by Irma Geddon
TAMING THE WOLF
Irma Geddon
Copyright © 2015 Irma Geddon
Jared is a young medical resident with a quick wit, a ripped body and a heart of gold. He has a terrible secret—one that has always stopped him from baring his heart to any girl.
Paige is a smart girl, but she’s hopelessly shy and awkward—that is, until Cupid stabs her with his golden arrow, and all she can think about is getting in the pants of perfect but secretive Jared.
Will Cupid’s decision to make Paige fall hopelessly in love with Jared spell trouble for them both?
***
CUPID'S LOVESICK
The LoveSick is a singles bar where humans unknowingly mingle with creatures of all kinds.
The bar’s owner is an old, wrinkled and bitter Cupid. Past his use-by date in the era of online dating, he gets his fun from stabbing unsuspecting people with his golden arrow. But with his rusty matchmaking skills, can his ill-omened lovers ever find true love? Or does the God of Love always eventually get it right?
TAMING THE WOLF is the second short story of the C Series. Each story is STANDALONE and can be read in ANY ORDER. :)
Chapter One
I’m not a big fan of singles bars. I’ve always thought that one should not be that desperate for love—that one shouldn’t have to go seek for it. It’s cheap. It’s debasing.
Yet, here I am. Desperate for love, and also apparently a big pushover because I’m not only here, I’m here alone. We’d had plans to meet here, my girlfriends convincing me that this was more for their benefit than it was for my own, because they knew, I guess, if they’d told me the truth I wouldn’t have shown up.
They tricked me, and I can’t even convince myself that I’m going to make them pay for their treacherous behavior. I know that in their crazy, stupid little bird heads they mean well. They just don’t—or don’t want to—grasp how much I despise singles bars.
I know this isn’t the end of it. I know they’re going to tease me mercilessly tomorrow if I don’t spend at least an hour here, so I just order an over-the-top cocktail when the waiter makes his way to my table conveniently tucked into a corner where I can mope in peace.
The LoveSick is a nice place, with quite a select clientele. There are no bouncers at the door, but inside there is a quiet ambiance—people in the well-dressed crowd are mingling around the pub tables, a drink in their hands, smiling and laughing. The lights are dimmed, the atmosphere intimate. The music is good but not too loud in order to make conversations possible.
I can’t help but feel inadequate. I’m the eternal lonely girl, the one nobody talks to at parties, the one nobody approaches at the grocery store. I’m the one who has to be set up with her dates, and even then, I’m the girl who never gets past the first one.
Oh, I got some interest when I went on those dates. The guys that were into me were the ones looking for a heated night and not much more… and that wouldn’t even be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that I wasn’t attracted to any of them. They were responsible adults, with boring day jobs, bland hobbies, and really, really dull conversationalists. I just couldn’t connect with them.
Sitting behind the bar, a dead ringer for Peter Dinklage is chatting with a few patrons. Well, Peter Dinklage, plus twenty or thirty more years. Still looking good, though. He seems to be the center of attention for a lot of people here.
The ones hovering around him are all laughing at his every word, and they all seem perfectly at ease in the bar. They have the kind of confidence that makes people attractive. I don’t belong here, they’re clearly all out of my league.
Well, most of all that one guy who just entered the bar. I noticed him because Old Peter Dinklage waved at him cheerfully as soon as he saw him walk through the door. Wow, that guy is gorgeous. Tall, wearing a dark brown leather jacket, with longish dark hair, square jaw… I think my heart skipped a beat. If the others are out of my league, I wouldn’t dare to dream he would give me the time of day.
As he takes his jacket off, putting it on the back of a chair, I have to stop myself from drooling. He is very muscular, ripped really, I can see as much under his very tight black sleeveless shirt. One of his arms is completely tattooed with intricate tribal shapes. Oh. My. God. I think my eyes might fall out of their sockets if I keep staring at him.
I jump a bit on my seat when I realize someone is standing beside me. Old Peter Dinklage. He is every bit as short as I imagined, shorter than me when I’m sitting even—but his face is full of personality and charm. He is staring at me intently, looking impatient, both his hands behind his back.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
He is way less charming when he opens his mouth. My familiar embarrassment flares as my mind reels. He’s asking me what I think I’m doing here, in his bar full of gorgeous people, with my bland looks. He’s going to ask me to leave.
“J— Just finishing my cocktail. I’ll— I’ll be on my way,” I say, afraid of a scene, tears starting to pool in my eyes. I push the cocktail aside, though it’s still mostly full, and start to grab for my purse, but his left little chubby hand stops mine.
“Blondie? You’re going already?”
Okay. Mixed signals. Mixed signals. What do I do?
“I— I—“
“You-you what?” he says. “Aren’t you going to say hello to that handsome piece of ass over there?”
I don’t have to look where he is nodding to know who he is talking about. I bet everyone noticed how infatuated at first sight I was, and they are all laughing behind my back for even daring to look at, let alone lust over, someone that striking. Well, better behind my back than to my face I guess, but I’m not even sure I’ll be able to avoid either—bad high school memories. I look around to gauge the level of shaming I’m going to be subjected to, but no one is looking at me except for Old Peter.
“I— I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying without success to imagine a way out of this conversation.
“Cal! Bring Blondie here that Love Potion I mixed for her, and hurry the fuck up!” Old Peter calls. I again look around, afraid once more he’s called attention to me, but except for a tall waiter rushing with a tray no one is paying attention to us.
This is weird. Are they all looking away out of embarrassment for me? Old Peter Dinklage sure isn’t trying to be inconspicuous. My eyes keep darting all over the place, but the atmosphere hasn’t changed, and people keep chatting and flirting around me, ignoring me.
Cal puts a cocktail in front of me. I think about protesting—I didn’t even finish my first drink. Honestly, I just want to get up and leave, but the look on Old Peter’s face tells me I won’t get away with that. Do I want to piss him off? He seems pretty unstable.
“It’s on the house, Blondie,” he insists, interrupting my thoughts.
The cocktail is beautiful. It’s pink, and smells heavenly—like berries and lemon and rum, I think—and is served in a tall, elaborately crafted glass with a heart at its center. A sort of fog emanates from the drink—it looks just how I would imagine a love potion should look like. I pull the stirrer from the slushy drink. It’s heavier than it should be—maybe it’s made from solid gold—and shaped like a small arrow.
“Aren’t you going to drink it?” Old Peter insists, making it hard for me to refuse. Okay, you get it now: I’m a pushover.
I babble, torn between the need to find a polite way to refuse and leave, and the strong inclination to do as I’m told and get it over with, when somehow the stirrer slips from my fingers and clatters onto the ground. Panicked, I shoot Old Peter an apologetic look. He’s still staring at me, irritated but with a curious look on his face. “I’m sorry,” I say, starting to bend over to pick the stirrer up�
�what if it’s real gold, just like those fancy ice cream parlors that they serve you your dessert in a sterling silver bowl? I better not lose it.
“Leave it,” says Old Peter Dinklage, his tone suddenly playful, so much lighter than I imagined it would be after I dropped the pricey stirrer. “I’ve got another one right here.”
I straighten up, thinking there is probably no way I can escape drinking that cocktail now, but my thoughts are interrupted as Old Peter Dinklage thrusts forward and pierces my heart with a bigger golden arrow.
Chapter Two
I grab at the edge of the table as a sudden pain shoots through my ribcage. Stumbling forward and taking the cocktail and napkins down with me, I fall onto my hands and knees on the wet floor, barely noticing the glass shards that gore me as the rest of the cocktail drips off the table and onto my neck. It hurts so much!
Love hurts, Blondie.
Did— Did someone just talk to me? I glance in front of me and see Old Peter Dinklage’s small feet right beside me.
Sigh.
My hand flies up to my chest instinctively, trying to assess the damage, but I can’t find the arrow. I look at my fingers, and they’re red. Well, not really red, more a reddish pink, and they smell like strawberries—except for my palms where shards entered my skin. Oh my God, there’s no blood on my chest, I think, feeling just an ounce of relief. I can’t believe that asshole stabbed me. Well… Did he stab me? I’m not wounded—I don’t understand… What’s happening?
I look around, panicked, wondering why no one is helping me. Everyone seems to be absorbed in their own discussion, ignoring my pain.
“Look at that mess,” I hear Old Peter grumble. “Cal, come on, wake the fuck up!”
“I’m coming,” I hear Cal call back from afar. He doesn’t seem alarmed by the situation either, which is something I don’t understand. Why is no one reacting normally?
I try to get up, and it’s not without difficulty. The pain in my chest recedes quickly, to my surprise, while the one in my knees and palms flares up.
“Hey Jared!” I hear Old Peter call.
Stop calling me that.
Wh— What? I fall back loudly on my tushy. I stare at Old P— at the bar owner, dumbfounded. I thought he had told me to stop comparing him to Peter Dinklage, but he is talking to… Oh my God, to the sexy guy from earlier. I look around but no one is paying attention to me, and I wonder who I just heard. It’s nothing, it’s probably shock, or maybe just a weird coincidence.
Cal arrives by my side, grabs my arm and pulls me up. I feel both anxious and stupid… did I cause a scene about something I imagined? There are multiple glass shards implanted in my hands and legs where I touched the floor, but no open wound on my chest. Is this the beginning of some sort of mental illness?
Cal makes a what-a-mess face and tsks, as he steers me into an office room behind the bar to sit on an armchair. “This doesn’t look good,” he says, eyeing my left knee. “You’re going to need medical assistance to get all the glass out of the wound. I’m going to call the—“
“Nah, no need,” interrupts Old Peter Dinklage, entering the room with Jared and shooing Cal away absent-mindedly before I can thank him. “Jared here is a medical student, he is going to take care of Blondie.”
“Hello,” says Jared, his deep voice exactly how I imagined it would be. As he kneels in front of me, I notice his eyes are a rich earthy brown, with dark green specks and a black rim around the pupil.
I have a hard time thinking straight. Is it me or does he have the most wonderful scent in the world? I can smell it from where I am, despite the stench of the cocktail on my clothes. It’s not something you can find bottled—it’s manly, powerful, yet simple and clean. Like a breath of fresh air in a mountain forest.
“Are you okay, miss?” says Jared, a look of concern on his face. I blurt out a yes, when I realize I haven’t spoken a word since I was stabbed. Well, I have no stab wound, so… Did I dream all this? I know I did fall and cut myself on the stupid glass, though.
Cal’s back with the bar’s emergency kit. It’s bright pink, with glitter on it—I’m caught unaware by the absurd randomness of it, and I laugh out loud. No one else seems to find it amusing, though. They all look at me with concern.
“I’m going to clean these wounds,” says Jared. “It’s probably nothing, but you might want a doctor to look at them soon. You may need a tetanus shot, unless you’re current. Do you know the last time you had one?”
I shake my head. I can’t remember for the life of me if I’ve ever had one. Those eyes… I’m hypnotized.
He takes out a pair of tweezers from the kit, some sort of metallic bowl, small pads of gauze that he douses in antiseptics, and a pair of plastic gloves.
“Okay, I’m out. Call Cal if you need something. I fucking hate blood, makes me sick,” says Old Peter Dinklage.
“I’m good, you can go,” answers Jared.
“By the way, my name’s Cupsy,” says the owner, looking straight in my eyes and pausing a few seconds to stare me down before heading out, pushing Cal out of the room as he goes.
I’m alone with Jared, and feeling shy. I don’t even feel pain anymore, I’m way too self-conscious for that. My mind wiggles free, imagining a thousand sexy scenarios where he would declare his endless love for me right before he lays me down on the office’s desk to make love to me passionately.
The next best thing happens. Jared’s hand snakes around my calf, lifting it to inspect my leg closer, and I can feel his breath on my skin. I can feel myself blushing, and I feel hot and bothered down there.
“This might hurt a little,” he says, looking straight into my eyes. I nod, dreading the pain but more interested in taking him in—the whole handsomeness of his square jaw, how his hair is lush and frames his face perfectly, how his hand is strong yet gentle around my calf. And his smell, God, his smell!
He takes the glass out shard by shard and yes, it hurts all over again. I’m a bit of a baby when it comes to pain, but I don’t think I’m exaggerating. I try to ease up on the grimaces when he peeks my way, but I can tell I haven’t fooled him because he becomes even gentler as he works on cleaning my wounds.
“So, can I ask your name?” he asks out of the blue, making me jump. “I heard Captain Cupsy call you Blondie, but I don’t know— I know he likes to give people nicknames—“
“Paige. C— Captain Cupsy?”
“Yeah,” he says, a big lopsided grin lighting his face. “It’s a far-fetched joke about how he could be the Captain of the Love Boat—you remember that old TV show?—and how he should redecorate and rename the bar accordingly. He hasn’t folded to our demands yet, obviously.”
“Oh, I remember, yes! I’m more an A-Team fan, though. But actually, he looks more like that guy from Game of Thrones…”
“You should totally not tell him that, it pisses him off,” Jared laughs. “He hates that guy. And that show. And also the character…”
I snigger at the thought. “With a passion,” he adds, more serious.
The instant camaraderie I have with Jared is something I have not often experienced—and certainly not with the opposite sex. Yet, I am still feeling a lot of tension between us.
“So, beside our mutual passion for old TV shows, what else do we have in common?”
I’m so surprised by the tone of the conversation that I almost forget that he is still picking up glass shards from my wounds—maybe that’s what he’s going for.
“Not our jobs, probably. Cupsy mentioned that you’re a medical student…,” I begin.
“Yeah, fourth year,” he says, and my jaw drops to the floor. He looks awfully young for someone that is about to become a doctor soon. “What about you?”
“I work in a bank. Not even a bank teller, I’m one of those in the back who answer phones and make sure the forms are filled correctly by our clients,” I say, not really feeling good about myself in comparison to him.
“Okay,” he says, “so we don’t
have the same kind of jobs, but I’m sure we have more in common than our undying love for McGyver and Mister T.”
He’s almost finished bandaging my knees and hands—that’s going to be great for work tomorrow. I wonder if I’ll be able even to hold a pen. Maybe I should ask for a note? Nah, I love my boring job too much, meaning I need the money too much. I’d go over there and write with a stump if I had to—
“How about eating?” Jared says, interrupting my thoughts.
“Uhm, eating?”
“Yeah. I have a feeling that you eat. Breakfast, lunch… maybe even dinner.”
“Oh. My. God. It’s like you’re psychic! I do eat. About three times a day!” I say, giddy. This guy is great… and looks so friendly. Could he like me?
Duh!
Okay, I’m hearing voices now. Not good. I don’t get it, I didn’t fall on my head. I know I should be terrified, but I just can’t spare the thought as soon as I lose myself in Jared’s presence… All my thoughts belong to him right now. His deep and meaningful eyes, the way his sense of humor draws me in, and of course his absolutely droolworthy body.
“I eat too,” Jared says playfully. “It’s an amazing coincidence. I wonder how we haven’t met before, what with all this eating that we both do.”
“I agree. It’s odd,” I say, trying to keep a serious face.
“We should do something about that,” he says, securing the last bandage around my wrist. “This whole not-meeting during meals.”
I gulp. He’s so dreamy. Yummy, funny, but also smart if he is in med school… I’m two inches away from discarding my rule of not meeting men in singles’ bars, and absolutely not dating them if I do. Well, if I had such a rule in the first place. That’s the kind of rule I could have. I’m picky. I have standards. Right? Right. Well, if I had that kind of rule I’d be throwing it away. It’s a stupid rule anyway.
“What do you suggest we do about it?” I ask, feeling suddenly very self-conscious. And gross, with all that cocktail on my clothes and bloody hands and legs.
Jared gets up and grabs my elbow to help me up as well. All of a sudden, we’re awfully close—well, awfully is not the right word. I have to bend my head backwards to look him in the eyes, and I can feel the heat emanating from his body. We’re that close. If I moved just a little bit forward, our bodies would be touching. That idea makes it impossible for me to think about anything else.
