Wild Flame (The Wild: A Rock Star Romance Book 2)

by Micalea Smeltzer

  Unbuckling my seatbelt I say, “I hope you’re paying for Awful House.”

  She gasps. “Waffle House is delicious. You take that back.”

  I laugh, opening the car door. “You’re so easy to rile up. It’s too much fun.”

  She gets out of the car and it locks with a pleasant honking sound. I didn’t know a honk could be pleasant, but apparently on sports cars it’s a requirement or maybe you can pay extra for such extravagances, I wouldn’t know.

  Opening the door, we’re greeted with a chorus of, “Welcome to Waffle House.”

  I pick a booth hidden in the corner and Mia slides in across from me.

  “Mornin’ y’all,” a plump waitress greets us in a cheery tone—far too cheery for this early in the morning if you ask me. “What can I get ya to drink?”

  “Coke,” I reply, while Mia glares at me.

  “A water for me,” she says, and the waitress heads off to fill those bubbly looking clear plastic cups.

  “You’re going to rot your teeth with all the Coke you’re drinking.”

  I flash her my middle finger and she giggles.

  “Don’t take my Coke from me. It’s all I have left in this world,” I joke.

  She shakes her head. “You’re nuts.”

  I cross my arms and lay them on top of the table. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Here you ladies go.” The waitress sets our cups down and pulls two straws out of her apron, dropping them on the table between the drinks. “Y’all ready to order?”

  Mia looks at me and I nod.

  “All right, what can I getcha?” The waitress poises her pen against the paper, waiting for us to speak.

  “I’ll have the cheese omelet,” Mia orders. “Hashbrowns with onions, please.”

  “Egg sandwich for me—with cheese and bacon. Make the bacon crispy—dark, black, and crumbling like my soul.”

  The waitress gives me a distressed look.

  “Ignore her,” Mia tells the woman. “She’s stressed, and she says weird things when she’s that way.”

  “I’ll put this order in for y’all.” She flashes Mia a smile and glances at me nervously.

  “Stop scaring people,” Mia scolds me. “It’s rude.”

  “You know what else is rude—jiggly bacon. Bacon. Should. Not. Jiggle.”

  She stifles a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

  “Again, tell me something I don’t know.” I look out the window of the Waffle House. There’s a Holiday Inn next door, and across the street a Hardee’s. “Why didn’t we go there for breakfast?” I accuse. “Hardees trumps Waffle House any day. Everyone knows that.”

  She waves a dismissive hand. “I can’t taunt Hollis with Hardees,” she scoffs. “Which reminds me.” She picks up her phone and twists in her seat trying to get a shot of the two of us in the restaurant, while also making it obvious it’s a Waffle House. “This isn’t working,” she groans. “Here, hold this.” She shoves a menu at me to hold up. “Better,” she declares and takes her precious pictures.

  She finishes and grins to herself as she types out a message to him.

  “I hope this works in your favor,” I sing-song. I rest my elbows on the table, interlacing my fingers where I rest my chin. “It could backfire.”

  “Not likely.”

  I laugh, smiling at her. “Look at my little Mia—all grown up and gaga over hot, fast, dirty sex. I never thought the day would come.”

  “You could’ve never predicted I’d meet Hollis Wilder,” she quips.

  “No, but I knew the minute I saw him that first time him and Rush stopped by The Sub Club that you two were going to fuck. Did I realize you’d fall in love with each other? Nope—but the sexual tension was too hot to handle.”

  “What about you and Rush?” she asks, arching a brow seriously. “Did you know then you guys would fall into bed together.”

  “God, no,” I snort. “I mean, he’s hot—but I wasn’t interested at all at first. He was too cocky and sure of himself. I like men to have a little humility.”

  “Sure, sure,” she dismisses my words. “You two still happened.”

  I stick out my tongue at her. “Only because I saw his cock bouncing in those gym shorts he was wearing. A cock that large and delicious looking swathed in clothes was not something I was about to pass up. Now, look at me.” I lean back and point at my belly. “I knew he was trouble from the first time I saw him, and that’s exactly what he’s done for me. Given me a big heaping spoonful of trouble.”

  “Oh, please,” she scoffs. “When that baby comes out you’re going to fall so in love you won’t know who you are anymore.”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” I counter with a smile, touching my belly. “But it’s still trouble. This boy is half of Rush and half of me, which means he’s bound to be crazy and bouncing off the walls. I’m going to have my work cut out for me.”

  “Here you ladies go,” the waitress puts our plates down. “One omelet, and one egg sandwich with super crispy bacon.”

  “Thank you,” we both say.

  “Can I get y’all anything else right now?”

  “Nope, we’re good,” I tell her.

  She walks away and Mia grabs the ketchup bottle, giving it a good shake before she squirts some ketchup on her hashbrowns. “I can’t stand when I forget to shake it and it’s all liquidy. It makes me gag,” she says, and does just that, apparently from the thought alone. “Ketchup should not look like bloody water. I see enough of that at period time.”

  I snort. “A major plus side of pregnancy—no periods.”

  “Yeah, well no babies for me yet. Sorry.” She frowns mockingly. Sobering, she says, “I always thought we’d have kids at the same time. Now we’re not.”

  “There’s always next time,” I joke.

  “Do you think you’ll have more kids?”

  I bite my lip, thinking seriously about her question. “I never imagined I’d have any kids. Well, I guess it depended on certain things.”

  “What kind of things?” She spears a bite of her omelet.

  I pick up my sandwich and take a bite before I answer her. “I wouldn’t want to be one of those women who has a bunch of kids and ends up on welfare and yelling at her children all the time. That’s just … not the life I want for myself. So, yeah, I guess it would depend on if…” My cheeks bloom with red like a flower opening its petals to the sun.

  “If…?” she probes, raising one brow.

  I feel my breath come faster, each inhale short with not enough oxygen, while my pulse rapidly picks up speed.

  “I didn’t believe in love—didn’t want it, and had no use for it, but yes, somehow, somewhere, some way I fell in love with Rush. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, let alone him or anyone else. But I … I love him, despite all this,” I toss my hands in the air, “I still do. But I’m also enough of a realist to know love doesn’t get you everything or anywhere in life. Love can sometimes be the greatest burden of all, dragging you down into the deepest pit of despair, and I won’t let him drown me.”

  “What if he’s your air?” she counters, and I’m not surprised. Mia might not have wanted to fall for Hollis, but that doesn’t mean she still doesn’t believe in true love and the prince saving the princess.

  Only, in this story, I’m the witch and Rush is the demon.

  “What if he’s not?”

  Mia and I hop on the shuttle to take us over to the prison—just like she thought we would from all her Criminal Minds watching.

  Looking around at the few others on the bus I feel extremely out of place. I don’t know why, they’re average looking, normal people, but somehow I feel like … I guess like I’m better than them, than this. But the fact of the matter is, you don’t choose your family and anyone on the street could be in this same position.

  “This is fun, right?” Mia asks, rubbing her hands together excitedly.

  I shoot her a look. “Fun?” I blurt. “How
is this fun?”

  She gets a sheepish look and sinks toward the window. “I’ve never been to a prison,” she whispers under her breath. “I’ve only seen them on TV.”

  The woman behind us snorts. “Oh, honey, this is nothing like on TV.”

  “What’s it like?” I ask her, twisting around in my seat.

  “Well, you’ll get patted down to make sure you’re not hiding anything, they’ll even make sure your bump is real.” She nods toward my stomach. “There are metal detectors, ID checks. It’s serious business.”

  “Okay, so maybe fun wasn’t the right word.” Mia looks sheepishly between the woman and me.

  “Ya think?” I retort.

  I don’t mean to mock her, but I’m nervous, and when I’m nervous I’m more rude than normal.

  Not only am I about to walk into a prison, which is panic inducing as it is, but I’m about to see my father for the first time in years. Hell, I barely saw him before that. He only popped in and out of my life when he wanted something from my mom—usually sex, money, or drugs.

  The only fond memory I have of him is one year at Christmas he gave me a Barbie doll. She wore a red dress with gingerbread men on it and had green earrings. She was one of my most precious possessions for the longest time. I thought it was proof my father loved me. But then I grew up and learned material items don’t equal love, and he’d probably stolen it anyway.

  The bus comes to a stop and the doors open with a squeak and pop of air.

  If I thought my heart was beating fast before, it’s tenfold now. I can’t control the out of sync rhythm and I worry it’s not okay for the baby.

  “Come on,” Mia says, coaxing me off the bus when I don’t move.

  I blink and look around, realizing everyone is already off the bus and the driver is waiting impatiently for us.

  I stand up and force my feet in front of me down the aisle and to the steps. When my feet touch ground I feel sea sick, which is ironic since my feet are rooted firmly to the earth.

  Mia hops out behind me, and the doors screech closed behind us. The bus pulls away, leaving behind a puff of exhaust smoke and the lingering stench of fuel.

  Ahead of us, the prison looms like a dark gray bleak fortress—which I guess is exactly what it is. It looks like something out of a futuristic movie, where the world has ended and it’s left looking gray and bleak with no hope at all.

  Mia and I follow the others and begin the procedures to get in.

  They do in fact check my belly—I kind of thought the lady made that one up, but apparently women have been known to put on a fake belly and try to smuggle stuff in. The lengths people will go to makes me question humanity at times.

  I expect to end up sitting at one of those phone booth type things to speak to my father—but apparently since he’s going to die and all, they’re allowing us contact, as if I want that.

  An officer leads us to a room and closes the door behind him. There’s a mirror and Mia taps me on the shoulder and points at it. “I wonder if we’re being watched.”

  I don’t answer her because I’m too busy looking at the man seated at the table, behind him in the corner is a man in a nice suit speaking on the phone who must be his lawyer.

  I’ve seen people, thanks to my studies, close to death because of cancer—and it’s obvious this is the case with my dad, so at least that wasn’t a ploy to get me out here.

  He’s dying, and from the looks of it, any day now.

  His skin is sagging, like even it has lost strength and the will to live and now only flops loosely over his body like an oversized blanket. His eyes are sallow, and sunken into his skull. I can’t remember the exact shade of hazel his eyes were—whether they were more brown or green—but now they’re a muddy dirty color, and clouded like mud has been smeared across. His once auburn colored hair is gone, but a few tiny little tufts stick out from his skull haloed by the light filtering in through the window. His lips are almost non-existent, as if they’ve shriveled up like raisins.

  He’s a stranger to me, and not because of how he looks.

  He’s my father, but only because I happened to come from his sperm. He’s none of the things that truly makes someone a father.

  The man in the corner hangs up his phone and I feel Mia’s hand reach down and take mine, squeezing it. She doesn’t let go and I’m silently thankful for the small amount of strength that seeps into me from her.

  The lawyer comes around the table to stand in front of me. “Mitchell Williamson,” he sticks his hand out and I reluctantly take it with my right one. “Your father’s lawyer. And I guess he needs no introduction. Who is this?” He indicates Mia—how he knew I was Quinton’s daughter is beyond me.

  “This is my best friend. She’s here so I don’t have to be alone,” I reply with a bite to my tone.

  I don’t give her name and she doesn’t offer it. It’s better if neither of them know who she actually is. People act differently if they manage to put two and two together and figure out who her father is.

  “Sit down, please,” Mitchell indicates the two plastic chairs across from my father, and he takes the one beside him.

  My dad has yet to say a word. I don’t know what he’s waiting for, since apparently I’m here at his request. You’d think he’d be a bit more forthcoming.

  Mia and I sit down. She flashes me an encouraging look.

  I steel my shoulders, raising my chin slightly—not haughtily but defiantly. I won’t cower to this man. I won’t be made to feel less than I am, because I’m worth more.

  He looks me over with those sick tired eyes of his.

  Normally, I would begrudge such scrutiny from anyone, but today I’ll tolerate it because after this he’ll never see me again. He might as well get his fill.

  “Kira,” he whispers, his voice as weak as he looks.

  Before he says more, I look him over more fully and decide he reminds me a snail without its shell, pale, slimy, and gross looking.

  “Quinton,” I finally reply.

  No way in hell am I driving this conversation. He wanted me here, so he’ll have to do the talking or he won’t get anything out of me. Perhaps, not even then.

  “You look … grown up.”

  “That’s what happens when years pass and you don’t see someone because you’re locked away in prison for nearly beating their mother to death.”

  The words pour hatefully out of me and I’m shocked by them. Each word seems to pierce him like a bullet. I didn’t know I’d been harboring this inside me, but the venom in my words is raw and real, not something that can be faked.

  “I would tell you I’m sorry for that, but I know you wouldn’t believe me.” His voice is so soft, like a thousand tiny butterflies fluttering their wings.

  “You’re right,” I state. “I wouldn’t.” My tone isn’t nasty, not this time, just honest. I’m not here to lie and make him feel good about himself. I’m not a fucking cheerleader. He’s a prisoner, I’m his daughter, and that’s it.

  “I can’t believe how old you are now,” he continues, like my blunt statement doesn’t mean anything at all. I guess it doesn’t.

  “People get old,” I mutter.

  He chuckles and it turns to a cough. “That they do.”

  “Look, Quinton.” I cross my arms and lean closer to him over the metal table. “I’m not here for niceties. In fact, I don’t really know why I came at all. But the fact of the matter is, I am. Let’s get on with the real purpose now shall we? I don’t like my time wasted and well,” I quirk my head, “it doesn’t look like you have much time left at all.”

  I see anger simmer in his eyes and I smirk to myself, because while he might be a shell of what he used to be, he’s still the same underneath that saggy paper-thin skin.

  “Is it so unbelievable to think my dying wish would be to see my daughter?” The question ends with a hacking cough.

  “Yes,” I sigh sadly. “Yes, it is. I never mattered to you or mom. I was an object. Something
to place on a shelf and pull out when I became useful. I was nothing then, so why would I be something now?”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For what it’s worth, I am. I’m sorry I was such an angry fuck. I’m sorry I was a liar, a cheater, a druggie, an abuser. I’m just sorry I was.”

  “Sorry doesn’t change the past, but good news Quinton, it’s just that. The past. We all have to move on with our lives eventually.”

  For some reason my words strike a chord within myself as I realize I’ve been holding on to this hatred for him, for my mom, for everything and it hasn’t mattered. Holding onto this hatred hasn’t been healthy for me—and it hasn’t affected them at all. They’re untouched by it, while I’ve continued to suffer.

  A weight lifts off my shoulders with the epiphany and I feel good, better than I have for years, because I’m no longer weighed down by their burdens or mine.

  I choose my path. They don’t forge it for me. From this moment forward I’m my own person. I exist separately from them and their sins. I don’t have to be like them. I don’t have to punish myself.

  I am me, and they are them.

  My future is what I make it.

  I stand up suddenly, the backs of my knees shoving the chair back where it scrapes roughly across the floor—the noise loud and obnoxious, not at all pleasant.

  “Mitchell,” I nod my head at the lawyer, “Quinton. This has been … enlightening. I’ll be going now.”

  “B-But,” my dad stutters as Mia follows me to the exit. “That’s it?” he asks, his tone angry and stronger sounding than before.

  I turn around and look over my shoulder at him with Mia hovering in my peripheral.

  “That’s it,” I respond. “I don’t owe you anything, and you owe me nothing—even if you did, I don’t want it. From this moment forward I’m my own person and I won’t let myself rule my life by other people’s sins. Not anymore.”

  Straightening my shoulders, I march out the door with Mia on my heels.

  “That was bad ass,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I reply, smiling.

  It’s a real, genuine, happy smile—not one I’ve forced.