Hitched: A Stepbrother Honeymoon Romance (16 page)

After we’re done with the fortune telling, we agree to head back to the room. We haven’t even scratched the surface of the list of fun stuff Kayla handed us, but Travis needs to head down to the arena. His bike just arrived from LA, and the organizers want him to test it to make sure it’s still in good working order.

“You know, I should probably come with you this time. If I’m going to be putting this on my resume, I should probably at least show up, you know?”

Travis laughs. “Probably a good call. Do you want to be my stepsister or my wife?”

Something about the question makes my stomach flutter. “If they don’t ask, neither. I want them to think you
hired
me for my exceptional talents. But the organizers know who you are, so we definitely can’t be…you know…

“Like this?” Travis asks, walking up to me and pressing his body against mine, hand moving up my skirt to cup my ass.

“Exactly,” I say, my voice all breath, “This would be very, very dangerous.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Travis shrugs, “But after the last couple days, it’s going to be really fucking hard.”

I nod. “Okay. Go ahead and get dressed, and I’ll think of ways that I might have actually been helping you.”

***

There’s something terrifying about stepping off the Royal Shores grounds with Travis. Out here, there’s no anti-paparazzi measures, no Kayla following us around making sure we have everything we need. And there’s also no romantic, dream-like feeling in the air. Now that I’m outside Royal Shores, I’m starting to wonder if they pump something through the air conditioning to make the inside smell a little sweeter. Or maybe it’s just all in my head, but still. Out here, on a street corner on the outskirts of Honolulu, feels totally different. It’s like a glass of water to the face, a reminder that yes, the past week did actually happen.

“Everyone’s staring at us,” I whisper to Travis. I’m standing a nice, normal three feet away from him and not making eye contact so that nobody gets any ideas.

“You’re just being paranoid. No one cares about us out here.”

From across the street, two girls yell “We love you Travis!” in our direction and Travis waves at them. I give him a look.

“Alright, fine, so maybe people do care. But hey, it’s not like we’re wearing rings or anything.”

I look down at my hand, just to make sure I haven’t stepped out wearing my ring. Nope, it’s right on the kitchen counter where I left it. Still, it
feels
like I’m still wearing it. Like I’m broadcasting to the whole world exactly how badly I want the guy standing beside me. But if any of the pedestrians passing by do notice, they’re at least polite enough not to say anything about it.

After what feels like forever, Travis finally manages to hail a passing taxi, and we climb in the back.

“Are you two from Royal Shores?” The driver asks.

“You know it,” Travis says, and I kick him in the foot. According to Travis, it’s not a very long ride to the arena, but sitting next to him, it feels like forever. We haven’t even hit our first red light when he slips his hand around the inside of my thigh.

“Oh, God,” I whisper, trying not to react too visibly to Travis’ touch. “How are we ever going to be in the same room together after this?”

“We’ll figure something out.” Travis says, running a finger dangerously close to the heat between my legs.

“I’ve never been inside Royal Shores. How is it?” The driver seems oblivious to our dangerous little game.

“It’s like this whole other world…” I offer.

Travis shrugs. “They give you whatever you want,” He squeezes my thigh, “But it’s really fucking boring unless you have someone to share it with.”

That gets a huge laugh from the taxi driver. “So it’s like being rich,” he says.

Travis looks him in the eye through the rear view mirror. “Yeah,” he says, “It’s exactly like being fucking rich.”

We’re starting to get close to the arena, but a block or two before we get there, Travis tells the driver that we’ve reached our destination, and we get out of the car, leaving behind a generous tip for the driver as we walk the rest of the way.

“I didn’t want him seeing the arena and realizing who I am.”

“Now who’s being paranoid?” I stick my tongue out at Travis.

“You’re right, I should have gotten him tickets, courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Travis Carter. Front row seats.”

“Front row seats, huh? You really think attendance is going to be that low?”

Travis shrugs. “I’ll probably fill a couple seats, but last time I was here, it was basically all local guys in their family. If Paul didn’t have family connections, it’d probably happen in a garage.”

I shrug. “That’s fine with me. A nice, quiet event with no chance for anything—“

I stop in my tracks the second we round the corner and the arena comes into view. What the hell? Is there a basketball game going on or something? There’s a crowd of people around the arena that stretches around the block, not to mention TV cameras and news crews everywhere. I look up at Travis, who’s just as confused as I am.

“Are you sure this is the right arena?”

Travis eyes the crowd. “Yeah…maybe practicing right now isn’t such a good idea.”

With all those people around, that’s probably the understatement of the century. I take Travis’ arm and walk a couple steps backwards, leading him back towards the corner. But I’m too late.

“
There
you are!”

I look over towards the source of the shrill, annoying voice, and the bottom drops out of my stomach. It’s Monica.

She waves off the photographer she was talking to and comes over to us. “Everyone’s been waiting for you all day. What were you doing?”

Monica’s decked out from head to toe in ridiculous, form-fitting biker’s gear. It looks like it her outfit was made by a swimsuit designer who’s never seen extreme sports in their life. I don’t know whether to laugh or hope that she’s not actually planning to get on a bike dressed like that.

Travis shrugs. “I was just hanging out in the city.”

Monica rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “I don’t know how, it’s so boring out here.”

Travis points to the crowd. “What the fuck’s with all the people out here?”

“What do you mean? It’s the Coconut Classic, it’s bigger than the X-Games! People are excited.”

Travis looks at Monica like she just grew a second head. “People are excited. For the Coconut Classic.”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t they be?”

“Monica, have you ever heard of the Coconut Classic before?”

Monica twists her mouth. “Well, uh…no. The first time I heard about it is when I saw your video.”

I look at Travis. “You made a video?”

Monica laughs. “Yeah. Your viral video. This one.”

She pulls out her phone and shows it to Travis. A short video clip plays, showing Travis launching off a ramp into some kind of insane flip and landing it right in from of the camera. Then he turns, takes off his helmet, says “What, you thought I forgot how to fucking ride?” to the camera, and the video cuts to the Coconut Classic logo.

Travis shrugs. “Yeah, I was fucking practicing. What’s the big deal?”

“You mean you don’t know? That video got five million views, and then a bunch of other bikers started to sign on, and now it’s getting broadcast on national TV. You seriously didn’t hear about any of that? Where have you been all week?”

“Like I said, hanging out in town. What about you? You’re going to race in the women’s events, right?”

“Uh…well…no, I decided not to enter it because…uh……there was too much paperwork.”

Travis gestures down at her biker gear. “Then why the fuck are you dressed like that?”

Monica looks down at herself. “Oh, this? I just got out of a photo shoot.”

Suddenly, she looks at me, like she just noticed me for the first time. “So you brought Laney with you, huh? That’s… interesting.”

Monica tries to look indifferent, but I can see the hostility in her eyes. I, on the other hand, don’t look indifferent at all. But before I can say what’s on my mind, there’s a camera in my face and a boom mic over my head. Before we can react, a reporter appears from behind the camera crew and stands between Travis and Monica.

“Excited for the Coconut Classic?” Travis smiles for the camera.

“Excited? Nah, I’m not excited. I’m fucking ecstatic.” The reporter tries not to wince as Travis swears.

“Well, so are we. It’s not every day a major motocross tournament just happens overnight. By the way, we know who this is,” The reporter gestures to Monica, “But who’s this?”

The camera tilts to face me, and I practically jump out of my skin as Travis wraps an arm around my waist. “This is Laney. She’s my manager for this tournament.”

I smile and nod. I’m glad he went with manager and not personal assistant. Knowing Travis, I don’t think he could say that without it sounding dirty.

Off camera, a member of the crew whispers something to the reporter. “Interesting. I’m hearing she’s also your stepsister.”

Thanks a lot, crew guy. As Travis’ manager, I can assure you that this is the last interview you’ll be doing with him.

“Yeah, she’s been my stepsister for the past two years. That’s not why she got the job, though.”

Please don’t ask how I got the job…

Sensing the question coming, I furrow my brow and put on my best manager voice. “I’m afraid that’s all we can give you right now.”

Travis nods, catching on immediately. “Yeah, I’m going to be fucking late for equipment check if I don’t leave.”

The TV crew nods, turning their camera towards Monica as we walk away.

It’s a long, long walk to the arena. TV crews descend on us like piranhas, trying to get a couple of minutes with Travis and his new manager. They’re easy enough to get rid of: most of them buy that Travis is running late and needs to go check his bike, which I’m pretty sure is actually true. The hard part is the fans: they totally mob Travis, asking for autographs, selfies, big group pictures, you name it. Travis does what he can to make them happy, and then when we get up to the arena, he tells them we’re in a hurry and ducks inside.

The arena’s full too, but luckily, there’s a designated VIP hallway coming right off the lobby, so it isn’t too long before we’re safely out of sight of cameras and fans.

“This is a nightmare,” I whisper. As a former Travis Carter fangirl myself, I know what all those girls outside are thinking right now: who’s that girl with Travis? Is that his new girlfriend? Of course, the really obsessed ones already know that I’m his stepsister, but that only makes things worse: I’m not exactly alone in public with Travis very often.

“Max kept saying he had a surprise for me. Clearly, I should have checked the fucking internet.”

“How soon do you think we can get back to Royal Shores?”

Travis looks around. “We could leave right now if you want. I’m sure my bike is fine.”

It’s tempting, but I shake my head. “No, we have to act natural. We don’t want to run into that same TV crew five minutes later.”

“Alright, in that case, I’ll go find Max and test out the bike. But I’m pretty sure with all these cameras here, they’re going to want me to do a couple practice laps.”

I sigh. “You’re probably right. But after that, we’re sneaking out the back entrance and heading straight back to the hotel.”

Travis’s hands grab my sides as he pushes me into his body. “You’re damn straight we are. I haven’t been able to touch you for half a fucking hour and my cock is about to explode.”

I shiver with arousal at Travis’ words. “You’d better hurry up, then. I’d prefer your cock in one piece, thank you very much.”

Reluctantly, I squirm out of Travis’s grasp, walking with him down the VIP hallway until we spot a men’s locker room and he ducks inside.

I take a deep breath, do whatever I can to hide my arousal, and look around for somewhere to wait. Where would Travis’ manager be?

***

In the front row, of course, watching Travis practice. To my disdain, there are actually a lot of people here, not to mention cameras filming the action. And I suppose it only makes sense: Travis isn’t the only big name out there practicing. Lucky for me, though, there’s a big empty patch in the front row, so I sit smack dab in the middle and watch the bikers ride around the track.

It blows my mind that a tiny little bike shop can rent out this place, even if the owner does have the right connections. It’s absolutely massive. Practically the size of a football stadium, with a hundred yards of ramps, gaps, and tunnels for the bikers surrounded by a long, thick racetrack. As the practice goes on and the fans in the crowd chant the names of their favorite bikers, I do my best to look professional. I even brought a little notepad to take notes in. After Travis does a few laps around the track, I pull it out and start to take notes.

“So you’re his manager, huh?”