Bad Rules_Wild Minds Novel

by Charlotte West

  He snorted.

  My hands flexed and I winced. Guess I’d banged on the door pretty hard. My knuckles were raw and red. More tears filled my eyes. I wondered if Addy even cared that I might be injured beyond repair.

  “Christ.” Ash peered up at the ceiling, then leveled me with a gaze. “You fucking hurt yourself, didn’t you?” Of course it was my fault. I cradled my battered fist. Three steps and he was in front of me.

  I pulled the hand closer to my body. “It’s fine.”

  “Jesus. You’re so fucking stubborn. Just let me look at it. “

  I unfurled my fingers. “I can’t believe you’re pissed at me for being hurt,” I said while he gingerly examined the damage.

  “Wiggle your fingers.”

  I did.

  He breathed, then brushed a gentle thumb over my knuckles. Touch has a memory, and this one came with the ferocity of a winter storm. Asher’s hands on my body, holding my hips while he pressed into me. I blushed. Looked away.

  “Not broken,” he murmured. “I’m not pissed because you’re hurt. I’m pissed because I care that you’re hurt.”

  Well I didn’t know what to say to that. So I stayed quiet while he disappeared into the bathroom. He returned with a washcloth. Next up was the ice bucket. He fished out a couple cubes and wrapped them up in the cloth. He handed me the cold package. The lighting in the cabin was dim. Shadows hung under his eyes, purplish half-moons. I wondered if we were both hurting the same. I comforted myself that he deserved it.

  I maintained my post at the door.

  Ash rifled through the fridge. “No booze,” he murmured. I waited a moment. For him to go into some alcoholic rage at being denied. Nothing. He scowled, but that wasn’t unusual for Asher. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Asher didn’t have a problem. Maybe he just needed to drink in order to put up with me. Ouch. Nobody wants to feel that way. The room was well appointed. A king-sized bed dominated the space. Shelves on either side were lit up prettily. The walls were a soft grey matching the stitching on the duvet. “No books either,” I said. That was the real travesty. A room without books was like a head without a brain.

  This earned me a ghost of a smile.

  I stepped more fully into the room.

  “How’s your hand?” Ash asked, hands on his hips. This man had been inside me, and yet, we were virtual strangers now.

  I peeled away the ice pack, flexed my fingers. “I’ll live. Guess I’ll have to put my career as a prizefighter on hold though.”

  Another smile. I was two for two.

  “Riiight,” he said.

  “Me thinks you might need this more than me.” I offered him the ice pack, motioning at his split upper lip.

  He swiped at the blood with the back of his hand. “It’s fine. Not the worst those fuckers have ever done. When we were kids, we set up a whole wrestling ring in the backyard. Lix jumped from the roof, landed right on top of me.” He knocked his head. “Had to go to the ER, needed eighteen stitches.” That’s where he’d gotten that scar. I’d felt it once, running my fingers through his hair, the ridge traveling like a mountain range over his scalp. I didn’t ask because we were busy… doing other things.

  “When we were in Target the other day, he tried to convince some kid if he drank the liquid from a Magic 8-Ball, he’d be able to see the future. I think the kid was really contemplating it. His mom came along. You should’ve seen the look she shot Lix’s way…”

  “That fucker has always been crazy.” Ash rubbed the back of his neck. “You and him, that’s not a real thing, is it?”

  I plopped down on the bed, just kind of giving up on the fight and life and everything. “I’m not really into bassists,” I said. I wasn’t really into any men, except for cranky lead guitarists named Asher Price. “You should really apologize to him.”

  “I’d sooner swallow my own testicles,” said Ash.

  All righty then. I gazed at the locked door. “They’re not going to let us out of here.” My voice was positively morose.

  “Might as well make the best of it.” An outstretched hand ready for shaking filled my vision. “Truce?”

  Without delay, I grasped it. “Truce.” Warm fingers wrapped around mine. We lingered for a moment, holding hands, pretending there wasn’t still a spark.

  I pulled back. “I still hate you.”

  His smile was evil. “Trust me, the feeling is mutual, sweetheart.”

  Then

  I stood at the curb freezing my niblets off in the dress I’d not so wisely decided to wear. My teeth chattered. It was a cold night in Ibiza. It should’ve been my first indication that things were about to go epically awry.

  I’d changed clothes no less than six times. I’d started with pants and a linen top. Too conservative. Then I changed into shorts and a T-shirt. Too casual. Then I decided: fuck it, I’m doing me, and squeezed my ass into a teeny tiny pair of jean shorts and my favorite feminist tank, a picture of a woman burning her bra. But then I looked in the mirror. Everyday Lily wouldn’t do. I was meeting Ash’s parents for the first time. I splurged and bought a yellow eyelet sundress from the hotel lobby. I’d curled my hair. I even had on a fucking white headband.

  Ash had gone ahead with Warren and Addy. He’d wanted to wait for me, but I didn’t want him to watch my clothing meltdown. Some things were private.

  Now I stood across the street from the restaurant. Huge glass windows dominated the front of the building. Inside, the place reeked of island-modern chic: low lighting, white cushioned booths with navy striped pillows. I spied Asher and Warren, hard to miss with their gargantuan bodies. Addy sat between the two, happy and effervescent, the picture of a blushing bride. Their mother was petite. She did not look like she’d given birth to twins who would grow into six-foot-four behemoths. Their dad, however, did. Even with him sitting, I could tell he was tall, even taller than his sons. I pictured him as a marauder, all dark hair and serious brow. I’d been reading too many historical romance novels lately. There was an empty chair next to Ash.

  I flexed the tremor out of my fingers. At the hostess booth, I mentioned Ash’s last name and gestured to the table. The fivesome couldn’t see me; the restaurant was just crowded enough.

  The beautiful male host gave me a once-over. I mentally winced. Could he tell how uncomfortable I felt in this dress? The tiny eyelet stitching was making me itch. And despite my desire not to, I’d worn a bra.

  Ash, Warren, and Addy sat with their backs to the room. At my approach, the conversation ceased. Ash swung around. His eyes widened, but he quickly schooled his expression. Their dad stood. Yep, definitely a marauder. The man looked as if he ate screaming villagers for breakfast.

  Ash slid out of his chair and put an arm around my waist, pulling me close. “Mom, Dad, this is Lily.”

  Ash’s mom smiled, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the room, and perhaps the half-drunk glass of red wine in front of her. My answering smile was less sure. “Nice to meet you,” I said. My voice sounded a touch too high, a touch too breathy.

  Handshakes commenced. Ash’s mother held onto me a little longer, squeezing my fingers. “I’m so happy to meet you. Please, call me Patty. I was so worried. You should’ve seen the last girl Asher brought home. One of those groupie types, you know? I don’t think she was even wearing a bra.”

  “Mom—” Asher cut in.

  I clamped my lips shut. It was one of my triggers, of which there were many, when women criticized other women’s appearance for being too sexual. Damn, all slut shamers. A woman’s sex life and sexuality are matters of choice, and nobody else’s business. I swallowed back an acerbic response, something like “wow, if I wanted to hear from an asshole I would’ve farted.” Somehow, I didn’t think Ash’s mother would appreciate my colorful rebuke.

  “I’m just saying it’s lovely to see you with a nice girl,” Patty chirped. Nice girl. I didn’t believe in nice girls. Nice girls obeyed. Nice girls were rational, calm. Nice girls were even tempered. Nice girls stayed
in their pretty little cages.

  Addy cleared her throat. “Lily, I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.” She stood and hugged me. We’d seen each other not six hours ago. “She isn’t usually like this. I think she’s nervous. She’s had like half a bottle of wine already. My god, what did you put in your hair? It’s so stiff.”

  “I just put in some hairspray. Did I use too much?” I whispered back. Our hug was bordering on a ridiculous amount of time.

  “No, it’s not too much. You’re never too much,” Addy reassured. Sigh, so many reasons why I loved my bestie, but mostly because she accepted me in all my forms.

  I slid into my seat. Ash pressed his jeans-clad thigh against mine. His hand dropped to cover my bare knee. He poured me a glass of wine and at the same time, spoke in my ear. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re wearing. But the whole Stepford-wife vibe is making me hard.” It was just a meaningless comment, Asher’s rough and tumble way of delivering a compliment, but it made me uneasy. My own skin felt uncomfortable. A heavy lump of dread sat in my stomach. I began to sweat, like gorilla-sweat. I gulped some wine. I didn’t belong here. Not among the fine linens, or with the middle-of-America family.

  Asher laid a soft kiss behind my ear, right in my overly sprayed hair. “Okay, sweetheart?”

  “Yep.” I followed my weak smile with a lame thumbs up.

  Asher’s father, Dale, clapped his hands together, the sound reminiscent of thunder. I jolted. “I’m sure you two,” he motioned to Addy and me, “want to hear all the family secrets. Patty tell ’em about the time Asher stabbed Warren with a fork.”

  Patty’s smile warmed as she launched into an explanation. Childhood anecdotes about Asher and Warren got us through appetizers and dinner. Patty Price lived up to her phone reputation. She was a chatterbox. I sipped red wine. Asher ate off my plate. Warren and Addy made googly eyes at each other. Things were going well.

  Dale wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You remember the time Warren convinced Asher he had Dutch elm disease?”

  “The tree fungus?” I asked.

  A gleam entered Patty’s eye. “Yes! Not many people know what that is. Unless you’re an amateur horticulturist like me.”

  “Lily’s real smart,” Asher said. His hand on my thigh drifted up and under my skirt. I snapped closed my legs and grabbed his wandering fingers before they could reach anything important. “She’s got a four-point GPA. And she loves art history.”

  “I guess that accounts for the new tattoos.” Patty’s disapproval was clear in her voice. Whatever mom points I’d earned being “real smart” were instantly lost. This is why I never met parents. The words “not good enough” came to mind.

  My eyes dropped to Asher’s thickly veined forearms. We’d been in Portugal when Asher decided to get the ink done. On one arm, Van Gogh’s Starry Night was tatted. Swirls of blue, yellow, and white circled his bicep. The scene continued all the way down his arm, where the sleepy village wrapped around his wrist. His other arm depicted The Kiss. In the right light, the ink almost shimmered and appeared gold. When he’d gotten the tattoos, I thought it the most romantic thing any man had ever done for me. The ultimate act of love. But now it made me feel embarrassed, ashamed. I’d convinced Asher to desecrate his body, and I couldn’t even tell him I cared about him.

  I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t notice the awkward silence that had descended on the table. Asher was glaring daggers, serious I’d-stab-you-now-if-I-had-knife looks, at his mother. “What the fuck, Mom?”

  Warren cleared his throat.

  “Asher, I’m sure your mother didn’t mean anything by that,” Dale attempted to smooth things over. Too late.

  My rocker balled up his napkin and threw it on the table. His jaw shifted angrily. Asher moved to stand. I knew what was coming—an epic storm out. My hands shot out, wrapping both around Asher’s tightly closed fist. I pulled him down. He refused to sit. A little tug of war ensued.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered to Ash. “Sit down,” I pleaded. I didn’t want to be the cause of a fight.

  Ash crossed his arms and gave me a dour look. “It’s not okay.” His attention turned to his mother. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. But you’ve been taking cheap shots all night. First the comment about Sasha.” (Sasha, I assumed, was the “groupie” Asher had previously brought home.) “Who was getting her PhD in physics, by the way.” At my surprised look, dark eyes drew me in. “You shocked?” he addressed me with an even look. “I’ve got a thing for smart girls who don’t wear bras.”

  Patty made a choking sound.

  Ash wasn’t done. “And now, the shit about my tattoos when Warren is so inked you can’t even see his skin anymore.” A bit of an exaggeration, War did have more tattoos than Ash, but he wasn’t covered in them.

  “It’s because you’re her baby boy,” Warren piped in. “We may be twins but she always coddled you. He was small at birth,” he explained to the table. Well, mostly to Addy and me. “And sickly. Kind of bratty, too. Like that kid from the Secret Garden, the one in the wheelchair. Really, Lily, you could do much better.”

  Addy giggled. “Hush now,” she told Warren. “Adults are speaking.”

  Asher ignored his twin. “I don’t know what’s with you and the chicks I bring home—”

  “Women,” I corrected. “We’re women.”

  “Women,” Ash said. His attention swung back to his mother. “This shit stops now. Lily is part of my life. She’s going to continue to be part of my life. I might even marry her, if she’s lucky.” That had to be a joke. It sounded kind of like a joke. But it also sounded kind of serious.

  Marriage.

  To Asher.

  Ruh-roh.

  Things were moving way too fast, like a car without its brakes careening down a mountain fast. I hurried to pull on the emergency brake. But before I could clarify with Asher exactly what he meant by marriage (which truth be told, could only mean one thing), a hand slammed down on the table. Silverware clinked together. A water glass tipped over and soaked the tablecloth.

  “Enough,” Dale ordered. “Asher, sit down.”

  Asher waited a beat, then sat down, reluctance etched into every line of his beautiful, moody body. I almost questioned if Ash listened to his father and not me because he was a man. Damn the patriarchy. But the timing didn’t seem right. Silence followed. I squirmed in my seat. Also, the headband was pinching between my ears. My head began to throb. Maybe more wine would fix it. I poured myself a healthy glass.

  Dale exhaled hard. “Patty, it’s true what Warren said, you’ve always treated Asher a little different. I don’t know if it was because he was sick as a baby or what, but it’s time you stop coddling him. He’s a man now, and he can make his own decisions. Lily seems like a lovely girl.”

  “Woman,” I said under my breath. I also wanted to say, “Please don’t speak of me as if I wasn’t here.” But again I suppressed the urge. I bit my tongue, a move that was foreign to me. I never ignored my growing sense of disquiet. Did I even know myself anymore?

  Asher kept up his hellish frown. It looked like he was settling in for an epic pout. Stubborn bastard. His hands rolled into tight fists before releasing again.

  Tears filled Patty’s eyes. “Your father is right. I’m so sorry.” She turned to me. “I’m sorry, Lily. I’ve been a real douchebag.”

  Warren spit out a drink of water. “Christ, Mom.”

  Patty beamed. “If you boys are going to swear, I’m going to as well.”

  Asher wiped a hand over his face. “This is the worst family dinner ever.”

  “Will you forgive me, Lily? Can we start over?”

  I gave Patty a small smile. “Douchebaggery forgiven.” Patty’s slut shaming was a thing of the past. I kind of loved that she’d used the word ‘douchebag.’ One, because coming from a suburban fifty-something housewife slash amateur horticulturist, that was just awesome. And two, douches are unnecessary tools of patriarchy. Go, Patty.

&nbs
p; Dessert arrived. Thank goodness, this dinner party from hell was almost over. Ash relaxed. But my spine stayed straight; it was as if someone had shoved a piece of rebar up my ass. We dug into our sweet confections. Me with gusto, glad to have the distraction.

  “How’s your father?” Patty asked Addy.

  Addy’s smile wavered. A little worry line appeared in her brow. “The same.” At this, Warren tensed beside her. Billy Wanks was in the middle of Addy and Warren’s relationship, a huge fucking pink elephant in their honeymoon suite.

  More awkward silence.

  Would this dinner ever end?

  “How about your parents?” Dale asked. All eyes came to me. “Lily, tell us about your mom and dad.”

  I moved restlessly in my seat. I sat on my hands to keep them from fidgeting. “Oh, um… they’re anthropologists.”

  “How interesting.” Patty smiled broadly, encouraging me to elaborate.

  “Yeah, they travel all over the world.” I sucked in a breath.

  “That must have been fun growing up, seeing all the new places,” Dale said.

  “I actually didn’t stay with them. I was raised stateside.”

  Patty’s eyes crinkled in that way people’s do when they’re confused. “So who raised you?”

  “Nannies mostly.” The way Asher’s parents were looking at me, I might as well have said wolves. “It just wasn’t safe, you know? They travel to some pretty remote areas.”

  “Sure,” said Patty. “Of course, probably safer that way. Where are they now?”

  Who the fuck knows? “I think they’re in West Africa.” Last I heard, which was six months ago.

  “You two coming to the show tomorrow night?” Asher interjected. His hand found my knee again. I silently thanked him for the save. Patty’s eyes stayed on me a scant too long. I could see the questions burning deep within them. Who is this girl? What is she doing with my son? What kind of parents leave their child? You don’t belong here, my inner self whispered. You’re just a pretty pretender. My dress started to itch again. Surreptitiously, I checked my arms for signs of hives. Maybe the dress had been poisoned. That happened a couple times in medieval history. Whenever a woman dares to reach too high above her station, there is always somebody waiting to cut her down.