Living Wilder

by Leigh Tudor

  All while “Bohemian Rhapsody” pounded out behind them.

  She gasped as his lips moved south, latching onto her disloyal nipple, pulling it into his furnace of a mouth to the point of being just short of painful.

  She was conflicted, but it seemed to her for all the wrong reasons. Did she want him to give attention to her other nipple or continue to rub her raw with his cock?

  He lifted her thigh and wrapped it around his waist, giving him even more sublime access to the softest, most sensitive part of her.

  Dear God, she thought the friction good before, but it was nothing compared to this. She shamelessly straddled his waist and he obliged, pinning her against the door, his hands grinding his steel length against her while his mouth ravaged her other nipple.

  Finally, his mouth found hers as he continued to gyrate over her. They panted and kissed, their tongues twisting, teeth clashing.

  Were they about to have sex against her newly painted front door, or wrestle?

  His mouthed untangled from hers, nibbling down the other side of her neck. She reared her head back, trying to pull in some much-needed air as her head was spinning.

  She made a paltry attempt to gain control by reciting the digits of the mathematical constant of pi.

  But his glorious, unyielding penis kept getting in the way.

  “God, I wanna fuck you so hard.”

  Unable to reply with all the panting she was doing, she cataloged all the nearby places where they could adequately and privately violate one another.

  And then, like a couple of feral barn cats drenched with a cold bucket of water, the music stopped.

  They both instantly stilled except for the deep inhale and exhale of their chests colliding, their foreheads pressed together.

  Her heart sank as his eyes wrenched from hers. His head moved to rest against the door with his eyes firmly shut. He slowly loosened his grip, allowing her legs to slide down alongside his, her hands gripping his biceps for support as she stared at his chest.

  She sensed a change in him. A change that came from more than just the ending of the music.

  And then the music started again, this time, “Take me to Church,” by Hozier.

  How apropos, in a lust-killing sorta way.

  He stepped back, his hand burrowing through his hair, his eyes squeezed shut.

  Shutting her out.

  Funny how a minute ago her body was writhing inside an inferno of lust and now she was rubbing her arms to ward off the arctic chill, damp rings from his mouth circling each area of her nipple. The lack of his furnace of a body making them all the more turgid and alert.

  He took another step back and turned, once again, to grasp the porch rail. His head hung down between his shoulders.

  She hugged her stomach with one arm, her other hand covering her mouth.

  What was he thinking? Her mind raced through every rom-com she and Mercy devoured in the past few weeks to give her context and direction. Did he find her too sexually aggressive, or as Cara would say, a woman of loose morals? Or was she just plain bad at kissing?

  It was her very first kiss, her actions a bit fevered and demanding.

  But she couldn’t help feeling captivated by him and out of control. Oh sure, she could take all two hundred pounds of him down with some well-placed pressure to the carotid. But regardless of her discrete combat skills, she still felt dominated by his stature while at the same time indifferent to his strength.

  She searched his body language for a hint of what might be going on in his cerebral cortex. The region of the brain vital to a man’s sex drive and performance, according to a medical book Mercy had found at the local library.

  But as always, he exposed nothing.

  Her heart made an audible cracking sound as he turned, and without even a backward glance, he made his way down the front steps.

  “Tell Ally I’ll be waiting in the truck.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Progress imposes not only new possibilities for the future, but new restrictions.”

  —Norbert Wiener

  Professor of mathematics at the

  Massachusetts Institute of Technology

  * * *

  Winter crept into Wilder, bringing lower temps and above-average rainfall. The Texas prairie was known for its dreary winter weather, never getting quite cold enough to bring forth an uplifting carpet of snow or warm enough for an adequate dose of vitamin D. It did, however, bring about a nice influx of trainees into Loren’s self-defense class.

  Plagued with cabin fever, the women of Wilder looked for any excuse to get out of the house or office for a few hours of physical distraction.

  Informing their husbands, or significant others, that they were attending a self-defense class sounded so much more practical and less self-serving, than say, a Pilates class, or hitting the local tavern for a girl’s night out.

  The rapid success and bodily results of Loren’s first class didn’t hurt either, creating a multi-faceted lure for the women in town. First being the noble cause of learning self-defense and the second, getting into the best physical shape of their lives. And with Loren as their vision of perfect physical attainment, it turned out to be a winning combination.

  Not to mention a killer marketing plan that drew women outside of Wilder, requiring a wait-list to be implemented to fairly manage the large numbers calling into the church to register for the class.

  Loren pulled the mats to the side of the gymnasium for basketball intramurals as her class attendees picked up their gym bags and coats.

  “Hey, Loren,” Becky called out from the double gym doors. “You going to meet us at Lucky’s tonight?”

  Lucky’s being the local tavern where many of her trainees went to socialize after class, the allure of the establishment having more to do with the owner and full-time bartender, Gus, being quite the hottie, as opposed to a stellar menu.

  Much to Loren’s surprise, a social life came along with a buzzing clientele. She thought it odd how the town now embraced her. The Ingalls had gone from the town pariahs to Wilder’s darlings. It was amazing and a little confusing to think that newly emerging abs among the townswomen were the secret sauce to making friends.

  Mercy moved the last mat to the side. “Go to Lucky’s. I’ll take Cara home.”

  Despite Mercy’s offer, she waved Becky on. “No, thanks. I need to help Cara with homework tonight.”

  “I could’ve done that,” Mercy argued, picking up the sparring gloves.

  “I know. I’m kinda tired and hoping to get to bed early. I also need to pick up the supplies for Cara’s science project.”

  “I can’t believe the little shit waited to tell us about her project the day before it was due,” Mercy said, running her hands through her sweat-soaked hair.

  Even though Mercy preferred being downstairs with her adoring toddler fanbase, Loren convinced her to help with the class, instead. It was so much easier to demonstrate the various moves with a seasoned sparring partner.

  To make up for it, she arranged for Mercy to teach an art class to the kids on Saturday mornings. She had hoped it would motivate her to start painting herself, but it had been weeks and the art supplies in the sunroom remained untouched.

  “Not sure what’s gotten into our once uber-responsible sister,” Loren said, putting away the last glove into the bin and shoving it into the supply closet. Cara was on her last nerve with her snide comments and overall disdain for just about everything.

  “Have you seen her today?”

  “No, why?” Loren asked, grabbing her purse as they walked out the doors.

  “I guess you’ll find out.”

  They walked outside, Loren fishing inside her purse for her keys. Mercy nudged her, and she looked up, coming to an abrupt stop. “Why does our little sister look like the girl in the movie Fifth Element?”

  Mercy shrugged. “Maybe it’s because her hair is chopped off and dyed a bright neon orange?”

  “Her make
up . . . there’s so much of it. When did she do all this?”

  Mercy threw her bag into the trunk and slammed it shut. “It had to have been after school. I just happened to see her before your class started. She was standing with some friends. When I called her carrot-top, she gave me the finger.”

  “The middle one?”

  “No, the pinky finger. Come on, Loren, get your head out of your ass. Our sister is turning into a juvenile delinquent.”

  Cara was standing by the car with Ally, who also appeared to have gone to the dark side, her hair dyed purple and enough eyeliner to share with the rest of the eighth-grade class.

  They both had their heads down, gazing into their iPhones, and if their facial expressions were any indication, texting one another rather than having a face-to-face conversation.

  “Fair warning,” Mercy said, leaning toward Loren with a soft voice, “she asked me to pierce her nose last night.”

  Loren turned in shock. “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her to ask you first.”

  “And . . .?”

  “And she said, ‘No way. Loren’s too freaking uptight.’”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope, she’s really becoming a little shit. Told me I was a loser because I didn’t appreciate some dark emo music she was playing on the piano. Told her if she didn’t stop playing her depressing shit-for-music, I was going to snap off the tuning pins.”

  “I don’t understand,” Loren said, shaking her head as she stared at her sister’s hair that was so thick and beautiful and brunette earlier this morning. “Just yesterday she was the one who was uptight, dissecting the nutritional value of the food we ate and telling us we should all have bedtimes that aligned with the Earth’s circadian rhythms.”

  “Maybe Ally’s a bad influence?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s like they both slowly morphed into somber teenage termagents at the same moment in time.”

  And if things couldn’t get any worse, Alec Wilder pulled up in his truck, parking next to her car.

  Loren had rarely seen him since the night they both came unhinged on her front porch. And when she did, he made it a point to avoid her. But to his credit, despite having deep issues with her, he still allowed Ally to spend time with Cara. And for that, she was extremely grateful.

  That benevolence appeared to be short-lived in light of the fact that he slammed his door shut, and was striding toward his sister. “Ally!”

  She looked up, not even a smile.

  “What the holy hell did you do to yourself?”

  “What? I dyed my hair.” She shrugged her face back in her iPhone. “Big deal.”

  His head jerked back. “Big deal?”

  Loren wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen and heard it herself. Ally had become just as much of an emo-obsessed dill-hole as Cara.

  And then Alec’s disapproving eyes landed on Loren, his hands planted on his hips in equal disapproval. “I suppose you had something to do with this?”

  Loren’s hands shot up in defense. “Whoa, that’s a big assumption, Farmer Ted. I’m just as shocked as you are.”

  His attention refocused on Ally. “When did you do all of this to yourself?”

  Ally finally looked up as if it took all her strength to respond. “Cara and I dyed our hair after school in the girl’s bathroom. Geez, you would’ve thought we’d snorted a line of coke.”

  “You didn’t think you should have talked to me first?”

  “Why would I? What do you know about hair color?”

  “I know there’s no such thing as purple hair.”

  She rolled her eyes. “My point exactly, the color’s called Angry Eggplant.”

  Loren sucked in at the look on Alec’s face and then noticed a crowd of kids moving closer toward the drama.

  “Why don’t you get your angry eggplant ass in my truck. We’ll discuss this at home.” He stalked toward the vehicle, but Ally didn’t budge.

  “In a minute. Gotta send this text.”

  Whoa, even Loren was growing uncomfortable with her massive level of snark and the kids watching, nodding, smirking in solidarity.

  He turned back, pointing his finger to the ground. “Now, Ally.”

  After sighing and pushing Send, she hugged Cara and then lifted her finger to her ear and thumb to her mouth, her lips saying, “Call me.”

  Cara smiled, her own head bowing back down to pray at the altar of her iPhone.

  Mercy and Loren, along with the band of unmerry teenagers, watched as Ally lugged her body into the truck and Alec slammed his door and drove out of the parking lot.

  Only Cara, the orange-coiffed alien aberration smiling at her iPhone, appeared indifferent to her BFF’s plight, or for that matter, any potential consequences of her own.

  “Cara,” Loren said, doing her best to remain calm, “when we get home, you’re going to finish your science project while I run to the grocery store. And then when I get back, we’re going to dye your hair back to its original color.”

  Cara glanced up from her phone. “No.” Her eyes returned to her screen.

  “No?” Loren shook her head and blinked. “Exactly what are you saying ‘no’ to? Finishing your science project or fixing your hair?”

  Cara finally pulled away from her device, one hand on her hip that was jutted to the side. “No, I’m not going to do my science project because I already have an A in the class, and skipping the project will only bring my grade down to an A-minus. And no, I’m not going to change the color of my hair because I happen to like it.”

  Loren’s eyes narrowed. “I suggest you watch your tone of voice with me.”

  “Why? You’re my sister. You’re not my mother.”

  Mercy gasped, and then sang, “Oh, no, she didn’t.”

  Tears welled in Loren’s eyes. Mercy had never said those words to her. But then, she and Mercy only had one another, and they were so close in age they usually handled their disagreements with a sound sparring match. But Cara was several years younger and spent far less time with her than Mercy.

  But still.

  Loren had purposely insulated Cara from the sacrifices she’d made for her, the times she’d finally caved to the doctor and his illegal escapades, all because he’d threatened to take Cara back to the operating room.

  How many times had she risked her life? For. Her.

  “First of all,” Loren said, clearing her throat, “I don’t deserve to be spoken to like that. And second, you’re right, I’m not Mom. But if she were here, she’d be very disappointed in the way you’re behaving.”

  Mercy sucked in, shaking her head frantically back and forth. “Abort. Abort.”

  “She’d be disappointed. Mom would be disappointed in me?” Cara repeated, pointing her thumb to her chest. “You two dress like pole dancers and curse like sailors, but it’s me who would disappoint her because I chose to color my own hair.” Cara shook her head. “Unbelievable.”

  “Hey,” Loren protested. “Mercy and I have toned it down. Both with the clothes and our language.”

  Her response was a condescending snort.

  And then, as if the universe recognized they all needed cooling down, the sky opened up with a deluge of rain. Appropriate, given the circumstances.

  They each jumped in the car. The ever-watchful band of misfits dispersed like a horde of bees.

  As she drove home, quiet derision became a living, tangible thing. Loren was sure the contempt radiating from her sister’s body in the back seat was likely to reach out and suffocate her before reaching the house.

  Mercy dared not speak, equally as mute by Cara’s silent contempt.

  Where did all this anger come from? And how did parents know what to do when unleashed by their teenagers?

  Loren was grossly unprepared for this, had no idea how to navigate Cara’s roller-coaster ride of a disposition. Was it something she did? Was she somehow responsible for her sister’s sudden mood change? Should s
he punish her, ground her? Crush a valium or two in her breakfast smoothie?

  Then again, maybe Cara was right, and she wasn’t a mom. What gave her the right to parent her? But someone had to do it.

  Maybe it was just a phase? And Cara would wake up tomorrow morning her old self, criticizing her sister’s cooking and demanding they start recycling like the rest of the civilized world.

  What would her mom do?

  Then Loren remembered having inexplicable mood swings when she was younger.

  She was thirteen when the accident happened. A year younger than Cara. She remembered harboring her own angst-filled melancholy. But no matter how ugly she was to her mom, her mom seemed to know just what to say and do. She knew how to calm her down, encourage a rational conversation rather than spewing hurtful words you could never take back.

  More tears welled in her eyes as she drove through the rain. Compartmentalizing memories of her mother into a part of her brain that allowed her to breathe and maintain composure. She concentrated on the lines and shifting angles of the road ahead. Finding comfort in the symmetry of their pure mathematical connections.

  After the accident, when she woke from her coma, the lines were just . . . there. She shared what she saw with her doctor, but he’d dismissed it, telling her they would eventually go away. In a way, she hoped they didn’t. Discovering inexplicable peace while focusing on objects in front of her moving in stop-action frames helped her from being swallowed up by the soul-gripping grief of losing both her parents.

  But the patterns weren’t doing their job.

  Her chest ached at how much she desperately missed her parents.

  They finally reached the house, and as soon as they closed the front door, Cara was at the piano pounding out an angry Chopin’s “Revolutionary Etude.” Her way of expressing her current state of mind without having to utter a single word.

  “I think we should take her out back and beat her smug little ass,” Mercy said, sliding into a kitchen chair and holding her head in her hands at the banging of the piano keys that was sure not to stop anytime soon.