Wilder Love

by Rose, Emery

  My conscience… it was so fucking loud. It drowned out the voices around me, the music and the clinking of silverware, and the sound of the water lapping against the boats in the harbor. I felt my chest tighten, and if I didn’t know better I’d think I was having a heart attack. I took a few breaths through my nose and rubbed my chest trying to alleviate the pressure.

  My stomach churned, and I wanted to get Remy out of here. Grab her hand and run away with her. To Fiji or Bali or Tahiti. Keep running without looking back. Anywhere but here, where the eyes were accusing and the time I’d done for my crime didn’t seem to matter. How could it? I couldn’t bring his son back from the dead.

  Facts had gotten muddled—Tristan’s drunk girlfriend and his mother had been the only witnesses. That night I had known I wouldn’t stand a chance. I knew I was going to prison. I knew I would be found guilty because I was guilty. I took someone’s life. My lawyer told me there was no proof of what Tristan had done to Remy. It also hadn’t helped my case that I’d been having sex with a minor or that Tristan’s friends had come forth and said they saw me ‘physically assault’ Tristan the day he’d dropped in on Remy down at the break.

  The odds had been stacked against me. John Hart was rich and powerful and wouldn’t rest until he’d gotten his pound of flesh. I had accepted a plea bargain. Better than dragging Remy into court. I was advised that the prosecution would dig up everything they could on Remy—her messy home life and our relationship. I didn’t want that for her. If I was going down, I had no intention of taking her with me. It had been my decision to go after Tristan, and I had always believed that people needed to be held accountable for their actions.

  Remy placed the palm of her hand on my cheek and turned my head toward her, searching my face. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  Her brow furrowed, and I wrapped my hand around her wrist, rubbing the delicate skin with my thumb as I lowered her hand from my face, kissing it before I released it. “It’s all good. Let’s get the check.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly.

  I signaled for the bill and threw down some cash, trying to hustle Remy out of there. But it was too late. John and Amanda Hart stopped in front of us, impeding our progress. They looked like they had just stepped off a yacht. He was wearing khakis, a white button-down shirt and navy blazer. She was wearing wide-legged white pants and a blue shirt knotted at the waist, a designer handbag in the crook of her arm. I didn’t know why their outfits and physical appearance were the first thing I noticed but they both looked impeccable. Her hair was styled to sleek perfection, her makeup expertly applied.

  Remy tucked her arm in mine and wrapped her hands around my bicep. I didn’t know if she was hanging on to me for strength or trying to give me some of her own strength. This was the first time I’d come face to face with the Harts in the six or seven months since I’d come back to Costa del Rey.

  What was the proper etiquette for a situation like this? There was none.

  “If you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving,” Remy said, tugging on my arm, trying to get me to move.

  “Excuse you?” Amanda Hart bit out, her face twisting into something ugly. She advanced on Remy, getting right in her face, and pointed her finger in accusation. “We know all about you, you little tramp. Paige told us everything. We know how you went after Tristan, you shameless little hussy.”

  Remy released my arm and took a step forward, her chin lifted in defiance. She was so fucking beautiful and strong and brave at this moment. “Whatever she told you, it was a lie. Tristan was the one who came after me.”

  Amanda laughed harshly. “She said you would say that. We looked into your background. We know all about you and that mother of yours. You act all high and mighty, but you crawled out of the gutter and that’s where you belong.”

  My jaw clenched, and I tried to take deep breaths through my nose. Find your fucking Zen, Shane. Don’t let them provoke you. Don’t lose your shit. Not again.

  I pushed Remy behind my back. “Whatever you have to say, say it to me. Leave my girlfriend out of this. I’m the only one who deserves your venom.”

  Amanda took the opportunity I’d presented and unleashed her fury on me. “I hope you rot in hell,” she hissed. “You killed our son.”

  “I’m sorry. It was an accident.” What else could I say?

  She lunged at me and I held my hands up in surrender, letting her shove at me and pound my chest with her fists. Her nails scored my skin and black mascara tears coursed down her cheeks. I could smell the wine on her breath and I knew that she was drunk.

  “Stop this,” Remy said, and I could hear that she was crying and was standing beside me now.

  “Do you think that saying you’re sorry or a letter of apology will change anything?” Amanda cried. She spit in my face, the ultimate insult, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand, dropping my arms to my sides. Amanda’s face crumpled, and her shoulders shook as her sobs became louder.

  John Hart stepped in and wrapped his arms around his wife, pulling her against his chest. Amanda covered her face with her hands, her shoulders sagging as she wept for her dead son in front of the man who had taken him away from her.

  “I thought I made myself clear when I told you not to set foot in this town again,” he told me, his voice low and his eyes hard.

  I looked around at the crowd we had drawn and curbed the words that were on the tip of my tongue. Go to hell. You’ve gotten your pound of flesh. You can’t banish me from my home. Instead of responding, I put my arm around Remy’s shoulders and steered her away from the crowd, leaving John Hart to console his wife. I didn’t blame Amanda Hart. If I had come face to face with the person driving the white van that had killed my mother, I would have reacted the same way. Probably worse. I didn’t blame John Hart for wanting to send me to prison either. An eye for an eye. But dragging Remy into it was where I drew the line.

  * * *

  Remy came home with me and we showered together in the outdoor shower. She dressed in one of my T-shirts and crawled into bed with me, resting her head on my shoulder and her hand on my heart. I stared at the ceiling in the darkness of my room and stroked her shower-wet hair that smelled like citrus shampoo.

  “Tell me something good, Remy.”

  “There’s only one you and you are not replaceable.”

  I wrapped a lock of her hair around my fingers, remembering the story about the farmhouse she lived in and the cat she had to leave behind. “I always wondered if you got another cat.”

  “No. I would have had to say goodbye too often. Too sad for words.”

  “Like missing the sunrise.”

  “Or the ocean.”

  “Or your smile.”

  “Or your big heart. I think I fell in love with you the very first time I saw you. You were wearing a faded blue T-shirt and black surf shorts with a blue design. You were barefoot with a golden tan and messy surfer hair that I wanted to run my fingers through.”

  “You were wearing cut-off Levis with a ring from a Skoll can in the back pocket. Beat-up white Chucks and a swim team T-shirt from a college you didn’t go to. It was maroon.” She rolled onto her back, and I propped my head on my elbow, peering down at her face. Her lips curved into a small smile, her eyes on mine. “Your hair was wavy and wild, halfway down your back and I imagined it wrapped around my fist as I kissed your bee-stung lips.”

  “Your nose was peeling.” She traced her finger over my nose. “I thought it was adorable.”

  “Your dark nail polish was chipped. I thought it was sexy.” I pressed my lips to her wrist.

  “I stared at your hand on the gearshift. It was vein porn. You have the best hands.”

  “I couldn’t keep my eyes off your mouth, wishing it was my teeth gnawing on that plump bottom lip.” I kissed the corner of her mouth. Below her ear. And her cheek. “I wanted you from the minute I saw you walking out of your apartment. I saw you first.”

  I hooke
d my hands under her T-shirt and gently pulled it over her head, tossing it on the floor. I kissed her stomach. Her hipbone. Her breasts.

  “I loved you first. And last. And always,” she said, tugging down my boxers. I undressed quickly and climbed between her legs.

  My lips traveled from her jaw to her ear and I whispered, “I love you, Remy. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

  “Say it again.”

  “I love you.” My hands slid up her thighs, her sides, her neck and into her hair. “I love you.”

  My Firefly. My forever.

  I found her hand and entwined our fingers, our joined hands resting next to her head on the pillow. I glided inside her. I was slow, and we were quiet, allowing our bodies to say everything that our words couldn’t. Nine years of loving her. The cold and lonely years. The pain and the heartache. But even after everything, here we were, our love stronger for all that we’d gone through.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “For everything.”

  She touched my face. “Shh. You’re my ocean, Shane. I’d never turn my back on you.”

  Her legs wrapped around me and I thrust harder, stroking in and out, blinded by my love for her. She whispered my name. She told me she would love me forever. Her nails dug into my back, and her body curved away from the mattress.

  My tears fell on her heaving chest. She pulled my head down to hers and our mouths met.

  Love tasted like the sea, like tears and hope and possibility.

  Love tasted like Remy.

  * * *

  By the next day, photos of us were all over social media. Remy had tried to hide it from me, so I didn’t find out until Monday at work when one of the guys mentioned it. Later that day, my boss Raymond, called me into his office—a trailer on the demolition site and he fired my ass.

  By Tuesday, it turned into an all-out war with the Harts leading the charge. As if just the sight of me had stirred up new animosity. What more did they want from me? I’d given them my pound of flesh. I’d sent them letters of apology from prison. I had let Amanda Hart spit in my fucking face. My father had lost his business and soon he would be gone. He didn’t need this shit in his life. Remy and I had lost each other, and for years, I had lost myself. Now, she was being dragged into this mess because the Harts had decided it wasn’t enough, they wanted more. They felt it was somehow within their rights to publicly shame her.

  Enough was enough. Remy and I had found our way back to each other and we weren’t going to let outside forces drive us apart. Not again.

  “Now we’re talking,” my dad said, rubbing his hands together when we shared our plan of action with him. It was becoming something of a catchphrase for him. Now we’re talking. Turns out my dad was more of a fighter than I’d given him credit for. “I’m proud of you. And for what it’s worth, if someone had done that to your mother, I would have done the same damn thing.”

  I didn’t know if our plan was the right course of action but when your name and your reputation and everything you had worked hard for all your life was being shit on, sometimes there was only one clear line of defense. Tell the truth.

  40

  Remy

  Two Weeks Later

  “Let them talk,” I said, draining the rest of the champagne in my flute as our car stopped outside the drop-off entrance to the Hollywood Bowl. Bastian had sent a car to pick us up, suspecting we wouldn’t show up unless he forced the issue and plied us with expensive alcohol. “They don’t know us.”

  “You don’t care?” Shane asked before he knocked back the rest of the whiskey in his tumbler.

  “I only care if it upsets you.”

  “Fuck ‘em. If you’re okay, I’m okay.”

  And I was more than okay. I was downright giddy. We tumbled out of the ridiculous car Bastian had sent—a stretch Hummer with a fully stocked minibar and a driver who looked like Ringo Starr—a little bit tipsy but not drunk. Shane was wearing frayed cargo pants with the hems rolled up, a plain white T, and the straw fedora I took off my head and placed on his. He looked effortlessly cool and gorgeous.

  I flicked the brim with my fingertip. “You look jaunty.”

  “You look badass.” He gave me a playful smack on the ass and a wink.

  What I looked like was a grown-up version of the girl he met, in ripped denim shorts, a black skull tank top, and an Army jacket. He slung an arm around my shoulders and guided us to the outdoor amphitheater. “The beach bum and the queen of the catwalk.”

  “The god on a stick and the alley cat.”

  “Put your claws away,” he said. “You’ll hurt someone.”

  “My sharp tongue already did.”

  “You’re my hero, Firefly.” He dipped his head and kissed the corner of my mouth. I fisted his T-shirt in my hands and backed him against the wall. We kissed like it was the end of the world, our hands roaming and our tongues tangling, an island in the sea of people streaming past us in search of food and drinks.

  Love tasted like whiskey and warm sunshine and the sea. I was drunk on his kisses and high on his scent. I lifted my eyes to his hazel greens, dark with lust, and hooded with desire. His grin was slow and lazy, and he swept his tongue across the lower lip I’d just been sucking on.

  I cocked my head. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Baseball. And a museum I went to on a grade school field trip…” I pressed my body flush against his. He groaned, and I laughed, grinding my body against his erection to torture him.

  “I’m wet, if that’s any consolation.”

  “Not helping,” he said, laughing. “Fuck. This is painful. Look what you do to me.”

  I took a step back and we both looked down at the source of his pain. Not going to lie, I wasn’t sorry in the least. Unable to keep from laughing, I shielded his body with mine, giving him a chance to readjust himself in his cargo pants. Then we swaggered to our seats in the Pool Circle right down in front of the stage.

  I bumped my hip against his and we took our seats on folding chairs. I was halfway in his lap, our arms around each other, my legs slung over his thighs. We were Shane and Remy 2.0. There was something to be said about giving zero fucks. And there was a lot to be said about telling the truth. It was liberating. After the backlash we got from those photos on social media and the trash talk from the Harts, we refused to take it lying down. One of the perks of being a model and being friends with a rock star was that I knew people and I had contacts.

  With the help of Bastian’s publicist, I set all those wagging tongues straight. The Harts filed a lawsuit against me, but they dropped it when Shane and I went to speak with them, taking our lawyer with us. We’d tried to be as respectful as we could of Tristan’s memory, and we’d kept the details vague. Nobody needed to know the whole sordid tale.

  In some ways, I felt bad for the Harts but at the same time, it was unfair for Shane to shoulder all the blame and get all that backlash and vitriol aimed at him. Tristan’s death had been an accident and Shane had not gone over there, unprovoked as they’d claimed. The beauty of social media was that there was always a new scandal or a juicy bit of titillating gossip to eclipse the last story. So, in time, I knew the interest would die down and nobody would remember our twenty seconds in the spotlight.

  But there had been a few positive developments over the past couple weeks and although we had to wade through a lot of shit to get to this place, I thought we were stronger for it. The surfing community had rallied around Shane and even though he said he could never compete again, it meant a lot to him that his former competitors and fellow surfers had come to his defense.

  Sometimes you had to use your voice. It could be a powerful tool.

  Bastian took the stage and the crowd went wild, seventeen thousand fans screaming his name. Worshiping him. Hanging on to every note and lyric as if it was their lifeline. He left his heart and soul, sweat and tears on that stage. For his art, Bastian would bleed himself dry. After his live performances, he was always emotionally draine
d but fueled by adrenaline. A high when you’re feeling low. A dangerous drug for anyone, but especially for Bastian. His highs were manic, his lows laid him out for days or weeks at a time.

  He was beautifully broken and damaged, and up on that stage, he looked every inch the rock star, from his tangle of dark hair to his skinny black jeans and beat-up motorcycle boots. He was skinny but cut, sweat coating his bare chest and abs, his shirt having been flung into the audience and caught in the hands of a girl who buried her nose in it and cried with joy.

  Shane and I didn’t get caught up in the feeding frenzy. We listened to the music, our arms wrapped around each other as Bastian sang about a girl who was just as broken and damaged as him. He sang about a girl with a ghost-sized hole in her heart who was haunted by the memory of the boy she loved. Hopelessly. Madly. Tragically. Bastian put lyrics and notes to my pain and heartache, and he created magic, turning something ugly into something that was heartbreakingly beautiful. That was his gift, even though sometimes he felt as if he’d been cursed.

  * * *

  “If committing manslaughter doesn’t say love, fuck if I know what does,” Bastian said by way of greeting when he climbed into the back of the Hummer after the show. After he’d rubbed his sweaty chest all over my tank top and gave me a smack on the ass when I complained that I’d have to smell him all the way home.

  “Someone needs to put that in a Hallmark card,” Shane deadpanned.

  Bastien howled with laughter and lit a cigarette, bumping his fist against Shane’s. “Good to meet you, mate. Glad you finally got your head out of your ass. Saves me from having to play fairy godmother.”

  Shane chuckled and wrapped his arm around me. He knew that Bastian wasn’t a threat and that all we’d ever been was friends. “You’ll have to find yourself a new muse.”

  “Who knows? It might be you, Golden Boy,” Bastian said with a wink.