Wilder Page 33

  “I am. And I quit my job. Right now. I’m not coming back, so you need to find someone to replace me.”

  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Scarlett, slow your shit down.”

  “Don’t tell me to slow my shit down. You speed yours up and understand this is happening. We’re over.”

  “We are not fuckin’ over!”

  “We fucking are!”

  Wilder paces my tiny lounge room before stopping and saying, “Talk to me, Scar. Don’t just run because it got too hard.”

  “It didn’t get too hard.”

  “Well what the fuck happened?”

  “I told you. We want different things.”

  “We don’t. I want you and you want me. It’s as simple as that. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be.”

  I wish it was as simple as that.

  God, how I fucking wish that.

  But it’s not and never will be.

  “Paul was wrong about us,” I say, hating that he was as I realise how much I wanted him to be right.

  Wilder frowns. “How?”

  “We’ll burn the house down if we stay together,” I say softly.

  He wraps his hand around my wrist, his eyes pleading with me. “You walking away is my house burning down, Cherry Bomb.”

  My little black heart that had almost turned red shatters into a million pieces as I look at the man I will always love because he’s the very best man I know. “It turns out you didn’t know how to handle this firecracker after all.”

  44

  Wilder

  Paul: Have you heard from Scarlett this morning?

  I stare at his text and shove my phone in my pocket without answering it.

  I can’t fucking bring myself to answer it because the fucking answer is one I don’t want anything to do with.

  I haven’t heard from her. Not since she grabbed her suitcase last night, walked out of her own fucking flat, got in her car, and drove the fuck away, leaving me wondering how my life had changed in the blink of an eye without me fucking seeing it coming.

  “Zane’s been doing some digging,” Scott says, bringing my attention back to church. “The McConaughey brothers were working for someone. Someone that Ted Channing was providing intel to. He doesn’t know who yet, but he’s going through deleted files of Channing’s that he’s recovered.” He looks around the room. “We need to stay alert, because my suspicion is that whoever fuckin’ hired them isn’t done with us yet.”

  That makes more fucking sense to me than anything so far with this whole fucking mess. Whoever ambushed our runs didn’t get what they were after; it makes sense they’ll come at us again.

  Scott goes over our week ahead, detailing what work we’ve got on. Once he’s finished, he eyes me. “You got ten minutes to spare?”

  “Yeah.”

  He ends church and I follow him into his office.

  “I got a call from Brody while you were away.” He pulls something from his desk drawer. “Someone left this at Trilogy on Saturday night.”

  He passes a business card over. It’s white and blank except for an S printed on one side and a smear of blood on the other.

  Something is triggered in my brain, but I can’t figure out what. It’s the S doing it, but fuck, as much as I search for why that means something to me, I can’t latch onto it.

  I look at him. “You went over the security footage to see who?”

  He nods. “Yeah. It didn’t shed much light because the guy wore a hoodie and hid his face. You take a look, though, and see if anything stands out to you.”

  “I need to think about this.” I tap the card. “That S is something.”

  “Let me know if you come up with anything. I’m hoping Zane’s gonna fuckin’ have something soon too. I’ve got an uneasy fuckin’ feeling about this.”

  “Me too, brother.”

  I leave his office and head out to my bike, trying to call Scarlett on the way. It’s my second attempt today, and my fourth since last night. She ignores the call the same way she’s ignored the other three. I don’t add another text to the two I’ve already sent. If there’s anything I know about my woman it’s that excessive fucking texts piss her off. And while I’m pissed that she left like she did, I’m not ready to piss her off. I’m fairly fucking sure convincing her to come home is gonna require me doing everything in my power to not do that.

  It’s a long fucking day. I spend most of it working through staffing issues and inventory problems that would normally have been jobs Scarlett took care of. By the time 3:00 p.m. rolls around, a headache has me reaching for my second lot of Advil while the knots in my shoulders have me reaching for the tennis ball I keep in my office for that shit.

  I still can’t figure out what the S means on that card. I also didn’t come up with anything for Scott after I took a look at the security footage of the guy leaving the card. And none of the staff who were there when he came by remember a thing about him. It was a busy night, and the fact he dropped by during the busiest half hour leads me to believe this was heavily planned and perfectly executed, which makes me think Scott and I aren’t wrong to have an uneasy feeling here.

  Fuck, what does that S fucking mean?

  A text comes through, and I reach for my phone like the desperate fucking man I am, hoping like hell it’s from Scarlett.

  Scott: Still nothing from Zane but giving you a heads-up that Griff will be over in an hour to install more cameras in the restaurant.

  Fuck.

  I drop the phone on my desk and exhale the air trapped inside me.

  It’s gonna be a long fucking wait while Scarlett figures her shit out.

  Griff arrives just after four, and I help him with the cameras. It’s a good distraction, but only for an hour.

  At 5:30 p.m., I call Harlow who answers immediately.

  “Wilder,” she says softly. “How are you?”

  I scrub a hand over my face. “I’d be a lot fuckin’ better if Scarlett hadn’t left and if she’d answer my calls. You heard from her?”

  She sounds pained when she says, “Yes.”

  Fuck, while I’m glad she has, I’m pissed at the same time.

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s on her way to Sydney.”

  “To see Bailey?”

  “I’m guessing so.”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “I haven’t spoken with her. She just answered one of my texts to tell me she’s okay and going to Sydney. She hasn’t replied since, so that’s all I know.” She pauses. “I’m sorry.”

  Fuck, none of us know where in the fuck her sister lives or any-fucking-thing that would be fucking useful.

  “Thanks, Harlow.”

  “I’ll let you know if I get any more updates.”

  I stab at the phone to end the call and run through everything I know about Scarlett, trying to find one fucking piece of information that could help me find her. I come up with nothing. When I’m still sitting in my office staring into fucking space at six, with not a fucking clue what to do next, I force myself out of my chair and go home.

  When I get there, I grab a beer from the fridge and take up residence on my couch. I then scroll back through my texts with Scarlett, still fucking searching for clues. Things she might have randomly mentioned that could tell me something.

  There’s fucking nothing.

  Not one fucking thing.

  “So,” my brother says when he enters my place just after seven thirty, carrying pizza and beer, “I don’t know what’s happened tonight, because you don’t answer my texts anymore, but Scarlett texted me and told me to get my ass over here tonight.” He holds up the pizza and beer. “So here I am, and now do you care to shed some light for me?”

  I frown. “Nothing happened tonight. I still haven’t heard from her.”

  “Well something must have happened.” He dumps everything on my kitchen counter and reaches for his phone. Shoving it at me, he says, “Read her text.”

  I read
it.

  Scarlett: I need you to do me a favour and go hang out with your brother tonight. I’m sorry I’m not answering your calls or messages. I can’t. But I will when I can. Please go be with Wilder. He needs you tonight.

  Fuck.

  Oxygen finally fucking makes its way into my lungs as easily as it fucking should.

  This is Scarlett loving like no other, the way Harlow told me she would way back when she told me Scarlett and I were a wildfire in the making.

  This is Scarlett sitting with me in the dark.

  This is Scarlett slowly figuring out how to be good with blood.

  I hand him back his phone and smile as I jerk my chin at him. “That Meatlover pizza in there?”

  It’s his turn to frown. “Ah, what just happened? Why are you all smiles and pizza when your woman isn’t here and is ignoring the fuck out of you?”

  My smile remains strong. “She’s mine, little brother. She’s coming back. She just needs me to be patient and if there’s one fuckin’ thing I am, it’s that.”

  45

  Scarlett

  Harlow: Have you seen your brother and sister?

  Me: Not yet.

  Harlow: Do you need me to come to Sydney? I will if you do.

  Me: No. I need this alone time. I need to figure out the shit in my head.

  Harlow: Okay, but just know if you change your mind, I’m there. I love you.

  I slip my phone into my jean pocket and continue on my way to London’s grave. The icy wind whips through my hair, and I make a mental note to buy a damn beanie before making a mental note to stop making mental notes about things I don’t actually need.

  I’m not staying in Sydney so there’s no fucking need for a beanie.

  Jesus, four days without Wilder, and I’m a hot fucking mess. Like, if I was to rate my mess on a scale similar to his girl-rating scale, I’d be at the Miranda John level.

  I reach my daughter’s grave.

  I haven’t been here in two years.

  Not since the day we buried Mum.

  It’s two years too long.

  I should have visited London more often.

  Fuck.

  I kneel and take a deep breath.

  Will all this anger and pain and confusion and condemnation ever fucking end?

  In the four days I’ve been alone, none of it has stopped. The emotions have been relentless. I’ve felt things I haven’t allowed myself to ever feel. I haven’t decided whether that’s a good thing or not, because it doesn’t fucking feel good. Not any of it.

  And yet, I woke up today and I swear I breathed a little bit easier.

  I don’t know what kind of voodoo shit that is, but I’m pretty sure it must be my brain fucking with me like it loves to do.

  What I really need voodoo magic for is the ability to go see my sister. Mostly because I want to see Bailey and to do that, I’m going to have to see Phoebe.

  I tried yesterday.

  I ended up sitting down her street for three hours before driving away.

  My to-do list today has visiting them at the top of it.

  I think to-do lists are over-fucking-rated quite frankly.

  I trace my finger over London’s name on her gravestone. It’s a tiny gravestone because I couldn’t afford anything bigger. Hell, I couldn’t even afford this one. Marty’s father paid for it, which still, to this day, shocks the shit out of me. It was always his mother that gave us support while I was pregnant and when London was born. His dad never stopped telling us we were idiots for not aborting her. Then, when London died, Marty’s mum turned on me, and turned Marty against me. She couldn’t get me out of her house and out of her son’s life fast enough.

  The one person who loved me stopped loving me.

  I learned I was better off not knowing what love was, because knowing what it felt like to be loved by someone and then losing that love hurt far more than never having it in the first place.

  Somehow, in the muddle that is the Miller boys, I forgot this.

  And then, somehow, in the muddle that is the Miller boys, I learned I was wrong all along.

  “Damn you, Wilder,” I whisper while continuing to trace London’s gravestone and doing my best to ignore the pain slicing through my heart.

  That pain isn’t caused by London.

  That pain is all Wilder.

  And that’s the biggest mindfuck of all.

  I knew walking away would slay me. What I didn’t know was that it would slay me the way it is.

  Instead of thinking about myself and my hurt, I can’t stop thinking about Wilder’s hurt.

  The hurt I caused by giving up on us.

  I thought I was doing the right thing by him, but four days of being alone with just your thoughts helps a person see shit from a different perspective.

  It helps a person see the stories they’re telling themselves that just might not be true.

  I gave up at the first sign of trouble.

  I didn’t even give Wilder the chance to show me his cards. I just assumed to know what they were. He couldn’t even decide whether to hold ’em or fold ’em because I snatched them right out of his hand and folded for him.

  Maybe he wants kids; maybe he’d be okay without them.

  Hell, maybe I might want them but just haven’t worked that out yet.

  Stranger fucking things have happened. I mean, I learned that Wilder World’s the best damn place on earth when for the entire time I’d known him before that discovery I would never have believed time spent in that world could be so good.

  Now, I know two things for sure.

  One: I really do need a therapist on speed dial. Like, for real. I need a lot of fucking therapy.

  And two: knowing what it feels like to be loved by someone, even for a moment in time, is far better than not knowing that love at all.

  London taught me that; I just forgot along the way. Wilder reminded me.

  I pull out my phone and text my sister.

  Me: Are you going to be home in an hour?

  Phoebe: Yes.

  Me: Is Bailey there too?

  Phoebe: We’re both here. Please come over.

  Me: I’ll see you then.

  46

  Scarlett

  Phoebe’s home is immaculately clean and filled with the kind of useless knick-knacks I never imagined seeing in her house. Ceramic flower statues, cheesy photo frames, and teacups fill her shelves. When I peer closer at the photo frames, I see photos of us as kids. Me, Bailey, and her.

  “I didn’t know there were photos of us as kids,” I say, looking at her with surprise.

  She nods. “I have spares you can have if you want.”

  Jesus, she thinks I want to remember that time in my life?

  “I’m good,” I say as I assess her.

  I arrived five minutes ago and instantly realised there’s something very different about her. She said she’s clean and I suspect she might actually be telling the truth. Our difficult lie-filled history, though, makes it hard for me to even believe my own thoughts on that, so I’m withholding judgement.

  She’s cut her hair into a bob and dyed it blonde. That, in itself, is something to get used to. Phoebe’s natural colour is dark brown like mine. I kinda like the blonde on her. She’s also put on a little weight, which she needed. She looks healthy. Her eyes look bright. Even her smile seems legit.

  It’s all very discombobulating. And so is that word and how the fuck it got in my brain. I blame Wilder. I mean, the man is to blame for everything really.

  “Do you want tea? Or do you prefer coffee these days? Or maybe something else? I have juice.” Holy hell, she’s nervous as fuck. Also discombobulating. Phoebe never used to give a shit about me or what I wanted or what I thought, and here she is tripping over herself to make me happy or some shit.

  I throw a glance around the house. “Where’s Bailey?”

  “He’s asleep. I can wake him, but I would prefer us to talk first.”

  “To be hones
t, I came here to see him. Not you.”

  She nods. “I know, Scarlett, but I’m just asking for ten minutes. That’s all.” Her voice cracks when she adds, “Please.”

  Fuck.

  “Okay. Ten minutes.”

  The relief on her face is unlike any I’ve ever seen on anyone’s face in my entire life.

  She leads me to sit at her kitchen table, and after ensuring I really don’t want a drink, she says, “I know you don’t believe me, but I am clean these days. Of drugs and alcohol. I want you to also know that I don’t expect you to believe me. Not when I’ve lied to you repeatedly in the past. I can’t possibly expect you to take anything I say as the truth. Not until I prove myself to you.” She pauses, the look in her eyes telling me that it’s the next part of this conversation that is the part she’s really invested in. “I want to ask you to please give me a chance to prove myself to you. I want us to try to be the family we never had the chance to be.”

  This is a lot.

  A lot a lot.

  And I should have been prepared for it, but somehow, I wasn’t.

  Or maybe it’s that I wasn’t prepared for my reaction.

  Because instead of wanting to tell her to fuck off, I think I want to take a moment to consider that response more closely.

  Shit, fuck, and damn, this isn’t how this visit was supposed to go.

  I was supposed to come here, see Bailey, make sure he’s doing okay, and then I was supposed to leave without having all these new thoughts about my sister.

  When I don’t say anything, Phoebe says, “Do you remember that first time one of Mum’s bikers touched you?”

  My body tenses and my chest tightens, and suddenly I worry I can’t get breath in fast enough. “Why are you asking me that shit?” I demand, pushing up out of my chair. I should never have fucking agreed to these ten minutes.

  She jerks up out of her chair and reaches for my hand. “Wait, please listen. This is important.”

  I swallow hard. “It’s fucking not. I didn’t come here to rehash our happy fucking childhood with you.”