Wilder

by Nina Levine

  We can’t come back from this if we keep going the way we’re going.

  “Scar,” he says, cupping my face and rubbing that thumb of his over my lip. “Stop thinking and just feel.”

  And there’s that Scar again.

  It’s enough to completely bewilder me.

  So much so that when Wilder’s lips brush over mine, I don’t stop him.

  I completely meld my body to his and wind my hands around his neck.

  Wilder’s tongue searches for mine and I don’t hesitate for even a second giving him what he wants. My tongue is as much a hussy as I am when it comes to this man. Not that I knew this about myself before tonight. But that fact can’t be disputed.

  My tongue wants him.

  My hands want him.

  My body wants him.

  He needs to just take me already.

  His phone vibrates with another call that he ignores again.

  My tongue is on board with that decision and shows him just how much she likes it.

  He groans like I’m killing him and grinds his dick against me.

  Holy fuck me all night long and then some.

  Wilder kisses me deeper.

  Slower.

  And with more skill than any man has ever kissed me.

  His lips are lips I would die for.

  Or kill for, depending on what’s required.

  When his phone rings a third time, and he tears his mouth from mine, I decide I will kill whoever is calling him.

  “Fuck,” he growls, looking as frustrated as I am as he swipes his phone off the counter and checks it. Then, eyeing me, he says, “It’s the club. I’m gonna have to take it.”

  I nod, knowing he never ignores the club.

  Before he can call them back, a text comes through that he reads.

  The regret he looks at me with tells me everything I need to know. “I have to go.”

  I nod again and step away from him, turning the music off.

  He reaches for me, his hand landing on my hip. “I don’t want to go.” His eyes search mine. “I don’t want this to finish here.”

  His phone sounds with another text and then another, distracting him until he eyes me again and says, “Fuck, I have to go. I’ll call you.”

  He grabs his keys and is gone before I can catch my breath.

  The front door slams shut as he exits, leaving me with a whole lot of need that I didn’t have before tonight and a whole lot of confusion over what to do about it.

  14

  Wilder

  The clubhouse is a madhouse of noise and wild energy when I arrive after cutting shit short with Scarlett. I left with a hard-on like no other and no chance of her taking care of it. Not to mention the realisation I want more hard-ons caused by her.

  “How’s Nash?” I ask when I meet Scott halfway down the hall. His fury is palpable. I haven’t seen this level of anger in his eyes for a long while.

  “Still fuckin’ breathing. If that changes, we aren’t just killing the motherfucker who ordered this hit, I’m fuckin’ torturing him for the rest of his life until he begs me to kill him.”

  “What time are we heading out?”

  “Half an hour. Riggs and Gunnar are in the van. The rest of us will ride.”

  He stalks away from me towards Gunnar, a barrage of orders flying from his mouth.

  Five of our guys were ambushed tonight while on a protection run for King to Mackay. Nash was shot just south of Maryborough. Scott’s assembled a group of us to head up there to pay a visit to the Silver Hell clubhouse after he received word they were behind this. This is information he texted me after I left Scarlett. It means I’m not going to be around for the weekend, so I’m gonna need her help with the restaurants.

  Pulling up her number, I call her.

  She answers almost immediately. “You forget something?”

  “I have to go away. I may be back for Sunday but not sure at this point. You good to handle everything at work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I won’t be able to take calls, so text me if anything crops up and I’ll get back to you ASAP.”

  “I’ve got this, Wilder.”

  She does. I know this for a fact because she’s come through for me a couple of times when club stuff has come up.

  “Yeah, you do.”

  Scarlett ends the call with her usual preference of no further small talk, and I get back to focussing on the club.

  “Need your help loading up the van, brother,” Riggs, our newest club member, says, striding past me in a hurry.

  I spend the next fifteen minutes helping him and Gunnar load the van with weapons and other shit we’ll need.

  “J just checked in,” Scott says as we’re finishing up and preparing to leave. “Doc just finished with Nash and it looks like he’ll be okay.”

  Thank fuck for that.

  And thank fuck for King organising a chopper to get the club doctor to Nash. But that was always part of the deal Scott struck with him when he agreed for us to run this protection for his coke up the eastern side of Australia. No fucking way was Scott leaving us exposed without plans in place for when shit goes south.

  Scott eyes me. “You’re front door. I’ll take back. Be ready for any-fucking-thing.”

  I nod my agreement, and ten minutes later, we’re on our way.

  We ride without issue for just over three hours before reaching our destination. Storm doesn’t have a Maryborough chapter, but we have a place there we use when needed. It’s a small farmhouse set far enough back from any prying eyes that suits our purposes.

  J meets us at the side of the house as we pull in. “We heading straight out?”

  “Yeah. Havoc made it in time?” Scott says.

  J nods. “They left here about two and a half hours ago.”

  Scott called on Havoc, a nomad, to join the run with Colt and Griff. He also sent four other members from Brisbane on the chopper with the doctor.

  Once J’s on his bike, we pull back out and make the twenty-minute ride to the Silver Hell clubhouse, cutting our engines far enough from it to avoid detection.

  It’s just before 6:00 a.m. First light and the birds are awake. These Silver Hell motherfuckers are about to be too. They lost two of their members in the ambush last night; they’re about to lose more.

  We enter their clubhouse with ease. These boys don’t appear to take security too seriously. Scott’s got his gun to the president’s head before the dickhead even stirs.

  He jerks his chin at me when he’s ready for the fun to start, and I point my gun at the ceiling and pull the trigger, waking everyone the fuck up.

  The president’s eyes snap open, and he attempts to sit up on the couch he’s sprawled on. Scott grips his throat and keeps him down while pressing his gun hard against his temple. “You guys always throw a party after you lose members?” he demands, his voice as flinty as his eyes.

  At least twelve of their members are present, having passed out where they drank last night. Empty bottles lay strewn all over the place, and the stench of stale booze and sweat lingers in the air.

  We’ve got ten of our men here stationed around the room, keeping everyone cornered while Scott deals with their president.

  Flame is his name, and from what I’ve heard, he used to be a savage. Not so much anymore, thanks to all the alcohol he consumes. From the looks of him, that story rings true.

  He scowls at Scott and struggles under his hold, but his fight is piss-poor. “The fuck you think you’re doing?” Even his voice has no fight in it.

  Scott’s eyes blaze with his rage. “The fuck did you think you were doing last night? By the time we’re finished here, you’ll regret that fuckin’ ambush.”

  Flame coughs and splutters as Scott squeezes his throat. He finds some of his fight when he bucks his hips and kicks at Scott, who moves with the agility and speed a guy of his size usually can’t, dragging him up off the couch and over to the counter of the bar. Slamming Flame’s head down onto
it, he roars, “Let’s fuckin’ fight, Flame. I’m sure as fuck in the mood for it.”

  Scott lets Flame go and shoves his gun away before throwing the first punch. The force of it sends the other president flying, landing on his ass. Scott closes the distance between them and reefs him back up, grasping his shirt with one hand and punching him in the face with the other. He does this repeatedly while Flame tries like fuck to actually get in the fight rather than simply being the punching bag.

  It’s a lost cause, though. Scott’s too wired and too good with his fists for Flame to even come close to having a chance at not getting his ass kicked.

  When he’s got the motherfucker bloody and bruised on the ground in front of him, Scott crushes his boot to Flame’s chest and demands, “You’re gonna tell us who gave you the orders for tonight or I’m gonna ensure you die a slow and fuckin’ painful death.”

  Flame squints at him through eyes he can barely open. “Go to fucking hell.”

  “I’ve no fuckin’ doubt I will be one day,” Scott says, pulling his gun out again. He aims the gun at Flame’s foot and shoots. “Start fuckin’ talking,” he bellows over Flame’s cries of pain.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot motion in the hallway of the clubhouse and quickly move to investigate after pointing to let Riggs know what I’m doing.

  It’s another Silver Hell member out in the hall, and he’s a sturdy motherfucker who can throw a mean punch. He comes at me with knuckles the devil blessed, smashing them into my face and causing a level of pain that amps me the fuck up for a fight.

  I grunt through the pain and take a swing at him, my fist connecting with his face, returning the fucking favour.

  We trade punches for a good few minutes, ploughing into the walls up and down the hallway, smearing blood everywhere as we go. It’s a frenzied fucking fight, the kind I used to get into back home years ago. The kind that pumps adrenaline through my veins, making me chase more.

  “Flame won’t fucking tell you guys what you want,” he spits at me as I knock him flat on his ass with a blow that keeps him there long enough for me to know he’s losing steam.

  When he attempts to stand, I kick him in the ribs. “If he doesn’t, I’m gonna enjoy the fuck outta watching him die slowly and fuckin’ painfully.”

  He spits blood, trying to roll to his side, placing his hands to the ground to push himself up. “You think you got any shot at that, cunt?”

  I reach down and grasp handfuls of his shirt with both my hands. Yanking him up with the strength I work fucking hard for, I throw him at the wall. Hard and fucking fast.

  “They don’t call him Wilder for no good fucking reason,” Gunnar says, stepping into the hall and catching our conversation as the asshole collides with the floor. “He might look pretty, but you piss him off and he’ll get a little fucking rowdy.”

  Gunnar eyes me as the guy groans in agony. “Scott’s got the information. We’re rounding all these fuckers up, putting them outside, and torching the place so they can watch it burn to the ground.”

  “I’ll take care of this one,” I say as I roll my shoulder back. This is gonna fucking hurt later.

  Gunnar leaves me with a chin lift, and I hoist the asshole over my shoulder to carry him outside. I dump him on the grass where everyone else is being parked.

  Scott crouches in front of the club’s VP. “We ever cross paths again, you’ll wish we didn’t. This is me on a good fuckin’ day.”

  He stands and aims his gun at Flame, who can already barely pull breath, sending a bullet through his head while using his free hand to signal to Riggs to light the place up.

  “Who was behind the ambush?” I ask as I move next to Scott.

  “Still got no fuckin’ idea, but”—he holds a phone up —“Flame’s phone has a lot of leads on it, and we’re gonna start knocking on some doors.”

  15

  Scarlett

  Paul: Why are you avoiding my texts?

  Me: Don’t feel special. I’m avoiding everyone’s texts.

  Paul: Something you have in common with my brother. Tell me you two were avoiding texts over the weekend because you were busy getting dirty together.

  Me: Is this a thing in your relationship?

  Paul: What?

  Me: Do you two share TMI with each other a lot? Because that’s a no from me and I may need to reconsider our friendship.

  Paul: You need to reconsider nothing. It’s a no from Justin too. I’m the only Miller boy who likes to share TMI.

  Me: Shit, I gotta go. It’s torture time.

  Paul: I expect a reply to all my weekend texts after torture time.

  Me: And I expect my period to fuck off and die. We can’t all have what we want.

  “Ugh, why is it Monday already?” Chelsea grumbles when we meet at the yoga studio door.

  I couldn’t agree more. But then again, the weekend was a special kind of hell that I’m glad has come to an end. I worked my ass off the entire two days while worrying over my brother and his inability to stay off the meth for long. I’m walking the line between hope and the kind of doubt too many years of this has me unable to shake. I also spent many, many hours of the weekend thinking about Wilder and overthinking what almost happened between us. Also, overthinking what did happen between us.

  Why must the man be so skilled at kissing?

  And dancing?

  And using those hands of his?

  Seriously, if I could take all the body parts of his that are too much for me to look at and have anything to do with, he’d just be a giant walking foot. And who knows? Maybe if I were acquainted with his feet, they’d have to go too.

  Chelsea doesn’t wait for my response to her Monday question; she launches straight into complaining about how Gunnar was away all weekend and didn’t arrive home until late last night and how they had a huge fight and still haven’t made up. She’s cranky and moody like I’ve never seen from her.

  When she stops talking and takes a big breath, I finally get a word in. “Maybe we should skip yoga today.”

  Tiny little lines try to fill her forehead, but Chelsea’s skin is so flawless that those lines struggle to even come close to forming a frown. “Why?”

  We could be here all day if I were to give her a detailed list of reasons, so I don’t. “Maybe you wanna go home and talk to Gunnar.”

  That sets her off again. I should have gone with the detailed list of reasons why it would suit me to skip yoga. “I refuse to talk to that man when he’s like this. In fact, we may not talk all week.” She pauses. “Have you ever been married, Scarlett?”

  I almost choke on the drink I’m not drinking. “Fuck no.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re rushing out any time soon either.”

  “At the rate I’m going, I’ll end up a cat lady who checks #CatsOfInstagram as soon as I wake up while cooing at my cats like they’re babies even though all they ever give me is resting bitch face. There’s no time for a man in a cat lady’s life.”

  “You have a cat?”

  “No, but I’m picking one up as soon as I can now that I’ve realised my life trajectory.”

  She tries to frown again. Fails again. Why can’t we all have skin like Chelsea? Ah, that’s right: we can’t all have what we want in life.

  “I feel like there’s something going on with you that you’re not telling me.”

  She’s squinting at me in the way all squad members do when they’re trying to solve a squad problem. This is not where this conversation was meant to go.

  “There’s nothing going on with me.” Damn, even I hear the lie in that declaration.

  Her squinting gives way to knowing eyes. “Okay, spit it out. Who is he and what did he do?”

  My brain flails as I glance around the studio, looking for signs of human life other than us. Why are we the only ones here? Where’s the damn teacher? She does not get a perfect score from me. In fact, I’m taking time out of my day today to lodge a complaint in the form of a Google re
view.

  “Oh my God, did Wilder’s brother hit on you after all? Is he not gay?”

  I stare at her as all those words arrange themselves in my brain.

  I am not getting out of this.

  That realisation hits me like old embarrassing moments slap me in the face sometimes. Unavoidable as fuck.

  “Paul did not hit on me. He is most definitely gay.” I sigh as she continues to look at me with expectation. “Fine, it was Wilder.”

  The immense distance between her top eyelid and her bottom one at that news makes me want to pull all those words back into my mouth, get back in my car, and rewind the events of this morning.

  “I think you’re right. I think we should skip yoga,” she announces.

  The yoga teacher takes this moment to finally grace us with her presence, ensuring her Google review will not be as bad as it was going to be a moment ago.

  I run for the mats and bolsters and blocks and straps.

  Well, run is a little extra, but my legs are carrying me at a speed they never reach when I’m doing something I don’t actually want to do.

  “Nope,” I declare. “I need yoga today.”

  We set up and Chelsea continues trying to extract information from me.

  I decide to do the people of Australia a solid and recommend her to ASIO. They could do with her intelligence gathering skills.

  “Did you sleep with him?” she asks after learning he met me at the club and then took me home.

  It’s been a lot this morning.

  Like, on the scale of girl talk, I’m all talked out and ready for a nap. This is not my area of expertise in life, and she has beaten me down. So much so that I blurt, “No, but we were so damn close, and then he had to leave and now I’m all in a mess over what to do.”

  Eyelids.

  Very far apart again.

  Huge smile on her face.

  I’m not sure I can go on.

  “Well, that’s easy,” she says, as if, duh, all girls are born with a box of special edition Trivial Pursuit cards with the answers to all the possible questions they might have about men. “You talk to him and plan your next date.”