Sativa.

10. Kush

Even if Travis isn't looking for trouble, trouble usually finds him anyway. Like he's a magnet for it.

Down-town locates a new pizza parlor called The Inne. Knowing he would appreciate a sports bar with the pizza buffet, for weeks, Blaine begs Travis to take her out.

She wears a dress, pastel pink skirts sweeping to her knees. Despite his wearing jeans and a T-Shirt with a graphic design of Marilyn Monroe, Travis molds into any setting effortlessly. Wherever he goes he exudes an arresting presence.

Black and white tiles gleam with a fresh shine. An instrumental track heavy on violin and accordion bleeds into the atmosphere. And a bubbling fish pond, set center in the room, splits the bar from the tables.

"Table for two?" A perky Italian greeter asks, distracting Blaine from the setting.

Glancing at the crowded seating area she replies, "We'll sit at the bar. Thank you."

Blaine leads the way, lacing her fingers through his. "Check these digs out!" She points to the fish wiggling around in the pond but Travis is impassive. Practically unreachable.

For the past week she's noticed he's had a lot on his mind. Although he acts more tired than anything else Blaine senses he's withdrawn for a reason. Until now he hasn't been so dodgy about cluing her in on what troubles him.

They pause at a pair of empty stools and she takes the opportunity to face him directly. Perhaps it's not the best time to question him, among the crowd with a hockey game blaring in the background, but it's supposed to be their night. Better to get it out of the way now instead of stewing over a couple shots of tequila.

"Hey. You okay?"

"Now that you're here, pretty lady." A drunken man looms between them. His breath is stale with beer and garlic. Froth foams white in the dark hairs of his thick mustache.

Blaine scoots further down the bar away from him. Unfortunately, Travis overhead. "You have no right to speak to my woman like that," he says levelly. A warning as lethal as a snake coiling.

The foul smelling man ignores him. His flirting is persistent and grimy. "What's you're name, lady?"

Blaine grimaces at his twisted smile. The beer bubbles in his facial hair twitch with his mouth. He puts his hand on her thigh slyly.

"What the hell? Back off!" She bats his arm away and would have hit him again if Travis didn't side-step in front of her.

"You done fucked up." His eyes are as flinty as crystal. When the drunk stands from his stool tension crackles between them like a live-wire. The terrifying wildness on Travis's expression is as menacing as a snarling attack dog.

"Travis..." The intensity of his gaze takes Blaine's breath away and all she manages to say is his name.

"Go ahead and swing mother-fucker!" Travis yells.

The man leans against the bar, too inebriated to stand up straight, but still attacks. A damned fool. He lunges at Travis like a three-legged wildabeast. Sober and faster Travis ducks, punches, then lifts the man like a sack of potatoes.

Glasses and beer bottles tumble off the bar shattering on the floor. Travis doesn't stop; he keeps hitting until the man's face pulps bloody under his fist. It's the most nightmarish assault Blaine has witnessed. Panicked people flit away from the bar, scattering like ping-pong balls.

The sweet European lady at the entrance deescalates the situation by escorting them both out. Of course, she didn't see the part where the mustached pig had his hand up Blaine's skirt first.