Wilder Read online

  It’s only been three days since he last showed up bruised and battered, and I remember how bad he looked that day; I can only imagine how he is tonight, and I’m not imagining anything good.

  I move into action, locating the potato bake we have leftover in the fridge. “Here, take this all for J. It sounds like he needs it.”

  “Thanks, honey. I appreciate this. I’ll let you get back to cleaning up so you can go home.”

  Brody enters the kitchen as Madison leaves. “Everything’s done out front. How are you going in here?”

  “I’m finished, too.”

  “Thank fuck for that. It’s been a long day and I need sleep.”

  “You and me both.”

  “You’re off tomorrow, right?”

  I nod. “Yeah, but I’m on call since Wilder’s not around, so call me if anything comes up.”

  “Hopefully I won’t need to.”

  I hope he won’t either. I’m planning on one long nap tomorrow.

  I grab the leftover lasagne from the fridge on my way out and we lock up.

  And after driving home to collect some supplies, I do something I haven’t done in a long time.

  I go check on a friend.

  23

  Scarlett

  There’s no sign of life at Wilder’s house when I arrive. All his lights are out, and he doesn’t answer the door. I call him and he doesn’t answer. I assumed he’d be home, but I’m second-guessing that. After knocking again, I send him a text asking if he’s home. A couple of minutes pass with no response. I’m turning to leave when he calls.

  “Hey,” I answer. “Tell me you’re home. I brought lasagne with me.”

  “I’m here,” he says, and I realise why he hasn’t answered the door or my call. His words are slurred like he’s trying hard to even be awake, let alone engage in conversation. I’m guessing he’s taken some strong painkillers.

  “I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”

  “There’s a key,” he says, slower than I’ve ever heard him talk. “Under one of the pots…” He stops talking like he wasn’t quite finished giving me the information he wanted to share. Like maybe he’s fallen back asleep.

  I glance around at all the pots Wilder has on his porch. Twelve to be exact. I’ve been to his house twice and noticed them the first time. I like that he’s into plants like I am. Also, surprised. Wilder doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to have plants. He’s a biker who likes to drink beer, hit the gym, hang with his biker friends, and get into fights. Caring for plants is a whole other lifestyle choice I never imagined him choosing.

  The key is under the second pot I check. He’s clearly worried about security. I’m inside his house in less than a minute.

  I search for a light switch near the front door and locate the hallway light that helps me find my way to the kitchen.

  Wilder’s home is pure country with a lot of warmth. Wood flooring, exposed brick walls, various shades of brown, photos, and more plants fill his house in a way that makes me think either a previous girlfriend helped him decorate, or his mother taught him a lot about keeping a home. While I’m not usually into the country feel, I like his place. I like the warm feeling it gives me.

  After I dump my bag on the kitchen counter, I go straight to his fridge and find a spot for the lasagne. As I close the door, I’m momentarily distracted by the photos covering it. I don’t recall seeing them last night, but I was drunk and distracted by Wilder’s lips. I’ve never seen so many photos on a fridge. No wonder he likes that “Refrigerator Door” song. It’s all about memories on a refrigerator door. Something I didn’t grow up with, but something I’d bet good cash on that Wilder did.

  I spend a couple of minutes looking at his memories, spotting Paul in a lot of them. There’s an older couple who also appear in quite a few pictures; I’m guessing they’re his parents. The photos span decades and include so many people. His club, his friends, and also his girlfriends if the way he’s holding them is anything to go by. It’s just another thing about him that surprises me. I mean, I don’t know anyone who would keep photos of their exes on their fridge.

  I’m pulled from the photos by what sounds like a groan of pain coming from down the hall.

  Wilder.

  I head in the direction of the noise and find myself in his bedroom. Another very masculine room with more of the exposed bricks and brown accents he seems to like, along with a corner lamp that’s throwing muted light on a king-size bed that my eyes are immediately drawn to. Not because of anything but the man lying in the middle of it.

  Well, lying isn’t quite right. Wilder’s half sitting, propped up against pillows resting on the large brown leather headboard of his bed. A brown fur blanket covers his lower body. Nothing covers his top half. Nothing except the kind of damage that causes me to stop breathing for a moment.

  His torso and face look like a violent, angry painting done by an artist who really only likes to work with purple and black. His bruises are swollen and gruesome, and I think if I had them, I’d want to live only on painkillers until they were gone.

  “Holy fuck” falls from my lips softly before I can stop myself.

  Wilder stirs at the sound of my voice, turning his face towards me. He groans with what I assume is a great deal of pain and cracks his eyes open. That also appears to be painful, which isn’t a surprise. Not when one of his eyes is pretty much swollen over and looks like it may never open again.

  “No, don’t,” I say, moving to the bed. “Go back to sleep.”

  He doesn’t listen. He turns his head even more as he tracks my movement. I should have just stayed where I was.

  “Scarlett?”

  Jesus, even his voice sounds bruised. And don’t get me started on how breathing looks like a struggle for him.

  When he extends an arm like he’s reaching for me, I sit on the bed and take hold of his hand to stop him. “Don’t move. It’s hurting you.”

  “I’m okay,” he slurs. “Don’t worry ’bout me.”

  “Yeah, no.” I look down at his hand and note how swollen and bruised it is before running my gaze over the mottled skin of his arm. “You aren’t okay.”

  He stares at me like he’s trying hard to remain conscious. Like he really wants to talk to me but can’t get the words out.

  As gently as I can, I ease myself into position next to him with my back to the headboard, pull his hand onto my lap, and murmur, “Go back to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up. We can talk then.”

  He doesn’t fight sleep after that, and a minute later, the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest lets me know he’s asleep.

  My eyes remain on his chest. I’ve seen him shirtless once, just quickly as he got changed, and have waited only half-patiently to see these muscles again. This is not how I wanted that to happen. In fact, I never want to see Wilder like this again. Meaning, I hope to God he never returns from club stuff again with this much trauma to his body. Even as I think it, I know it’s unlikely. I know the shit bikers get themselves into. I should just be grateful his body isn’t riddled with bullets.

  I shift my attention to his face. It’s a hot mess. Actually, hot mess doesn’t even come close to covering it. I want to take his face off, wrap it in cotton wool, and not let it out of my sight until it’s all healed.

  Drawing a deep breath in and exhaling slowly, I direct my eyes to the ceiling. They need a break from the harm I’m looking at. The harm that’s stirring memories for me. Memories that would never make it to a refrigerator door.

  I sit quietly with Wilder for the longest time while my mind runs amok with those memories and a thousand other ones all connected to that time in my life. The middle-of-the-night silence is the worst time for this kind of trip down memory lane. There’s no escape from the demons at this time of night. It’s just me, them, and the dark. If I were at home, I’d switch all the lights on, make tea, and stick my AirPods in. Since I’m not at home, and since I don’t want to wake Wilder again, I st
ay right where I am, keep hold of his hand, and let those fucking demons run wild.

  At some point, I fall asleep. I know this because Wilder wakes me with “Scar. You’re having a nightmare. Wake up.”

  His voice cuts through the shadows, trying to pull me under. They’re doing a good job of that if my pounding heart is any indication. I wake with a jerk, disoriented, and unsettled. Blinking as I take in my surroundings, I find Wilder looking at me with concern.

  “Hey,” he says, his voice ragged. The soft glow coming from the lamp throws some light across his face, reminding me of why I’m here in this bed with him.

  “Fuck,” I say as everything comes back to me. “Did I wake you?”

  “No.” He pauses. “You have those often?”

  I do, but I don’t like talking about them. However, I find myself nodding and sharing, “Not as often as I used to.” I drop my gaze to his body. He’s not sitting in the same position he was earlier and isn’t under the blanket anymore. Now I can see the grey sweatpants he’s wearing. He’s also holding a glass of water and a bottle of pills. “Are those helping?”

  He shifts to rest his back against the pillows again, moving slowly like every action is killing him. “Yeah.”

  I watch as he places the glass between his legs so he can open the bottle. When that proves difficult for him, I reach over and take the bottle so I can help. Once I have it open, I hand it back.

  “Thanks,” he says, and I kinda want to tell him to stop speaking because every word he utters hits me in the chest with the pain I hear.

  He swallows the pills, and I take the glass and bottle from him so he doesn’t have to move more than he needs to. His eyes meet mine, full of gratitude as I do so.

  I place them on the bedside table, and we sit in silence for a couple of minutes. It’s the kind of easy silence that most people don’t seem capable of. I like that Wilder is, and I know it’s not just because talking is probably the last thing he wants to do. We might have argued our way through the last year and a half, but we’ve had moments of silence like this too. Neither of us ever rush to break the stillness.

  “Where’s your toilet?” I ask.

  “Back towards the kitchen, second door on the right.”

  I move off the bed and make my way to where he directed. After I’m finished there, I walk to the kitchen to retrieve my phone. When I come back to him, he’s watching me intently.

  “You’re watching me like you’re trying to figure something out,” I say as I sit next to him again.

  “How long have you been here? And how did you know?”

  I check the time on my phone. “I’ve been here for about four hours. Madison came into the restaurant looking for potato bake for J. She told me you were a little banged up.” I arch my brows. “Her idea of a little banged up is vastly different to mine.”

  He doesn’t smile, but I see a twinge of amusement in his eyes.

  “I mean, I brought lasagne for you because ‘banged up’ indicates a person might still be capable of eating. You’re in the kind of shambles that prevents eating.”

  More of that amusement in his eyes. “Shambles?”

  “I know, it doesn’t really cover the mess you’re in, but it’s the first word that came to mind. If I had time to think up better words, I might come up with something like shitshow. I know that’s one of your favourite words.”

  A smile cracks across his lips, but he immediately stops it, grimacing. “Fuck,” he mutters.

  “Have you got an icepack? You should ice while you’re awake.”

  “Yeah.”

  I leave him again and go in search of the icepack and a towel to wrap it in. He places it to his face when I bring it back.

  “Tell me this isn’t a regular occurrence,” I say after settling back on the bed.

  “It’s not.”

  “Good. Those muscles of yours look better without all that colour on them.”

  His eyes fill with earnestness. “As much as I fuckin’ like you worrying over me, you don’t need to. I look bad, but I’m okay.”

  I cock my head and hit him with my best “you’re not being serious” expression.

  “I copped a few punches,” he says. “It’s gonna hurt for a couple of days. I’m not dying here, Scar.”

  Scar.

  Goddamn, I like it when he calls me that.

  Also, I like what I hear in his voice.

  It’s some kind of emotion I refuse to even think about labelling, but I like it so much it causes me to give him some of it back.

  “I know you’re not dying, Wilder, but you’re hurt, and I worry when the people I care about are hurting. Just let me worry, okay?”

  He slides his hand across the bed, the few inches separating it from my hand, and his fingers cover mine. “Okay,” he says roughly, more of that emotion in his voice, rawer this time. It surrounds us, drawing us together. Not physically, but in every other way. I feel that as sure as I feel anything. And instead of running from it or avoiding it, I open myself to it.

  “Are you good with me staying? In case you need help?”

  “I’m good with you staying even if I don’t need help.”

  I smile as my butterflies remind me they exist. “Just FYI, I’m pretty sure you’re gonna hurt for more than a couple of days. I don’t know where you boys pull your bullshit from, but your sources are way off.”

  The amusement in his eyes hits me in all the right places. “I might need you to stay for more than one night, Cherry Bomb. You know, in case I need help.”

  That Cherry Bomb?

  He’s killing me here.

  The first time he called me that, I wasn’t sure of it. This time, I’m all about it. I know this because my butterflies are in a fucking tizz over it.

  “We’ll see,” I say. “My cats might need me more.”

  As I watch him fall asleep fifteen minutes later, it hits me how much I like being here with him. How much I like caring about him. It’s been a long time since I’ve cared about a guy in this way. And I realise that the red flags holding me back from him are nowhere in sight anymore.

  24

  Wilder

  “If I owned your phone, I’d change the number and never tell any of those people the new one,” Scarlett grumbles just after 6:00 a.m. when my phone refuses to shut the hell up.

  I chuckle and immediately regret it. I’ve forgotten how badly my body can ache after getting myself into a fight, but I’ve been reminded in a huge fucking way.

  My phone sounds with the fifth message that’s come through in the past couple of minutes and Scarlett says, “Are you gonna check that and maybe give your people a stern talking to about Monday being a day of rest?”

  I glance down at her and work hard to keep my hands to myself. While I’m sitting up in the bed, she’s lying curled into my body with one leg over mine, and one arm draped across my thighs with her head resting in my lap. My phone is on the bedside table on her side of the bed. For me to check it, I’m gonna have to ask her to grab it, which’ll mean she’ll move from where she is. Since I don’t want her to do that, I’m stalling on checking the texts.

  “I thought Monday was the first day of yoga for the week, not a day of rest,” I say.

  “And I thought my schedule wasn’t public knowledge.”

  “It’s kinda hard not to know your yoga schedule when all I hear on Mondays and Wednesdays are your thoughts on how you’re never coming back in another life as a contortionist.”

  “You’re lucky your body is suffering the kind of trauma it is; otherwise, I’d take to it myself.”

  “Careful what you threaten, Scar. I might just take you up on the offer.”

  Her leg glides up mine as she presses herself against me and slowly lifts her head to look at me. “There’s no need for me to be careful. I’m not the one who has been doing the cockblocking here.”

  Fuck, she’s sexy first thing in the morning. She’s sexy all the goddamn time, but there’s something about wak
ing up to her when she’s half asleep and grumbly that’s hitting me deep in the gut. Not to mention that untamed hair of hers that’s falling all over the place in ways I’d do anything to see more often, and that mouth I’d fucking kill to have right now.

  Unable to stop myself, I curl a hand around the back of her neck and pull her lips to mine. My kiss is unhurried; I want to take my time with her. Hell, I’d take hours with this kiss if I could. Scarlett’s in a hurry for more, and while I want to be inside her like I’ve never wanted with a woman, I don’t want to rush a fucking thing.

  I want to taste her.

  Touch her.

  Commit every line of her to memory.

  Slowly.

  I want to stretch the seconds with her into hours so I can get to know the Scarlett the world doesn’t know.

  I want to spend time showing her I’m a safe haven that can handle prickles.

  What I don’t want is to fuck shit up fast, and in every relationship I’ve had, sex has gotten in the way of time we should have taken to learn about each other.

  Scarlett slides onto my lap and deepens the kiss, her tongue seeking mine, her hands moving gently to my waist. She kisses me for another minute before pulling her mouth from mine and saying, “I’ve never been about morning kisses, but you’re changing my mind on that. Also,”—she looks down at my body—“I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

  When she attempts to move off me, I snake an arm around her waist and hold her where she is. “You’re not hurting me.”

  Her eyes meet mine again and her body remains tense like she’s trying not to put any pressure on me. “Stop being the tough guy, Wilder. I saw how much pain you were in last night, and I can still see all these bruises and swelling. There’s no way I’m not hurting you.”

  “My body hurts like a motherfucker, but there’s not one fuckin’ thing you could do that would make it worse.” I tighten my grip on her, press her body to mine, and bring my mouth to her throat. Trailing kisses over her skin up her neck to her lips, I rasp, “Having you right where you are takes my mind off the pain, so don’t you dare fuckin’ move.”