showroom, he moved on to the Sheriff’s office, slowly mopping and dusting until the ache in his stomach reminded him that he’d been surviving on pretzels and soda for the last three days.
The diner is along the road home anyway, and with some reluctance, Travis checks himself over in the stainless steel mirror. His fingers dust over the thinning hair on the top of his head, and he does his best not to internalise that Ryan kid’s comment.
At least he’s in his uniform.
The drive there is far too short for the Sheriff to agree with. There’s not enough time to mull over scenarios. To rehearse conversations and calm himself from the already brewing paranoia of the questions he’ll have to field. The gravel of the parking lot rattles the car, sending an ugly buzz through his skeleton that only compounds his anxiety.
Travis pulls himself from his car. It’s balmy out. Dusk. Nearly prime time for supper, yet the parking lot is otherwise empty. A few early leaves drift by, announcing Summer’s end.
He takes two steps, then frowns at the conspicuous dent on the hood. Whatever. He reverse-parked. If your eyes are that sharp, he can just stonewall you. Or blame the kids who stole it in the first place.
Wood creaks under his feet. Hinges squeal, and the familiar tinny ring of the doorbell chimes. The smell of coffee and syrup and old vinyl curls into his lungs, bringing with it a life-long nostalgia. Comfort. Anticipation. Dread.
A pit forms in Travis’s gut, overshadowing the hunger that led him here.
He can’t do this.
“Sheriff, that you?”
Travis is opening the door to make his escape when he looks back to find you emerging from the kitchen, drying your hands on your apron.
He stops. He lets go of the door. It might be the resignation, but some of the nerves slip out of the diner without him when all you flash is a familiar smile.
“Uh…yeah. It’s me.” Travis clears his throat. “You — said to stop by, so…”
Your smile widens, and he feels weak. You motion your head down the aisle in the direction of what used to be his usual booth. “Go sit. I’ll get you some coffee.”
He’s a little dumbfounded by how casual you’re acting, and as he shuffles off to his booth he wonders if you’re just building up to the confrontation rather than throwing everything at him at once. It isn’t long after he’s seated that you round the counter, coffee pot in-hand and on the receiving end of his wary glance.
“So,” You begin, pouring his coffee, “You gonna tell me what happened?”
There it is.
Travis bristles, keeping a warning gaze on the rising liquid in his cup. “Nope.”
Above him, you click your tongue. “Aw, come on. At least tell me if I should be getting the hella outta dodge. Business has gone from bad to worse, and I’ve been thinking of maybe moving South.”
Something plucks at his spinal cord, making him jolt.
“What? No. It’s done, alright? If anything, business is gonna get better. A lot better. No, you don’t need to know, yes, it’s under control. It’s handled. Just—“ Travis stops short to pinch the bridge of his nose. Embarrassment burrows itself deep in his gut, reminding him of how similar a tone he took with you last time he was here.
“Sorry.” He mutters. “And — sorry I’m late. It’s been a rough few…years.”
“Guess that explains why you’re so—“
“So what?” Travis regards you with a warning look. A challenge for you to say something he doesn’t like, to give him an excuse to get up and walk away.
You return the expression. Both of you know full well that he won’t. “Snappy.”
“I’m not snappy.” He snaps. “You just don’t know when to butt out.”
“It’s a perfectly normal thing to wonder why there were half a dozen squad cars from the city at your brother’s camp.”
“Yeah, well.”
“So are you gonna tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“What happened?”
“Ma’am, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
You hold up your hands in a dismissive kind of defence, relenting.
Travis holds your gaze for a long moment. Then, he checks down the aisle, just in case anyone’s managed to sneak in while he was preoccupied with bickering with you.
“The official story is bears.” He mumbles, finally reaching for his coffee and taking a sip. It’s bitter on his tongue, far stronger than the instant stuff he’s gotten used to lately. A little stale with the time of day. Probably sitting in the pot for a while.
You’re not fussed with the lie. It’s not true anyway, and he feels like he can almost visualise his words going in one ear and out the other, worthless information.
Instead of giving it any air, you turn away to return the pot to its warmer. “Few of those kids came through.” You mention, and Travis sits up. “Chris’s camp counselors.”
“Do you wanna file a report?”
“What? No. They ordered food.”
“Oh.”
A chuckle escapes you, chasing away a pang of embarrassment over his reaction. You lean on the countertop, separated by the aisle. “They seemed to be under the impression that I was your girlfriend, Sheriff.”
Nevermind. The embarrassment floods his nervous system. A pit forms in his stomach.
His mug hovers before his lips. “They were?”
“They were.”
“I uh,” He takes a sip, averting his gaze out the window, “I didn’t say anything.”
You shrug. “Neither did I.”
The Sheriff hums absently.
A moment later, he stiffens.
Wait. What?
His attention snaps back to you, meeting a conspiratorial smile on your end. Equal parts panic and flattery hold his tongue. You didn’t refute them? Those stupid kids left the county with the belief that you were with him?
Despite his inability to keep the topic going, or to probe you, or to even match the playfulness of your mood, Travis finds himself sitting up a little straighter in his seat. A muscle tugs at the corner of his mouth.
The bell on the front door rings, and your attention is pulled away, leaving the Sheriff in a stasis of quiet pride. He orders his food, finishes his meal, and doesn’t linger. This time, he knows better than to stick around long enough to put his foot in his mouth.
You meet him at the counter when he pays.
“Come back tomorrow, okay?” You say, smile following him as he passes. “Someone’s gotta make sure you’re fed.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He grumbles, rolling his jaw in contemplation before slowing to a stop. Before he can reconsider, he rounds on you. “You’re not trying to butter me up, are you?”
A stool squeaks as you lean against the bar, inadvertently pushing it beneath the countertop. The look on your face turns impish. “I gotta find someone to protect me from all these bears, right?”
“I told you, it’s dealt with.”
“Then I guess I’ll need to think of something else to keep you around.”
Travis blinks. Dumbfounded. His tongue suddenly feels like lead, and as he gulps back a stammer, your fingers reach up to pluck a speck off the shoulder of his uniform.
“See you tomorrow.” You say, and all he can do is offer a stupid, rouge-faced nod before stumbling out to his car.
The next day, he returns. And the next. It’s a surprisingly easy routine to fall back into. Suppose in some part it’s like muscle memory; having taken a comparatively brief break from lifelong patronage.
You make it easier too, loathe as he is to admit it. Fussing around the diner with bigger priorities, coaxing small-talk out of him when you pass by. At first, he thinks he could do without the chatting — content to watch you in his periphery, reacquainting himself with the easy draw of his gaze to your behind each time you turn away after topping up his coffee.
He learns his lesson when a trio of men stop in for breakfast one morning, far more chatty than the Sheriff in the corner. The easy back-and-forth, the questions about the local area. Your accommodating smile. He can’t stand it. He almost wishes they were overtly predatory, heckling and grabbing, just so he has enough of an excuse to chase them out. To his dismay, it never happens. Beyond the odd leer at the same assets he covets, the three are perfectly cordial, and his jealousy remains palpable and ugly.
After that, he decides he might actually have to do more than sit and sulk in your orbit.
When he’s comfortable enough to be alone with you again, Travis visits in the evening after peak time. As always, you’re there to receive him, ready to take his order with that over-brewed coffee he’s so fond of in-hand.
This time, he steels himself at the booth, stiffening in his seat when you poise to fill his cup.
“You got a beer?” He asked, rasping from nerves.
You pause. You glance down at him, and he averts his gaze lest he find himself too taken with your chest hovering at eye-level. There’s a thoughtful hum, and you tilt your head.
“Go fish.” Another pause. “But the breakfast cook thinks he hides whiskey in the staff room real well.”
“Stealing booze from your coworker? Really?”
“Don’t you cops call it confiscation? Look, if you don’t wanna join me, I could just throw it in the trash.
“Wasteful, too.”
That comment pulls a little chuckle from you, and Travis’s stomach reacts with such an eager lurch that he’s momentarily worried he’ll be sick.
You straighten out, setting the pot on the counter and beckoning him with your chin past the kitchen.
He frowns. “Not here?”
“Not if we’re sharing.”
Instinct pulls him to his feet before his rational brain can refuse you, awkwardly following behind. On the way around the bar, you flip the ‘OPEN’ sign and flick off the restaurant lights, leaving only that ambient glow from the kitchen that he’s only ever seen from afar.
The Sheriff’s organs feel like they’re twisting inside him, excitement and panic battling in him with each step. His escape route through the front door gets further and further away while the sway of your hips ahead lures him from the safety of the beaten path, into the bowels of the building, past the kitchen and through to a small break room not unlike his own at the station.
You gesture to a small fold-out table against the wall, mismatched to two dining chairs at least a few decades old. Everything else looks just as badly maintained; a rusty refrigerator in the corner and a small kitchenette just big enough to house a greasy microwave. Even the linoleum floor is cracked and chipped.
”Take a seat.”
He could refuse. He could go home. Bid you a cordial farewell and jerk off in the shower with the clarity of your enduring interest in him — and through that clarity, far less self-loathing than he’s grown accustomed to.
When you cast him a look over your shoulder, reaching behind the fridge, Travis realises he hasn’t moved a muscle since stepping into the room.
He casts one last look back where he came. Then, wiping clammy palms on the fabric of his trousers, he chooses to sit.
There’s a clunk as you fail to delicately pull a glass bottle of amber liquid out of its hiding place, and the fridge hums quietly in response as if awoken. You rifle through the kitchenette with a familiarity that breathes life into the lonely room, and withdrawing two shot glasses, you turn to approach the lonely man at the table.
God.
He can’t believe this is happening.
He really does feel like he’s gonna be sick. Rifling through memories of any past possible dates he can use as a reference point and coming up short, Travis can only surrender himself to your confidence in the moment. You invited him back here. You chose not to tell those kids you weren’t dating him. All of your own accord.
You’ve gotta be crazy.
Your saunter is exaggerated now. It has been since you turned out the lights outside, removing you from all prying eyes except his.
The bottle is set on the table. You unscrew the worn lid with one hand, filling both glasses.
Still standing, you offer a little gesture of cheers before drinking; a slow, respectful dip back. The moment your attention is diverted, Travis takes you in from this new angle, far more interested in the movement of your throat as you swallow and the subtle lift of your shirt over your bra when you raise your arm.
You tilt your head, levelling a little smirk down at him. Letting him look. Not yet stepping out of his space to take your own seat. “What’re you looking at?”
“You always go around in those skirts in your workplace?” Travis mutters, attention dropping to your skirt, side-eyeing the way the fabric grazes unseen skin beneath. When his gaze lifts to the puzzled quirk of your brow, he grimaces. “Not like that. I don’t think you’re—…I meant—“
Who is he trying to kid? He’s never flirted in his life. He wants to ask if you wear them for him. A perverted part of him has always held out hope for it, and frankly he’d be disappointed if he saw you in anything else. A fantasy version of you coos his coffee order back to him, fingers poised around a pen made redundant by your memory. Your weight shifting from foot to foot, thighs shifting beneath the fabric of those skirts in such a way that makes it impossible for him not to look in the hope that he might catch a sliver more.
Trust him to manage turning all of that into an insult.
His wallowing is cut short by the grind of glass on wood. Your fingers poise around the rim of his drink, sliding it out of his space and into yours, withholding.
“Am I gonna have to make you drink every time you put your foot in your mouth?” You ask, and he feels heat prick at his collar. “What did you mean?”
Travis clears his throat, plucking gingerly at the knot of his tie.
“You know what I meant.”
“Drink.”
You slide the glass back over to him, and Travis lets out a huff. He rolls his eyes at an expectant look on your part, but his defeat is announced when he reluctantly takes the glass and downs the shot. The liquid is thick in his throat, burning in its wake as he tries not to pull a face, far less accustomed to spirits. He sets the glass down with a hard tap, swallowing a second time around nothing, just to make sure he still has a voice when he speaks next.
“Happy?” He sneers, barely able to hold the expression when you flash a smile in response. The warmth that blooms in his chest is accelerated by the alcohol making its way through him.
“Yes. Now try again.” You say simply.
A moment passes. He tries to challenge your gaze, and fails.
Your tongue clicks. Again, you fill his glass, and with an annoyed grunt, the Sheriff has his second drink.
For a moment, it’s quiet. He half expects you to drop it after failing twice in the event that you might poison him if this keeps on. But a warmth blooming in his chest from the alcohol settles him, and he takes a breath.
“I…appreciate…how you dress.”
“We can do better than that.”
“You look nice, alright?”
“Hey, thanks Sheriff.” A grin tugs at your mouth. Then you swipe his empty glass, pouring a shot for yourself and throwing it back, keeping pace with him. There’s a grimace he catches you suppressing as you set the glass back on the table, and he can’t help the twinge of satisfaction it brings. Too bad it retreats instantly when your fingertips just barely graze the thinning hair near his temple, chased off by a pang of dreadful anticipation.
Trained instinct alerts a vulnerability to be guarded. Attack. Mockery. All the authority in the room belongs to him, he inwardly reminds himself, breath held in his chest.
It’s okay to give you a little power.
But then your hands drift over his shoulders, his collarbones, pressing a little harder as they travel down his chest, and Travis sputters.
“Wh-what are you—?”
“Keep talking.” Your purr curls against the shell of his ear, touch carefully backtracking back up again, kneading out a soreness he wasn’t even aware of before inching along back down again.
Travis lets go of a shaking breath, coming to terms with your intentions. This is real. You’re touching him. You brought him into your staff room and drank with him and now you’re touching him or your own volition.
It’s unreal. He wants to know how far you’ll take it before you cringe and turn away, coming to your senses. He wants you to keep behaving so much like this, like you’re worshipping his aching, tired body, igniting sensations he never thought he would experience. At this point he can’t even bring himself to care if you mean it or not. It’s an act of kindness regardless.
All he has to do for you is keep talking.
He feels his trousers tighten over a burgeoning erection, and the warmth of your breath against his shoulder sends heat hurtling to his groin.
There’s no way you’re not looking.
The haze of spirits comes on quickly, he decides, because all of a sudden his brain is short-circuiting. His eyes shut in concentration, brow furrowing.
“Remind me what I was saying?” He croaks, feeling the rumble of a chuckle behind him. Your thumbs drift over his trapezius, pressing in, and he swallows back a groan before it can slip out.
“I think you were about to tell me what you think of under my skirt.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Travis sighs, falling into a blissful state under your touches. The little rewards for his honestly. The pressure against his crotch hums at a dull insistence amongst the choir of sensations your hands bring.
At least until they stop. Then he’s blinking his way back to full consciousness. His body begins to protest the halt.
His reward has run out.
“I don’t want to offend you.” He offers lamely.
You tut at his cop-out. Your hands disappear, leaving a stifling cold in their absence. His neck tingles where your lips were so close just seconds ago.
“That’s a drink, Sheriff.”
Travis frowns. “I mean it.” He protests, but you remain static, standing by the table in wait. After a moment, he grunts in defeat, shifting himself closer in an effort to conceal the taught fabric over his lap.
He reaches for the bottle.
Your fingers wrap around the neck, snatching it away from him. Poising it to your lips. You tip back, taking a mouthful before setting the bottle back down, still out of reach.
You lean down, and Travis feels his face flush hot when your hand tilts his head back, brushing the shadow of coarse hair he’d shaved only this morning, thumb tracing his jaw. His heart hammers against his ribcage as you dip into his space.
Just barely, he parts his lips to ask if you’re certain about this. Then he feels the brush of your own, and his words die in his throat. Whiskey spills over his tongue, warmed by you. Mindless, he reaches up, feeling for the back of your neck to keep you still while he chases more, eagerly tasting your mouth. A little hum escapes you, spurring him on. Sitting up. Leaning forward, learning the way you like to kiss.
Then, your palm finds his cock, and Travis is breaking away with a choked sound.
You remain. Your palm drifts back and forth minutely. Heat pools in his gut as his body comes to the realisation of what’s happening. The wake of your touch tingles, leaving him twitching when your attention focuses on the peak of the tent in his lap.
“Do you want me?” You ask.
“...Yeah.” He breathes, nodding weakly.
“Do you think about me?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
His belt tugs at his hips, and he looks down. Your fingers dig between the leather, unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping.
“Show me what you do when you think about me.”
Travis pulls back, just enough to look at you properly. His hand is still on your neck.
He hesitates. He’s old. He’s far from top shape, even without the wounds. You might not like him the way you’re asking.
He tugs you down to his mouth, and you close your eyes as you reciprocate his kiss. His free hand slips beneath his waistband. Fingers wrapping around himself. Squeezing.
You break from him as his breath hitches. “I know what you’re doing.”
“M’not doing anything.” He mutters.
“You’re trying to distract me.”
You slip from his grasp, dropping, lowering onto your knees between his, and Travis’s shoulders seize. The sight of you is scandalous, inching closer until you’re resting your head on his thigh.
He feels like prey. Terrified. His cock throbs in his hand as his gaze follows yours, fixed at the crux of his legs. God, you just don’t give up.
His lips part. He just needs to know.
“Are…are you sure about this?” He asks, uncertain. “I mean it, you don’t have to—“
“Sheriff Hackett if you don’t show me your penis—“
“Ma’am.” Travis splutters, red in the face, gaze flitting to the door just in case your words have somehow summoned everyone he knows to the door. “Okay. Fine. Just…watch your mouth.”
Gingerly, he draws himself out of his underwear, sliding his grip up in a last-ditch effort to conceal himself from you behind his fingers. A long moment passes before he brings his hand down, drawing his foreskin back and stifling a gasp at the brush of your breath on his skin. Suddenly you’re closer — rapt — and your lack of recoil gives him the push he needs to continue, transfixed by your fascination as he begins to stroke himself.
The Sheriff settles into a comfortable rhythm, beckoned by the spreading heat in his core and the glide of your hands up his inner thighs, putting as much care into appreciating his lower half as you had his upper half.
You inch closer. Closer. Your breath fanning his knuckles.
“Let me help.” You mutter, and he couldn’t deny you even if he wanted to.
He chokes on his breath when your tongue makes contact. A tentative, slow lap at the dampened underside of his cock. He’s so nervous that he barely feels it, full body buzzing with terror and excitement, so unfamiliar to the sensation that it hardly registers what it’s supposed to do for a moment. When your gaze flickers up to his, the muscle creeping back out to repeat the action, his senses are suddenly so flooded that he angles his head away and scrunches his eyes shut. A long, hollow breath curls past his teeth when your lips smear along the tip, soft and slippery, fingers at his base keeping his length at a comfortable angle for you.
“Careful.” He chokes out a warning. “I don’t…I don’t know how much…—“
It goes unheeded. In his periphery, your eyes close. Your mouth envelops the head, clearly unbothered by his cautions, and when you apply a gentle suction, Travis almost sobs. Thank Christ for the pain meds and the booze doing what they can to numb him, or this would be over already. He’d be walking out of this diner with a brand new humiliation. Instead, he’s spared, not drowning quite yet. Fingers gripping the edge of the table tighter and tighter while the wet warmth of your mouth begins to bob lower, lower down his length.
He relinquishes his own hold, enthralled by how enthusiastic you are to take him in. Almost immediately, your fingers replace his own, working in tandem with your lips and your tongue. Travis feels his body going slack as every fibre in him seems to react to what you’re doing. Eyes closed in concentration. Unbothered by the wet sounds of your saliva mingling with both of your breaths — his shaking and ragged — yours held in your chest for as long as you can hold it in intervals, battling against survival instinct just to have him deeper for longer. The gradual hollow of your cheeks as you apply a gentle suction-
“Shit—“ Travis jerks in his seat, this time unable to hold back the groan that crawls from his throat. His hands grip the sides of his chair, knuckles blanching as a wave of pleasure crashes through him. Something in him coils. A familiar scorch that signals an orgasm looming. It’s too much already. He won’t make it.
He has to spare himself the embarrassment.
“Y-you gotta slow down.” He grits.
His warning goes ignored. Your eyes flutter open as you pull up, hovering there for a second. The flat of your tongue pressed to the underside of his tip.
It’s not the pace that’s bringing him undone. It’s how much you seem to be enjoying yourself. Nevertheless, he can’t fathom it all ending like this — not with you so debauched.
You sink back down with a hum that vibrates around him, and Travis shudders.
He can feel it, all too soon.
He pushes your shoulder. Hell, he tries pushing his seat back — but his attempts to pull out of your mouth are futile. His breaths quicken, wracking. Eyelids heavy, gaze fixed on you. Whispered, panicked curses fall from his lips as pleasure blooms into ecstasy.
As his orgasm crests, you don’t pull away, and as it throbs and wanes into a satisfied release, Travis glimpses a bob of your throat that has that same old tension not quite dispersing.
You sit up once the Sheriff’s breathing evens out and wipe some of the spit off your face, looking pretty damn pleased with yourself.
Travis tries to glower at you through the haze of his afterglow. “You tryna kill me or something?” He mutters.
“What’s the matter?” You grin. Shit-eating. You know exactly.
“Can’t expect me to keep up with that.” He grumbles, gingerly tucking himself away.
“Bit of a shame, Sheriff. I wanted to see what you can do.”
…
Travis’s eyes narrow at the challenge.
“Get the hell off the floor.”
He’s tugging you to your feet, pushing his seat back as he follows, caging you in against the table, muttering ‘up’. His hands find your waist, helping hoist you up to sit on the table’s edge. His mouth returns to your own while you shimmy back. One of you knocks the bottle off-balance, but he’s far too caught up in tasting you to bother to check if it’s shattered on the floor.
Travis is too shy at first to explore any further than your knees, even when you part them to accommodate his hips. A shudder runs through him as the fabric of your skirt drifts beneath the pads of his fingers, a clarified texture to satisfy his fantasies up until now. When it begins to tug upward out of reach, he’s so enthralled that he pursues, and when he finds his hands halfway up your thighs, Travis realises you’ve baited him past his hesitation.
With no more excuses, he keeps following while you hike your skirt up around your hips, too tall from this angle to see beneath the bunched fabric where your core tempts inches from his spent cock. Your thighs are soft beneath his callouses when the thought has him moving without thought, offsetting the second build of sparking tension that builds in him by kneading your flesh, acquainting himself with the feel of you. A part of him feels rotten that this dingy little staff room is the first place he’s ever touched you, but when your breath hitches and your own hands reach for him, it’s apparent that you don’t feel similarly.
Your fingers wrap around his cock, and Travis shivers, feeling himself throb back to life in your hold. Chasing the sensation, he steps between your thighs, crowding you in while you guide his foreskin up and down his hardening shaft.
Your chests brush. Breaths mingling at this proximity. At this point, his mind is addled enough that there’s no second guessing when he lifts a hand to your chin, drawing your focus up, and capturing that soft mouth of yours in a kiss. Clumsy, unpracticed, but when your free hand is suddenly gripping the back of his neck, pulling him deeper, it doesn’t matter. Then it’s fervent. Gasping against you while your tongue spills into his mouth, whole body tingling from a particular rotation of your wrist as you work him. A surge of bravery from it all has his attention move to your inner thighs, one hand tugging your underwear aside to grant the other access to you. Fingers slide down through soaked, slippery flesh until he pushes further. Then it’s tight around two fingers, scorching hot, and you’re whining through kisses.
His heart thrums in his chest. He can feel his pulse echoing through his whole body, out of step with the rhythm he feels inside you. He doesn’t quite know what to do, but from the way your insides tighten insistently around his fingers, he concludes that he can’t be doing all too badly. Rather than let himself get in his head about it, Travis continues gauging your reactions. When you push at his wrist and tug at his belt loops, he does as instructed. When you position him just shy of your core, he doesn’t hesitate, fixed on the way your mouth falls open, just slightly, when he eases into you. Holding his own reactions at bay until he’s bottomed out, face tucked against your shoulder.
A noise shivers out of you, and he lets himself groan. He can’t remember ever feeling anything more inviting than this; your arms draping around his shoulders, arching yourself in such a way that lets him know he needs to start moving.
Every outward draw is an excruciating reminder of how eagerly you’re clutching around him. Every rock forward is a new wave of coiling heat. A looming threat of how quickly he’s hurtling toward another end. He feels your hand between you, helping yourself catch up while he fights tooth and nail to slow his ascent.
“Sheriff—“ Slips from your mouth, and he moans, white-hot pleasure licking through his senses. The unrelenting pressure, the heat around him only grows more severe. He’s certain it’s getting tighter. It’s overwhelming. God, he feels like he might die.
An ankle presses against the back of his thigh. One of your hands finds his belt, holding on. “Inside.” You pant, and Travis shudders, gritting his teeth to hold the swell of his orgasm at bay, beckoned by your words. You’d let him do that to you? In you?
“You sure?” He hisses, hanging on by a thread. “Y-your uniform-“
You respond with a sound that gets buried in the fabric of his uniform. Fingers dig and scrape at his neck and shoulders. If he had the strength or the mind to, he’d pull back to witness you coming undone, but you hold on so tightly – and just the knowledge of what’s happening – there’s nothing he can do except follow suit.
Trembling hands find the junction of your hips and your thighs while his climax tears through him, gripping for dear life, bunching the fabric of your skirt, knuckles blanching. When it finally passes he’s left gasping, glued to your front, chin resting on your shoulder and fighting back a sudden overwhelming fatigue. His eyes grow heavy, and as the ache from exertion is chased away by relief, the only thing keeping him still conscious is the sound of your own breathing. There’s a squeeze around his cock. Your body milking the last drop of his release.
Neither of you speak.
Travis wants to thank you. Earnestly. But he thinks better of it to save him from looking any more pathetic—
“Thanks.” Your lips press to his cheek, and Travis blinks, wrenched from his thoughts.
Something sheepish brews in his chest, culminating in a short, awkward chuckle. He tries not to linger, gingerly untangling himself from your embrace. There’s a hitch in your breath when he pulls out, tucking himself away with shaking hands.
Your knees close together, and you make a vague gesture behind him. “Could you…”
“Oh. Yeah.” Travis grunts, stumbling to the kitchenette. Once he’s secured a handful of tissues, he passes them to you, finding himself suddenly a little scandalised when you hop down from the table to clean yourself up. “Sorry. For the mess.”
The tissues are discarded. You approach, reaching up to help him re-adjust his tie. Your expression teases him. A subtle, conspiratorial smile. Cheeks and neck a little flushed. Lips rouge from his kisses.
“You’re not speaking your mind again, Sheriff.”
Travis clears his throat, giving a curt nod. “I think I scratched you up a little. You’re red, around here.”
He ghosts a thumb by the corner of your mouth, and just as his gaze meets yours, you tug the fabric of his shirt, pulling him into a kiss.
When you pull back, his legs almost give out from the daze you’ve left him in.
“Better get a new razor.” You mention. “My customers might start asking questions if I make a habit of looking like this.”
“Habit?” Travis repeats. “You planning to do this again, ma’am?”
A grin spreads across your face. “What, were you gonna buy me dinner? Take me home?”
His face flushes. He averts his gaze with a grumble.
“Yeah, we’ll see.”