Wilder Read online

  “They broke in through a back window and then smashed all the glass at the bar and all the alcohol too. They’ve trashed the bar completely, slashed the fabric on a stack of seats, carved up the tables, and sprayed graffiti over every surface they could find. This actually looks more like vandalism than a break-in.”

  “Anything missing?”

  “Not that I can see. Maybe they got the shits because they couldn’t get into the safe, and that’s why they trashed everything. You gonna be here soon?”

  “Yeah. In about fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  She ends the call as abruptly as she always does. Scarlett might frustrate the hell out of me most of the time, but she’s not big on small talk, and that’s something I appreciate about her.

  I grab my keys and make the short ride from my place in New Farm to the Valley where Trilogy’s located. When I get there, I see that Scarlett wasn’t exaggerating when she said it’s a fucking mess. That was a given, though. Scarlett doesn’t exaggerate about anything except how good her memory is.

  She’s in the kitchen when I arrive, on her hands and knees with her ass in the air, said ass barely covered by skin-tight leather pants. The sight takes me by surprise. Not because she’s down on the floor like she is—I’ve seen that before—but because of what she’s wearing.

  “You forget your shirt today?”

  I’m staring at a whole lot of skin.

  Skin I don’t wanna be staring at.

  My eyes are everywhere.

  On the tiniest boob tube covering her breasts.

  On the tattoos I’ve never seen.

  On her long dark hair that’s falling all over the place in a way I like that I wish I didn’t.

  When she doesn’t answer me, because she’s always fucking got AirPods in listening to music, I press my boot against her Chucks.

  She tilts her head to look at me, her usual scowl in place, and pulls her AirPods out. “What?”

  “Where’s your shirt?”

  More scowling. “I spilled tea on it.”

  My brain struggles to focus. It could be that I’m trying to figure out why Scarlett has the word “London” tattooed down her side from her breast to her hip. It could be that Harlow’s words from last night have smashed back into my thoughts. Or it could be that I’m fighting like fuck not to glue my eyes to her tits.

  Scarlett and I were not made for each other. Harlow’s wrong about that. I know that as sure as I know anything. I might be attracted to Scarlett, but hell, any man would be. She’s beautiful. However, she’s also frustratingly argumentative and downright hostile at times. Definitely not the woman for me.

  I’m saved by Scott, who calls, dragging my attention back to what we’re dealing with this morning.

  “Got your text,” he says when I answer his call. “How bad is it?”

  “I just arrived. What I’m seeing so far isn’t good. Massive damage. There’s no way we’re opening today.”

  “Not even if I pull every member onto cleaning up?”

  Scarlett pushes up off the floor and stands, her hands on her hips, her eyes on mine, her body in my fucking face. It takes every ounce of strength I have to keep my eyes on hers.

  “Wilder,” Scott says, pulling me back to our conversation. “Can you make this happen? We can’t afford to lose tonight.”

  He’s right. The entire restaurant has been booked out by an event organiser who will bring us a lot of new business if she’s happy with how tonight goes.

  “I’ll make this happen. Send me everyone you can afford to put on it.”

  “I’m also sending Liam over. He’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

  Liam works with Zane Stone, who runs Stone Security, a security company the club sometimes calls on for help. I figured Scott would call on them to investigate this when he told me not to report it to the cops.

  “This is going to hurt the bank. You sure you don’t wanna involve the cops and the insurance company?”

  “No cops. We’ve got too much going on that they don’t need to get anywhere near.”

  “Yeah, agreed.” My gaze shifts to Scarlett again as she moves her hands from her hips to fold her arms in front of her. “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “I’m busy all day going over shit with King. Whatever you need to do to make this happen, do it.”

  “Will do.” I end the call and immediately pull up Gunnar’s number on my phone.

  Before I can call him, Scarlett says, “We’re cleaning this up today and opening tonight?”

  I’m fucking grateful for the lack of doubt I hear in her voice. It’s a simple question she’s asked, one not loaded with disbelief. That’s something I need right now because I really don’t know how the fuck I’m going to pull this off. Not only do we need to clean the vandalism up and replace a lot of shit, we’ve also still got a lot to organise for the event tonight.

  “Yeah.”

  She glances around the kitchen, slowly nodding. “Okay. You want me to call everyone in early?”

  “Scott’s sending as many members over as he can to help with the clean-up, but yes, let’s find some staff members who can also come in today and help. I don’t want to call in anyone who’s already rostered for tonight though.” It’s a good thing Storm owns four restaurants we can pull staff from.

  She frowns. “Why not?”

  “They’re already working a long shift.”

  “So? A few extra hours won’t kill them.”

  Scarlett’s a hard-ass when it comes to the staff. We often go to battle over her lack of understanding and empathy for their personal situations. I agree with her today; however, I still have to walk the line between keeping everyone happy and achieving my goals. Pissed off staff won’t help with that.

  “Just find other staff members to do this.” I glance at my phone as a text comes through.

  Taylor: Fuck you, Wilder. You didn’t have to do that.

  The fuck?

  Me: Do what?

  Taylor: Cancel our dinner reservation at Mohawk for tomorrow night. You know I’ve been trying to get into that place for months and now I’ll have to wait God knows how long to get another fucking reservation.

  Before I can send a reply, Scarlett says, “Seriously, it’d just be easier to ask people already rostered for today to work longer.”

  My head jerks up and I find her eyes. “Jesus, Scarlett, can you just do what I ask for once?”

  Her lips pinch together, and I wait for her to unleash her usual serving of dislike for whatever I’ve said. She surprises me when she says, “Fine, but wish me luck.” She then makes my morning when she exits the kitchen, leaving me to get my thoughts together without her body and her attitude all up in my face.

  I deal with Taylor before getting back to more important shit. She won’t leave me in peace if I leave her hanging.

  Me: I didn’t cancel it. Take it up with them.

  Hell, we made that reservation so long ago I didn’t even fucking remember we had it.

  Taylor: I don’t believe you.

  Me: Believe what you want. Now, can we go back to not talking to each other? I’ve got a lot of shit to get through this morning.

  Taylor: God, you can be an asshole.

  I don’t respond to that. Instead, I call Gunnar, who answers almost immediately.

  “What’s up, brother?”

  I detail what’s happened here today before saying, “You think Chelsea could help us on this today?” Gunnar’s old lady has previously helped me source some high-end stuff for Storm’s restaurants that I would never have found by myself. Having her help today would be in-fucking-valuable.

  “I’ll ask her. She’s got the day off work so there’s a good chance she can.”

  “Thanks, brother. Appreciate it.”

  I end the call and survey the kitchen while mentally making a list of what I need to do today. I’m distracted with those thoughts when Scarlett waltzes back in, bringing her special style o
f sass with her.

  “So, smart master of mine, here’s the list of staff who might be able to come in today.” She shoves a list containing two names on it at me.

  My frown isn’t just over the list; it’s also over the fact she’s now wearing one of the spare shirts of mine from my office. My brain can’t decide whether it likes the fact the shirt looks good on her or whether it’s disturbed by this unfolding of events. Also, it’s trying to ignore the smart master reference. All of this is quite fucking frankly too much information to process while I’m still trying to process everything else going on today.

  I shove the list back at her. “There’s only two people on this list.”

  She arches her brows. “See, I knew you were smart. You can count to two.”

  “Why?”

  “I imagine it’s because your mama taught you. Or maybe you paid attention in school.”

  My frown deepens. “Huh?” She’s making no fucking sense.

  “You asked why you could count. I—”

  “Fuck, Scarlett, today is not the day for this. I asked why there are only two names on the list.”

  “Oh, my bad. Well, that’s easy to answer. Because it’s Brody’s birthday this weekend and you gave everyone not working the okay to go away with him for the weekend. Remember that?” She cocks her head. “Remember the conversation you and I had about that where I told you that was a bad fucking idea?” She nods. “Yeah, me too. I remember that convo. It was one of my faves with you.”

  Fuck.

  Fucking hell.

  I’m a man who can admit when he’s wrong, but fuck, that takes on a whole new level when Scarlett’s involved.

  I eye her. “You finished?”

  “Maybe.” When I work my jaw, she adds, “Yes, all finished.”

  “You figure it out with the staff. Just make this happen, okay?”

  She makes my morning for the second damn time when she nods and says, “I’m on it.”

  I do my best not to track her body when she leaves the kitchen again but fail miserably. For some reason that I don’t have the brain capacity to figure out right now, my eyes are dedicated to Scarlett’s body in a way they haven’t been since I first met her. Back then, I found it hard to drag them from her, but once we started working together and I became closely acquainted with her moods and attitude, that stopped. Today, it’s like my eyes don’t even belong to me. They’ve got a life of their own and an agenda I’m not aware of.

  That shit needs to end, and it needs to end now.

  Scarlett is my employee and that’s all she’ll ever be to me.

  More than anything, though, she’s so far from the kind of woman I’m into it’s not funny.

  I might like my women to have some fire and grit, but Scarlett doesn’t just have fire; she is fire. The kind that burns and decimates. The kind no man needs to get close to. The kind I absolutely do not need in my life.

  3

  Scarlett

  Thank God I didn’t drink much last night. Dealing with this break-in while hungover would be hell. As would dealing with Wilder in that state. I’ve had to do that a few times in the past and it wasn’t fun. It’s like he can sense weakness and isn’t afraid to use it against me. One needs to always be at the top of their game when with that man.

  “How are you so alive?” Harlow grumbles when she joins me in the kitchen an hour after Wilder tasked me with figuring out our staffing problem. A problem I’ve almost sorted.

  “I didn’t inhale that green shit you did last night.” She looks like death and smells like every cell in her body is made from booze. “Where are your kids?”

  “Sharon has them today.”

  I like her mother-in-law. Not as much as I like her mother, but almost. They’re women who don’t waste time on bullshit.

  “So why aren’t you in bed sleeping off your hangover?”

  “Scott asked me to come and help you guys.”

  “He doesn’t know how hungover you are, does he?”

  She arches a brow. “You seriously think I can keep anything from my husband?”

  She’s got a point. He didn’t get to be a motorcycle club president by missing details all over the place. Scott Cole sees every damn thing.

  “Right”—I grab a glass and flick the tap on—“you need to guzzle some water before you’ll be of any use to us.”

  She takes the glass once I’ve filled it, her gaze dropping to the shirt I’m wearing. “Isn’t that Wilder’s shirt?” Her eyes meet mine again, flaring with interest I don’t want anything to do with. I know how Harlow’s mind works. I know it’s racing in the wrong direction.

  “I spilled tea on mine. I borrowed his. End of story. Now, drink that water fast. We’ve got a lot to do today.”

  “It’s been a hot minute since I worked with you. I forgot how bossy you are.”

  It has been a while. Harlow had her son, Keaton, seven months ago and now has two kids under nineteen months; she doesn’t come in anywhere near as often as she did when I first started working for the club around the time she had Aurora.

  “Hey, you two,” Chelsea says, coming into the kitchen, glammed to the max. Gunnar’s old lady wears shit for a casual catch-up that I’d wear to a fucking ball. Well, maybe a slight exaggeration, but still. I can never judge where she’s going or what she’s doing by what she’s wearing.

  “Is Wilder finished with that dude?” I ask. I need to speak to him but don’t want to interrupt their conversation if they’re still talking.

  “Liam?”

  “Yeah, the tall guy who left his sense of humour at home.”

  Chelsea smiles like she knows exactly where I’m coming from. “He’s pretty serious, isn’t he?”

  “Pretty? More like serious on steroids.”

  “They’re still talking.” Chelsea glances around the kitchen. “What have you got that I can eat? Gunnar dragged me out of the house before I got breakfast.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  She frowns. “Huh?”

  “You don’t eat before you spend all that time dressing and getting ready?” Who does that?

  “It doesn’t take long to get ready.”

  “I’m thinking your idea of not long and my idea of not long are vastly different. I’d be curled up dead of hunger on my bathroom floor if I got ready to that level before eating breakfast.”

  Chelsea laughs. “I love you, Scarlett. Please tell me you have something I can eat. Anything.”

  Yeah, no, she doesn’t love me. She barely knows me. If she did know me, she’d know I don’t have time for women who throw out “I love you” as casually as they throw out disposable coffee cups.

  I look at Harlow, who’s fading like it’s three in the afternoon rather than ten in the morning. “Make yourself useful and feed Chelsea. I have to round up a few more staff to come in.”

  Without waiting for a response, I exit the kitchen, glad to be alone again. It amazes me that I work where I work. With a team. Of people. Actual humans who I have to tolerate. But here I am, a year and a half in, still showing up each day.

  Before I worked for Storm, I stayed off-grid, working markets, selling T-shirts. I worked for myself. Answered to no one. And was broke as fuck. Especially since my brother’s drug habit ate up most of my cash when I had to pay off his debts. Harlow literally saved me from living on the streets by giving me a job here.

  She had to drag me kicking and screaming, though. I’m a stubborn bitch at the best of times, and I did not want a thing to do with the Storm MC. Bikers and me go way back, and not in a good way. I’ve discovered these ones aren’t too bad if you don’t get on their wrong side. Their old ladies are another thing, though. Way too fucking friendly and always trying to get me in on their shit. I mean, can’t a girl just be a girl without having to hang out with the squad? Why must we prove our girliness in that way? Jesus.

  “Scarlett!”

  I turn at the sound of Wilder’s booming voice. “What?”

&nb
sp; “You finished sorting the staff out?”

  “I would be if I hadn’t had to look after Harlow and Chelsea.”

  His look tells me he reads between my lines, but he moves on fast, snapping, “You’ve got ten more minutes and then I need you on other stuff.”

  Honestly, ten minutes is probably all I’ll need, but I don’t like his tone. It wasn’t my damn fault I had to waste time with Harlow and Chelsea. “I’ve got as long as it takes me. I can’t work miracles at ten in the morning with a team of staff who like to party late. Have you ever tried to get these guys to answer their phones this early in the morning?”

  “Fine. But don’t fuck around.”

  I glare at his back as he stalks towards his office.

  I never fuck around.

  I refrain from yelling that out, but only because he looks like his skull is about to explode with what I suspect is a headache.

  Playing nice isn’t something I try to do very often, but I’ll give him that today since he’s got a lot on his plate. Well, until he comes at me with snappy orders again and then we’ll see how I’m feeling.

  Liam, the guy who I doubt knows how to laugh, walks down the hall towards me. He’s a good-looking man. Built in a sculpted kind of way, with thick black hair and a beard, but he’s way too rigid for me. He works for a security firm, and I recall Harlow telling me all the guys at that firm are ex-military. Makes sense. The military men I’ve met were stiff. Inflexible. Tense. The closer he gets to me, the more I see just how hot he is. And when his eyes meet mine briefly, the intensity they blaze with catches me by surprise.

  The man has something going on behind all that seriousness. I’m distracted from wondering about that because as he exits the restaurant, Nash, Griff, and J enter.

  They throw out greetings before going in search of Wilder.

  I carry on trying to round some staff up to come in.

  It takes me fifteen minutes to finish that job, at which point I head into Wilder’s office. He’s on the phone and holds his finger up, indicating he needs a minute, so I go out into the bar area to help the clean-up.

  By the time Wilder finishes in his office and comes looking for me, half an hour has passed, and his stress levels appear to have increased if the way he’s stabbing his fingers through his hair is any indication. Not to mention the way he’s working his jaw. This is unusual behaviour for him. I mean, he snaps and snarls at me a lot, but he pretty much never appears strained like this.