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

by Micalea Smeltzer

  “I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” he blurts suddenly.

  “How do you know? I never even told you when it is.”

  “Mia,” he answers.

  I sigh, lifting my bag off the bed and dropping it on the floor. “I should’ve known.” Facing him with my hands on my hips, I say, “We’ve needed this time apart. There’s no need to apologize.”

  “Still,” he shrugs, not quite meeting my gaze, “I wish I could’ve been there.”

  “It wasn’t exciting,” I promise him. “Mia took me to get some kind of pregnancy massage—which was amazing by the way—and to get our nails done. Then we went back to her place and gorged ourselves on Double Dunker ice cream.”

  “I hope I can celebrate next year with you,” he confesses vulnerably.

  “I hope so too.”

  I hope for a lot of things I refused to even dare think of a few months ago, one of the main things being working things out with Rush. I never believed we were right for each other, that we could possibly raise a child and be a couple, but now I see how wrong I was. If there’s anyone in this world who is made for me, it’s Rush.

  But it doesn’t mean it’ll be easy.

  Any kind of love is work. None of it is smooth sailing, and I credit my therapist with showing me that.

  “All right, your turn to look away.” He spins his finger in the air, encouraging me to give him my back.

  “You have to be kidding,” I retort. “You’re not pregnant.”

  “If I don’t get to look, neither do you.”

  I roll my eyes. “And society says it’s women who are dramatic,” I grumble, as I turn around.

  I hear him chuckle and barely a minute passes before he tells me I can look.

  “You had me turn around so you could strip down to your fucking boxer-briefs,” I scoff. “You really are a drama queen.” I brush past him and turn back the bed I’ll be sleeping in. “I’m going to sleep, so I don’t have to deal with you.”

  “Don’t be mad.” He mock pouts at me, jutting out his delectable bottom lip. He looks too fucking delicious for his own good standing there all muscular and ripped, his tattoos on full display barely concealing the visible veins in his arms, with his boxer-briefs hugging every inch of him—and I do mean every inch. He grins, and his tongue slides out to moisten his lips. “Like what you see, Kira?”

  I turn my head. “Not at all.”

  He laughs huskily and flips the covers back roughly on his bed. “Keep telling yourself that.”

  I cross my arms and roll over, away from him. “I will, because it’s true.”

  He doesn’t say anything more, but I can feel the cockiness radiating off of him even as I fall asleep.

  50

  Rush

  My truck rolls to a stop outside the perfectly normal and average suburban home.

  Brick front, siding on the sides and back, red front door, dark gray shutters.

  The lawn is perfectly manicured, not a weed in sight. There’s a twelve-year-old Nissan Altima in the driveway—my mom’s. In an alternate reality, I can pretend Dad ran to the store and he’s going to be right back, but in the real world the home is cold and empty. There hasn’t been life here for a long time.

  “This is it?” Kira asks in surprise, pointing out the window.

  “Yes,” I say, switching the truck into park.

  “Does someone live here?”

  “It’s empty,” I answer with a sigh, slipping my baseball cap off to scratch my head before putting it on backwards.

  “Empty?” She looks at me in surprise. “But … it’s in such good shape—it’s been taken care of. I—”

  “I pay people to clean it twice a month, and lawn maintenance. Anything that needs to be kept up … I make sure it’s taken care of. I might not have wanted to be here, but that doesn’t mean I was going to let it fall into disrepair. It’s still my home,” I sigh, draping an arm over the steering wheel and looking out Kira’s window at the house.

  She reaches over, placing her small hand on my knee and giving it a squeeze. “We’ll go in when you’re ready.”

  I place my hand over hers, soaking in the comfort of having her here—to not have to do this alone.

  I wish I could jump inside her mind, see what she thinks when she looks at the house from a stranger’s eyes, but I can’t. I can only see it from my eyes—the memories of learning to play basketball with my dad in the driveway at the hoop he put up for me. Running through the yard with my friends and the neighborhood kids, playing tag or jumping through sprinklers. Barbeque parties thrown by my mom who loved having people gather at our house.

  I have so many good fucking memories, but I’ve let the pain of one day overshadow them all.

  Lifting my hand off of hers I take the key from the ignition and exhale a breath.

  “I’m ready.” Her brown eyes meet mine, questioning. “I am,” I vow.

  Climbing out of the truck I grab our bags and help her out. I feel like I’m being stared at from every house around, but I know it’s my own paranoia and guilt plaguing me, because I shouldn’t have stayed away for so long.

  She stays by my side as we walk up the asphalt driveway to the side door.

  My breath passes through my lips in a low whistle at the sight of the flowered curtains hanging over the window in the door. They’re faded now, nothing like the bright hue I remember from before.

  I set our bags by the door and pick up the frog holding a yellow umbrella from the ground, pulling out the hideaway key tucked within.

  Even though I know they’re dead and gone some part of me keeps expecting the door to swing open and my mother to pull me enthusiastically into her arms. I would give anything for one more chance to tell them I love them, how much I appreciate everything they ever did for me.

  They made me a good man, and I’ll never stop being fucking sorry I lost sight of who I really am.

  I slide the key into the knob and swing the door open.

  The smell hits me first.

  Lemony with disinfectant and not at all like the cookies and brownies my mom was constantly making for local charities.

  This isn’t home, not anymore. It’s a shell, a fragment left behind. It’s simply a house without a heart now.

  I pick up my bag from the ground—Kira’s still slung over my shoulder—and push the door open further so she can easily step inside.

  Reaching for the familiar switch on the right, I flip it up and the laundry room floods with light. White cabinets line the top of the left wall with the washer and dryer below with a small counter area and sink. The walls are a bright canary yellow. I remember my dad and I thinking my mom was nuts when she made us paint it this atrocious shade, but looking back now, I’m thankful for that day spent with my dad. At the time it seemed like such a chore. Now, it’s something to be cherished.

  “It’s cheery,” Kira says, looking around.

  “Kitchen’s through there.” I point straight ahead and she moves forward. I flick on another light and the kitchen comes to life.

  The cabinets are a blue color my mom referred to as cornflower and the counters are a laminate designed to look like marble.

  Everything is exactly the fucking same, and I don’t know why I expected it to be any different. Even her damn black and white polka dot chicken sits in the corner with cooking utensils sticking out of it. An embroidered dishrag that says The Daniels’ Home is tucked into the arm of the oven. I set both of our bags on the floor and spin around, finding the calendar on the wall—dreading what I’m sure I’ll no doubt find, but instead it’s gone and in its place is a new calendar for this year. I’m sure it’s something the cleaner put up, maybe trying to bring some life to the place, but with the hummingbird in the picture it looks like something my mom would’ve picked out.

  Kira doesn’t say a word as I take everything in. I’m thankful she lets me absorb this on my own with no interference. It’s crazy to think it’s been nearly ten whole years since I c
ame home, set foot in my own house.

  I move to the next room and Kira follows silently behind me like a shadow.

  The sectional still takes up much of the space in the family room, the purple stain in the curved part from a glass of wine my mom knocked over is still there. The wall of family photos shines without a hint of dust on them.

  I take in my mom’s sandy brown hair and brown eyes so similar to Kira’s. I never noticed that before. Perhaps I wouldn’t allow myself to see it.

  My dad stands beside her, with his arm wrapped around her waist smiling at the camera. His dark hair is speckled with white, while his beard is almost completely white. On my mom’s other side is me, standing taller than the both of them. Blond hair spiked up and bleached on the ends—why I thought that looked good is beyond me—holding a basketball trophy from my junior year. When we took that photo we had no idea nearly a year later they’d be gone.

  “They look kind,” Kira speaks softly.

  “They were,” I whisper. “The kindest. The best. They didn’t deserve to die.”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat, feeling tears well in my eyes.

  Kira’s small warm hand presses against my back, rubbing slow circles.

  “I’m here, Rush. If you need to scream, then fucking scream. If you need to get angry, get angry. If you need to cry, then cry. Let it out. You owe it to yourself. Emotions demand to be felt and when you smother them that’s when they turn and suffocate you instead.”

  I turn and wrap my arms around her, bending so I can bury my face in her neck. I don’t cry at first, I just need to feel her, but then the tears do come.

  I’ve kept too much shit bottled up for too long and it comes out painfully. I didn’t know crying could physically hurt, but this does. I feel the emotions and raw wounds tearing open over and over again, but as I let it out, I can feel them being cleansed.

  It feels like we stand there for fucking ever, but eventually I manage to let her go. I don’t feel like a wuss for letting all of it out, instead I feel stronger than I have in a long time.

  “Are you ready to move on?”

  I know she’s asking if I’m ready to go to another room, but I feel like I’m ready to move on in a bigger way.

  “Yeah.” I take a step away from her and instantly I miss her warmth. A year ago I never could’ve imagined I’d be standing in this house again, but here I am. We’ve both changed so much and power comes from embracing your demons, accepting them, and finally being set free.

  Forcing my feet one in front of the other, I explore the rest of the downstairs—a bathroom, my dad’s office, and the game room. The game room used to be one of my favorites. My dad was obsessed with arcade games and one whole wall is lined with them. In the center is a pool table and there’s a dartboard on one of the walls.

  Upstairs are two guest bedrooms, my old room, theirs, and two more bathrooms.

  Their room is as the end of the hall with the door shut, mine is on the right.

  My heart thrums in my ears and I can’t hear anything.

  But then Kira slips her hand into mine and holds onto my arm with her other, leaning into my body.

  “We can do this together,” she promises me. “One step at a time. As long as you focus on one step the distance doesn’t seem so terrible.”

  I grin at her. “Did your therapist tell you that?” I joke.

  She shrugs. “She’s actually a smart lady.”

  With a shake of my head I take one step, then another, and another until I’m standing in front of my bedroom door.

  I swing it open, taking in the small space.

  The walls are the same grayish blue color my mom insisted was perfect for a teenage boy. My bed is tucked against the wall, with my small desk at the end and blue swivel computer chair. Above my desk is shelving, lined with trophies and medals. On the other side of the room is my closet and dresser. The window beside my bed looks out on the street below and my red truck looks like a fucking beacon it’s so bright.

  Something clangs and I turn to find Kira giving me an apologetic look, a picture frame clasped in her hand and since I know where she got it from, it’s safe to assume she knocked it against one of my trophies.

  She looks down at the picture and then back at me. “You were already taller than all the boys.” She gives me a small smile. “How old were you here?”

  I take one step and peer at the picture, even though I already know. I just want any excuse to be closer to her.

  The grainy picture shows me standing in the back of the group shot. My hair is cut haphazardly and way too short, because my mom got the wild idea she could cut my hair. My smiling face showcases a mouthful of braces, but my eyes … they’re happy, not haunted by the ghosts of one fucking night that changed everything.

  “I was thirteen. It was my eighth grade year.”

  “What happened to your hair?”

  I snort. “My mother, that’s what happened.”

  “She cut your hair?” she surmises.

  “Yep. It was unfortunate and the ladies were not a fan.”

  “Already a charmer at thirteen?” She rolls her eyes. “Why am I not surprised?” She lifts onto her tiptoes to replace the photo on the shelf but I grab it from her so she doesn’t strain herself.

  “I can’t help it if I’ve always had a way with the ladies,” I joke, looking down at her once the picture is back where it belongs.

  She makes a noise in her throat.

  I reach out, brushing a stray hair off her forehead before I touch my finger to her chin, raising her head.

  “There’s only one woman I want attention from now.”

  “Is that so?” Her voice drops, taking on a husky edge.

  I nod. The urge to kiss her is fucking strong, but I hold myself back.

  I’ve always taken what I wanted, when I wanted it, and this whole waiting thing is new for me—but I remind myself it’ll all be worth it in the end.

  I hope, at least.

  The air between us grows taut and thick with desire, but neither of us acts on it.

  I take two steps away from her and the bubble evaporates as if it never existed to begin with.

  “Do you want to … should we?” She points outside the room, and I know what she’s trying to say.

  “Not yet. I can’t…” I pause, shaking my head. “I can’t yet.”

  She nods. “I understand.”

  “Pick the guestroom you want,” I tell her. “I had the cleaners get new sheets and bedding for those rooms so we could use them. I’ll grab our bags and bring them up.”

  She nods and heads down the hall, while I jog down the steps to grab our shit from the kitchen.

  It’s weird how this house was once so full of life, buzzing like a beehive, and now it’s empty—like some relic left behind from a lost world.

  It’s going to be fucking hard going through all this shit to throw away, donate, or keep.

  I carry our bags up and find her in the green room as I call it. My mom liked color, and every room in the house is a different shade. Growing up I thought it looked like a fucking rainbow threw up in here, it still does, but now I see how her personality is sprinkled in every room.

  Kira stands looking out the window that overlooks the backyard. There’s a covered pool, a gazebo, and a grill. The lawn guys have done a good job of keeping leaves swept away and the flowers in bloom. I’ve made sure to always pay the staff keeping this place up a decent wage with holiday bonuses. I wanted them to know I appreciated all the hard work they put into taking care of my childhood home. I couldn’t come here, but I couldn’t let it fall into disrepair either.

  She hasn’t noticed me yet, and she cradles her growing stomach lovingly, a wistful smile on her face. I didn’t think it was possible, but she’s even more beautiful now than when I first met her.

  I set the bags down softly and lean against the door watching her.

  It’s selfish of me to lust after her like I do, but when you’v
e touched heaven you want as much as you can get. It’s more than anyone as corrupt and fucked up as me deserves. She’s messed up in her own ways too, but I think that’s what makes her more beautiful to me. Broken things have character, a story to tell, whereas a shiny new polished vase is better kept up on a high shelf never to be touched or felt.

  At the end of the day, all I want is for her to be happy. That’s how I know my love is true. Even if her happiness doesn’t bring her into my arms, I’ll never begrudge it, because seeing her light up with joy is more than I deserve after everything I’ve done.

  I push my body away from the door and clear my throat before she can turn around and find me staring at her. Her heads twists in my direction, her lips lifting in a small smile. The brown of her eyes is lighter than it used to be, no longer weighed down by fear and anger.

  “I brought your bag,” I tell her unnecessarily. I’m a pathetic fuck.

  Her smile grows. “I see that.”

  I shove my hands in my pockets. “I thought we could relax for the day and start going through things tomorrow.” I don’t say it out loud, but I need time to process actually being here again after so long before I start getting rid of things. I know it’s going to fucking hurt, but it has to be done. I can’t keep all this shit forever and this house … it deserves to have a family living in it again.

  “Okay.” She nods, her hand still rests on her stomach. I don’t think she even realizes the way she holds her belly. Protectively. Motherly. “I think I’m going to shower.”

  “You know where it is.” I run my fingers awkwardly through my hair. I’ve never been like this before, nervous and like a prepubescent schoolboy crushing on a teacher. “I’m going to run out and get some groceries—is there anything you want?”

  Her smile is nearly blinding and it hits me like a punch to my gut.

  “Double Dunker ice cream if they have it.”

  “I’ll drive to five stores if I have to.”

  “And Coke,” she adds.

  I laugh, rubbing my jaw. “I was already planning to get that. I don’t have a death wish.”