Wylder Bluffs Mountain Men The Complete Collection

by Tarin Lex

  “Ari? I think she said it was Christmas Day.”

  “Oh.” Hope sighs, then she spins in my arms to face me again. What’s this about? Eyes like warm, melted huckleberry find mine. She says, “That’s just six days before me.”

  My heart inflates and finds my throat. I’m happier than I can remember being in a very long time, but if she just told me we’re having a baby I’ll be the happiest man on earth. If I’ve misunderstood though, it sure as hell wouldn’t be the first time.

  “What did you just say?”

  “Seventeen weeks.” There’s that furtive smile again. Mischief, now I see it. That twinkle in her eye is her big, bold secret. I knew we could do it. My heart pounds so loudly with joy, for a moment it steals my breath, and any words along with it.

  This damn fine woman has rendered me speechless.

  Hope grins wider, and gets up on her tiptoes to kiss my beard, then with an airy voice that stirs me in places my friends can’t see, she whispers close to my ear, “My love… it’s a boy.”

  The End

  4 | Ren

  To the bad boys of the mountain.

  One

  Ren

  Saturday morning, I wake up with a pounding headache. My buddy, Hale, and I stayed up late last night. No debauchery ensued—we just talked, listened to some music, though we probably drank a few too many Millers. I wake up in his spare room—again. Lately his cabin feels more like home to me than my own house, and neither his wife nor his daughter, Khadija, seem to mind my presence. Somehow I went from well-adjusted thirty-one-year-old, tattoo artist and business owner, to “that guy.” That guy who hangs around too much for too few reasons.

  Before the accident, I wasn’t like this.

  But hey. At least I still have the shop.

  The three of them are all early risers so I try to get up when they do, in spite of the headache assaulting my irises this morning. Sleeping in at Hale’s just feels disrespectful. The last thing I owe him is any disrespect, however subtle, as if he hasn’t been generous enough. Hale and I go back some ten years, when he was new in town and stopped by for his first splash of ink as an official Wylder Bluffs mountain man. I gave him a compass on his back. He said he loved it, came back for more. I was a kid just getting started. When I see the tat now, I think, goddamn, I can do better.

  I can always do better.

  The bedroom door is cracked open, inviting the fragrance of fresh coffee, eggs, ham, and pine-scented cleaner. The spare room opens into the kitchen but I know before I step out that breakfast is Khadija’s doing—she’s a fabulous cook and seems to really take pleasure in serving homecooked food. I know it’s Hale’s wife, Hope, who’s using the cleaner before I even see her on her hands and knees, donning gloves up to her elbows, scrubbing every invisible speck.

  Khadija—we sometimes call her “DJ”—flips a thick slice of ham the moment I step into the kitchen. She turns to me and smiles. “There you are.” Gotta say, Hale did a nice job raising her for eighteen years as a single dad. Such a kind, smart girl. And beautiful. Not like that’s a secret I can’t say out loud. Her long brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun. Behind her glasses, her brown eyes light up when she looks at me.

  My heart quickens. Hungry. I’m just hungry and it smells so good.

  “It smells so good,” I say aloud.

  “This one’s for you.” I can barely tell she’s wearing shorts beneath the long black Nine Inch Nails t-shirt she’s wearing. My t-shirt. “I made eggs Benedict, your favorite!”

  “Are you wearing my shirt?”

  “I hope that’s okay.” She turns away and shuffles around the kitchen, prepping the meal. “I threw it in with my laundry and forgot it was there. It’s just so cozy.”

  “Of course.” I smile. I know she likes company in the kitchen, so I stay, pour myself a cup of coffee. I don’t mean to watch her, but absentmindedly, I do. When she’s almost done and lifts up on tiptoe to get me a plate from the cupboard, the shirt, my shirt, lifts over her ass, exposing too much of both round, tan cheeks. I yank my gaze away, looking instead at the photos on the refrigerator.

  I was there at her dance recital three years ago. I took the shot of her and her dad looking out from the tippy top of Wylder Peak. I see so many memories affixed to the fridge… The last thing I need to see is Hale’s daughter’s bare ass. Or anything north or south of that, like her lean legs I happen to know, for all the innocent reasons, are stronger than they look. And smooth as fuckin’ silk.

  Christ. I need to school my thoughts, too. She’s barely legal, dickface. She’s Your Best Friend’s Daughter. If I leave this kitchen with a hard-on, I’m a dead man.

  I force my mind to stay elsewhere until she plates my favorite breakfast, indeed—two eggs poached to perfection and sandwiched between a toasted English muffin and juicy, fragrant ham. She steps closer and hands it to me, effectively claiming all of my focus once again.

  “It smells like you,” DJ says, almost in a whisper.

  I quirk an eyebrow. “I smell like ham?”

  “No, silly!” She playfully taps my right pec with her hand, just above the pierced nipple. “The shirt! Even after I washed it, I can tell, it smells like you.”

  “Am I that dirty?” I mean it literally, but her eyes go wide. I grin. “Keep it,” I tell her.

  “Really?” DJ circles her arms around her chest in a self-hug. “Thank you!”

  “Thank you for breakfast. This looks great, Deej.”

  She smiles sweetly. My whole chest warms.

  Somehow the headache goes away.

  Hale is on his way out the door when I step into the living room. He looks clear-eyed and fresh, as if he hadn’t imbibed at all last night. I know for a fact he drank more than I did. He’s only a little bigger than me, and five years older. How the hell he’s so unaffected wobbles my mind worse than the headache did.

  “You headed out for a day hike?” I ask him.

  “Mornin’, Sunshine.” Hale juts his chin at me in salutation. He’s at the front door now, sitting on a low bench and lacing his boots. “Sure am. We’re still on for racquetball later?”

  The man is a beast for his energy, but when we play ball, I am king. “Absolutely.” I smirk. “Like I’d miss a chance to whoop your ass.”

  “Language.” A very pregnant Hope Kostas tsks from where’s she cleaning behind the couch. “He can hear you, you know!” She lays a hand over her belly and levels her eyes on both of us.

  Hale stands, striding over to his wife to kiss her goodbye on the lips. “We’ll be more careful.”

  She smiles, then deflates, horrified when he strides back toward the front door, leaving a trail of dirty footsteps in his wake. “Your shoes! Goddammit. Hale.”

  “Language,” he says, grinning sidelong at me.

  “Let me get it,” Khadija offers to her stepmom. DJ’s only eighteen, almost nineteen, and she’s not a mother, but of the three of us who aren’t pregnant, she’s the most sympathetic of Hope’s apparent “nesting” phase. “You can’t overextend yourself.”

  “I know,” Hope submits, falling onto the couch in a heap. “Thank you, sweetie.”

  “Everyone back here for dinner?” Hale asks before stepping out.

  “I’m not cooking,” Hope says, and as one we all cast our eyes toward Khadija.

  “I’m not either, actually.” I watch DJ shift a little, as if suddenly discomfited.

  “You’re going out with Bryan again?” Hale asks. She just nods. He crosses whipcord arms over his chest. She’s eighteen, a legal adult, and she’s spent more nights lost in a book than she’s spent raising hell, by about one thousand to zero. Hale’s never had reason to distrust her.

  “You’ve been staying out late with him for several weeks,” Hale says. “I think it’s time I meet this young man.”

  Her face pales, slightly. She presses her palms together and says, “Okay,” evenly, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she looks guilty as sin. What for?
<
br />   I take a sip of coffee and set it down.

  Hale nods and steps out and DJ releases a rush of air I don’t think I was supposed to hear. With a sigh of her own, Hope heaves herself off the couch to go take a shower. I dive into my breakfast.

  “Hey,” Khadija says, stopping me mid-bite. “Don’t forget my birthday present.”

  I pull a face. “Your birthday isn’t for another three months.”

  “Was nine months ago. Ren!” When she lowers into my lap, my heart and plate wobble. “Remember? You were supposed to give me my first tattoo.”

  Right. I had indeed forgotten that. Maybe hoping she’d forget about it, too. Tattoos can be impulsive, regretful. And something about permanently marking her flesh seemed like not such a great idea.

  She frowns, sorrowfully. I can’t resist.

  “I’m sorry, Angel,” I whisper to her. “Where do you want it?”

  Two

  Khadija

  I feel so bad for lying to Dad, not to mention Hope and Ren. As if Dad and Hope don’t have enough to worry about. Hope’s forty-three and her first pregnancy has been more firewalk than cakewalk. Monica Kostas, my nana and the best midwife in the Wylder Bluffs, keeps a close eye on her though. It’s not impossible, abnormal, or unhealthy to have a baby in your forties. Just…more delicate, I suppose.

  I’m ashamed to admit I feel worse for lying to Ren. What if he finds out about this? He’ll think… God, I don’t even want to think of what he’ll think of me.

  I confess to having a puppy crush on him for like, five years, but now I’m eighteen and as inappropriate and impossible as it might seem, all things considered, sometimes I swear there’s something between us. Maybe not something-something, but enough of a something that it could maybe, one day, turn into…something.

  Jesus. I sound like a dim, lovesick girl. Lovesick woman. Whatever.

  The lights soften and then strobe just over my center stage. The emcee announces me as Angel, not at all because it’s Ren’s term of endearment for me. I’m not of legal age to drink but one of the other dancers snuck me a sip to calm my nerves. It works. I’m one of the featured dancers tonight. Not crazy about the pop-country song they’re playing, but I play the part and step on stage, doffing my sequined brassiere just as the first chorus plays, so that I’m wearing only a chartreuse thong and high-high heels.

  Okay, let’s just call them what they are. By every definition, I am wearing stripper heels.

  It was so hard to stand or walk, let alone dance in them at first—I’m sure I looked no more sensual than a newborn giraffe—but it’s funny how you get used to a thing. And the other girls who work here were right; they do help me to stand up straight, shoulders back, exaggerating the curve in my spine and extending my ass exactly how the gentlemen like.

  I’m not here for their attention, though, except to the extent they enjoy me enough to give me cash—one dollar for a touch and a smile while I’m on stage, twenty dollars for a lap dance afterward, per song. I don’t get off on it, but I don’t dislike it either. After a bit of moral discomfort the first few days, I came to realize it’s only business. There are no real feelings being paid for here, nothing else on the menu for the men I choose to entertain. Not from me anyway. Aside from the shot I downed earlier, I don’t engage in anything illegal, and nothing outside these four walls.

  It’s an upscale club. Clean, safe. The bouncers don’t mess around one bit. I’ve loved dancing since I was a kid. The money is amazing—that’s why I’m here. I don’t plan to do this long, just until I save enough for tuition at the university. I’ve known since forever that I want to be an English major, but I told Dad I’d take a year off anyway, to mull it over. I know he can’t afford to pay for school for me, especially with Hope’s sabbatical and the baby coming soon. It’s…unconventional…and so far out of character for me, they’d never guess. I’m always the “smart one,” the nerdy girl. The bookworm. But here, I’m…beautiful. And I’m banking almost a grand a night, three nights a week. I won’t need to do this for long.

  The pop-country song ends and I collect my bra and clutch and step off the main stage. There are four other smaller stages I’ll dance on next, one song on each stage. Then I’m free to roam the club until it closes at 2 a.m.

  I become Angel each time I strip off the brassiere, each time I dance, whether on stage or curved against the frontside of an eager man. It isn’t an act. Every time my hips swing, every light touch, every whisper, all are performed by Angel, never Khadija. That girl doesn’t exist in this space.

  So when I hear my real name called—or rather, growled in a low, chastising tone—just as I’m proffering a quick show to a drunk but generous gentleman at small stage number four, my heart zips up to my throat. Someone knows me as Khadija here, and that’s very bad news for me and my big, fat, lewd secret.

  My eyes must be big as planets as I cover my breasts and whip my gaze around the club. It’s so hard to see. But then, half-cast in a shaft of burgundy light, there’s a face I’d recognize anywhere, because I see it almost every day. Sometimes, in dreams. Pale green eyes, like peridot, land on mine.

  Shit.

  Ren stalks nearer, recognition registering as clear as glass. His paces lengthen. He looks one-hundred percent displeased. Not just with me.

  I leap from the stage as the song ends, grabbing my things hastily, clumsily. My worlds clash and crash together. Angel and Khadija collide within me, making my stomach roll with unease. The man I’d been entertaining bellyaches as he follows me. I glance back to see Ren pursuing me faster. He pauses to snatch the other man by the arm and shake him with unneeded force, barking a coarse word in his face before he shoves him backward and I gulp. I whip my gaze forward again.

  Poor fellow. He wanted a dance. He’s going to have to have to get in line. There are others waiting for me…and one man after me.

  Three

  Ren

  Minor chaos ensues when I stalk DJ up the stairs to the second level, where there’s another bar on one end, couches and big, comfortable-looking chairs scattered around, and private rooms all along the perimeter. My vision is already blurred, struggling to accept it’s really her. Rage burns behind my eyes at the thought of Khadija escorting a man through any one of those doors.

  There’s also a ton of security up here. And Devon, the new tattoo artist I hired at my shop, Inked Peak, lumbering behind me, all pissed off. I brought him to the club tonight as congratulations, a proper welcome to the Inked team—even though he royally sucks at racquetball.

  He practically tugs my arm off before I can reach her. “What the fuck, man? I was waiting for that.”

  “Her,” I snarl. I grab his shirt collar and make a fist with it. “And if I ever see you touch her again, you’re fired.” I let him go.

  Khadija steps between us, surprising us both. She looks at me, her eyes pleading. I cross my arms and my expression. At least now her breasts are covered. Not that it helps—the image of her nude form dancing seductively onstage will be forever branded in my memory. I stood from a distance noticing her for too long…admiring, before I realized who she was. All I saw at first was the most beautiful woman in the room.

  The most beautiful woman in any room…

  Even as I came up close.

  “You know this chick?” Devon asks, stupidly. I should fire him anyway. First, for making us lose against Hale and his brother, Asher, earlier this evening. And now, for ogling DJ.

  I glare at him sidelong. “Khadija is Hale’s daughter, dipshit.”

  “I’m sorry I lied to you,” she cuts in. “Lied to…everyone. Please, please don’t make more of a scene than this. Just go,” she says. “I’m working?”

  “Working,” I deadpan, narrowing my gaze at her. “Is that a question?”

  “Just dances, Ren. I swear. Just till I save enough for tuition next year.”

  Sidling next to me, Devon digs himself a very deep, eternal grave. “I’d like one of those dances, honey.”r />
  I pin the idiot with a menacing look and bite the words, “You’re fired.” Then, in all of my red-blurred ire I follow that up with the dumbest possible thing I could say: “If she’s dancing for anyone tonight, it’s me.” I cuff his chest with the heel of my palm with enough force to send him backward, not enough to hurt him badly.

  DJ clears her throat. I cut my gaze toward her. With her hands on her hips, she tilts her face sideways at me, her eyebrows raised. “You could just leave.”

  “Leave you…alone…here?” I scoff. “Your father would have my head!”

  “Oh my god.” Her face wans. “Is he here?”

  I shake my head. I don’t frequent titty bars myself, but on the occasion I do, I usually come alone. Hale used to go nuts over these clubs—nothing that crossed the line. He put an end to it, though, after falling in love with Hope. I don’t blame him for that; real love is dependable, vulnerable, meaningful. Strippers offer a cheap thrill.

  Which is exactly why I’m fuming now.

  “Ren,” she clips. “He can’t find out. Please.”

  She frowns, stepping back two paces. I cross my arms and puff out my chest, unyielding. In her heels she’s almost as tall as me, not quite. She lowers her face into her palms, breathes deep, then looks up to arrest me with hazelnut eyes, with her hands in the air.

  “So you’re trying to protect me?” she counters, folding her eyebrows into a V. “What are you gonna do, Ren…” She circles her gaze around the club, pinning me last. “…come here and save me every night?”

  I sigh a curse and rake my hand through my hair. “Fuck. I don’t know.” I glance around for Devon, but he’s gone now. Good. A few curious stares remain locked on us. One of the bouncers catches my gaze and ticks up his chin, a warning, folding bigger arms than mine over a massive barrel chest.

  Khadija reaches for my hand with both of hers. “This is my work, Ren. Just for a little while. Let’s go before you cause a scene.”