Wilder

by Nina Levine

  Date?

  See, this is why I should never discuss men with the squad.

  “We’re not dating, Chelsea.”

  “You could be. Maybe you should go on a date.”

  “Why?” As soon as the question passes my lips, I wish I could suck it back in. Like, that should be a thing. We say something we regret; we just purse our lips together and whoosh those words right back in.

  “To get to know each other outside of work.”

  “I don’t think that’s what this is.”

  “How do you know unless you ask?”

  The yoga teacher’s Google review whizzes straight on out of my brain when she takes this moment to announce the class is starting. Impeccable fucking timing.

  Dating Wilder?

  Seriously, it was just sex.

  Correction: it was just almost sex.

  And I’m certain he feels the same way.

  I’m choosing to ignore the fact I spent time over the weekend listening to that “Refrigerator Door” song he had playing the other day.

  Also choosing to ignore the fact I fucking like it.

  By the time I arrive at work just after lunchtime, I’ve managed to get myself in a big fat mess over Wilder. No thanks to that talk I had with Chelsea.

  I should never have kissed him.

  I just want to go back to the “us” before that kiss.

  That’s a lie.

  I just want to know what he’s thinking.

  Before he left the other night, he said he didn’t want the night to finish where it did.

  What did he mean by that?

  Did he just want sex?

  Or did he mean he wanted to have sex and then take things further?

  I mean, the man offered me tea and a heart-to-heart before he offered me his lips. Is that the kind of man who just wants to get laid or the kind of man who wants to get laid and spoon you after?

  And holy fuck some sense into me. This. Is. Wilder. The man I’ve spent a year and a half arguing with. The man who drives me fucking insane most days.

  Also, the man who sat in my kitchen with me after I lost my shit over Bailey the other night. And made three cups of tea for me.

  He said he’d call me.

  Spoiler alert, girlfriend: he didn’t call you.

  And that right there is where my brain always circles back to. It’s also the point at which I want to slap myself.

  I don’t do this shit.

  I don’t get all in a fucking flap over men.

  I sleep with them. Sometimes more than once. Sometimes it becomes regular casual sex. What it never leads to is me devoting any of my time to wondering what the guy’s thinking or whether he wants more from me or why he hasn’t fucking called me.

  Right, enough.

  No more thinking.

  And no more second-guessing and getting in a flap.

  I’m going to go in there and do my job and just go with the flow.

  I can totally go with the flow.

  I mean, it’s not something I’ve ever managed in life before, but a girl can learn new skills.

  And honestly, I don’t know what I want, so if Wilder doesn’t want anything, I’m good with that. Besides, it was only going to be sex, and I can get that anywhere.

  I push through the front doors of Trilogy and am greeted by a busy rush of staff running all over the place and more guests than is usual for a Monday at this time.

  “Fuck, I’m glad to see you,” Wilder says after spotting me from the bar. “The lunch rush was crazy, and it’s still going. I need you to take over back of house. It’s a fuckin’ shitshow out there.”

  And hello to me too.

  When I don’t reply straight away, because I’m processing this interaction between us, he says in his bossy tone, “Scarlett. You good with that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And once shit settles down, I need an update on the weekend. Come find me. I’ll probably be in my office.”

  Without waiting for anything else from me, he strides back into the bar.

  Well, all right then.

  I think I really did overthink this.

  The afternoon passes in a blur of staff fucking up, me trying to fix those fuck ups, grumbling guests, chaos in the kitchen, and a mindfuck of epic proportions over Wilder’s indifference to me.

  I’m ready to disown myself over the fact I spent all weekend thinking about that kiss while he doesn’t seem affected by it in the least.

  By the time I went to his office to give him the update he requested, two hours passed without a peep from him. I figured he was busy. I gave myself a pat on the back for not overthinking that. During the update, however, he barely looked at me. Instead, he spent a great deal of time looking at his computer before sending me back to the kitchen to go over inventory.

  Clearly I have issues.

  That I even noticed his lack of attention truly showcases my downfall.

  I am not this girl.

  The one who dissects every word a guy says and every action he takes.

  Yet here the fuck I am.

  Dissecting shit like it’s my job.

  The thing that pisses me off the most?

  I don’t feel like I was the one who started all this between us.

  It was Wilder who told me to stop thinking and to start feeling. It was Wilder who asked if he was imagining this. Hell, it was Wilder who rubbed his damn thumb over my hand and unleashed every fucking thing that happened between us.

  And now he’s the one not interested?

  “Scarlett, you finished going over inventory yet?”

  My head jerks up at Wilder’s question and I find him looking at me from the kitchen doorway with a frustrated expression on his face. An expression that irritates me because it feels a lot like it’s directed at me and my stocktake.

  “Seriously?” I snap, unable to stem the flow of attitude. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  His lips pull into a thin line, and I wonder again how he got those bruises on his face. I don’t spend much time on that thought, though, when he says, “Yeah, well, I need you to speed it along.”

  He’s gone as fast as he appeared, but my irritation doesn’t leave as quickly. It grows with every second I spend finishing the stocktake. Which I get done in record time, may I add.

  When I’m finished, I march out of the kitchen to his office, where I slap the iPad containing the inventory list on his desk. “It’s done. What would you like me to do next, master?”

  That gets his attention in the way I haven’t been able to all afternoon.

  “What’s going on?” he asks, looking up from his computer and narrowing his eyes on me like he’s trying to figure me out.

  What’s going on?

  Is he for real?

  Surely men can’t be this dumb.

  My arm flings out, gesturing wildly in the direction of the kitchen. “You just came at me all frustrated when I did nothing to cause that and demanded I hurry the fuck up and finish the stocktake. That’s what’s going on.”

  “My frustration had nothing to do with you. I never said it did.”

  “You snapped at me asking if I was finished while paintballing that frustration all over me.”

  “I didn’t snap at you.”

  “You did!”

  “Fuck,” he mutters, jamming his fingers through his hair. “Have we got a problem?”

  “Yes! I don’t like being spoken to that way.”

  He stands and walks around the desk, bringing all those muscles of his that side-tracked me last week but that I’m all the way done with now. “This is about Friday night, isn’t it?”

  My chest is a clusterfuck of churning energy, making it hard for me to breathe and to figure out what I’m thinking. “No, this is about how you’ve been treating me today.”

  He stumbles over that, his forehead bunching into lines. “How have I been treating you today?”

  “A little despotic to be honest.”

  Hi
s eyebrows climb a short distance while his lips twinge with that amusement I hate. “I haven’t been despotic.”

  “You fucking have.”

  “I fuckin’ haven’t. I’ve been trying to get shit done, but I haven’t been dictatorial about it.”

  “You must not know what dictatorial means then, because that’s exactly what you’ve been.”

  “I think you’re backpedalling on Friday and picking a fight with me for no other reason than that.”

  That energy in my chest swirls wildly. “There’s nothing to backpedal from.”

  As the words leave my mouth, that damn energy takes over.

  Kicking into high gear.

  Messing with my thoughts.

  Flustering my heart.

  Wilder’s eyes dedicate time to mine.

  In silence.

  Flustering my heart even more.

  “Bullshit,” he eventually says.

  “It’s not bullshit. We danced. We kissed. It was nice. End of story.”

  “It was nice?”

  “Are you looking for better adjectives here? More complimentary words? I can look some up if you want, but it’ll cut into my time taking care of all those jobs you’ve slapped on my plate.”

  “That kiss was more than fuckin’ nice, Scarlett, and you fuckin’ know it.”

  He’s right, and I don’t know why I’m not agreeing with him.

  Except I do know.

  It’s that damn sensation in my chest.

  It’s the brightest of bright red flags.

  A red flag I know to run the hell in the other direction from.

  “All I know is that we shouldn’t have gone there. We have to work together, and it’s hard enough with you being all tyrannical and shit. Adding sex into the mix is a bad idea.”

  “Tyrannical?”

  “Yes.”

  A determined look steals across his face like none I’ve ever seen from him.

  He takes the two steps that separate us, and faster than I see coming, he hooks his arm around my waist and yanks my body hard against his. “Let’s try this again so I can remind you how fuckin’ far from nice my lips are. And if you wanna call this dictatorial, go right fuckin’ ahead.”

  If I thought our first kiss was the best I’ve ever had, I didn’t know what was in store for me with our second.

  I expect him to come in guns blazing with that look he’s wearing, but he doesn’t. No, this man knows how to woo a girl by coming in slow and with purpose.

  He uses those hands of his to take hold of my face while he spends time mapping my features with his gaze like he’s inking them to memory.

  It’s the most sensual thing a man has ever done with me.

  He only has his hands on my face, but I feel his touch everywhere.

  I’m so affected by it that I want to look away, but Wilder reads me too damn well and says, “Don’t you dare look away when I’m taking your beauty in. I want you to watch me. I want you to see what you do to me.”

  I don’t want any part of this.

  Not of his touch, his words, his kiss.

  But I’m twisting and turning and falling faster than I can stop myself.

  And when he brings his mouth to mine and claims my lips in the most erotic dance they’ve ever known, I’m helpless but to admit I’m a liar.

  I want all of those things.

  And I want them from him.

  I surrender completely, giving him everything his lips demand.

  When he watched me, I saw what I did to him, and now I feel how I affect him. The slow, deep rhythm of want and need he kisses me with makes sure of that.

  I miss his mouth as soon as he pulls it away, but my thoughts are in so much disarray I can’t form a sentence.

  Keeping hold of my face, Wilder growls, “Come and see me when you’re ready to acknowledge that kiss was more than nice, and when you’re ready to admit what you want.”

  He exits his office, leaving me breathless and needy.

  Goddamn him and his dictatorial ways.

  And goddamn that mouth of his and the skill he uses it with.

  I’m not sure how a girl is meant to continue living after that kiss if she can’t have more.

  16

  Wilder

  Mum: Has Paul changed his mind over your father’s birthday?

  Me: I’m still working on it.

  Mum: I’m holding off on telling your father. Still hopeful you can work wonders.

  I switch to texting Paul.

  Me: Dinner. Tomorrow.

  Paul: Can’t do. Tonight?

  Me: No. Thursday?

  Paul: Yes.

  Me: Wear your agreeable fucking pants.

  Paul: Bring Scarlett and I’ll wear them.

  Me: No can do.

  Paul: Did you fuck that up already?

  Me: I haven’t fucked it up, but it’d be fucking nice if we could agree on a kiss being off the fucking charts.

  Paul: I knew it. Destined.

  Me: Thursday. 7pm.

  I shove my phone in my jeans and walk down the clubhouse hall to church that Scott’s called while trying to force Scarlett from my mind. It’s a useless fucking endeavour; she’s taken up residence there.

  My thoughts are on an endless loop playing back the kisses we’ve shared. She’s full of shit with her “nice” declaration. I’ve never fucking liked a kiss more than hers. And I know she’s feeling it too; she just won’t admit it because she’s the most stubborn fucking woman alive.

  I didn’t hear much from her yesterday after I shut her up with my lips. I finished work two hours later, and she muttered something about me getting the kind of sleep that might make me less despotic as I was leaving. I ignored her attitude and headed to the clubhouse for a beer and a fucking sanity check.

  “Wilder,” Griff says, catching up with me. “Just letting you know the extra surveillance on the restaurants hasn’t given us any fresh information about who trashed Trilogy.”

  “Blade come up with anything?”

  “Nothing. Whoever it was covered their tracks well.”

  I frown. “It makes no fuckin’ sense. They just, what, wanted a bit of fun?”

  “I agree it makes no sense. It’s also not the style of any asshole we know, so I don’t have much to run on. I’ll keep watching to see if anyone shows their face.”

  We reach our destination and take our seats around the table, waiting for Scott to begin.

  He enters the room, as bearish as he’s been since the ambush on Friday night. He’s had the club working through the list of leads that Flame’s phone provided, and so far, we haven’t had any success figuring out who ordered the hit. King’s coke made it to Mackay safely, though, so at least something went our way on the weekend.

  Scott details the shit we’ve got on this week. Cleaning jobs keep us busy most of the time and will do more than that this week with the list of work he’s already got. I don’t get called in on those often since the restaurants fill my time. However, it looks like they may need my help this week when Scott says, “Wilder, keep yourself free this week.”

  I nod my agreement.

  Scott glances around the room, bringing his gaze to Nash, who’s itching to get his hands on whoever shot him. “Nash, you and Wilder are with me today. Blade’s found some guys who might shed some light on shit. We’re gonna go have a chat.” He shifts his attention to J. “J, I want you with Colt and Riggs. Finish going through that list of assholes we were working off yesterday.” To Gunnar, he says, “You’re heading up the cleaning jobs this week. Manage them in such a way I don’t hear about them.” Then, looking around the room again, he says, “Our next run is in two weeks. I want this motherfucker found before then. Whatever the fuck you have to do to make that happen, fuckin’ do it.”

  Church ends, and I head outside to make a call to Scarlett.

  “You’re gonna be late, aren’t you?” she answers.

  “Really fuckin’ late. As in, the kind where you’re gonna g
et all my jobs done as well as your own.”

  She knows what I mean by this: call whoever you need in to help. However, she doesn’t hesitate to give me her sass. “You do remember what’s happening at Salty Girl today, right?”

  “I’m aware.” The restaurant is booked out today with one of the largest events we’ve ever hosted. It’s six months in the planning, and Gia has almost lost her damn mind over it.

  “Seriously, Wilder, the grey hair I’ll take into my cat lady years will all be caused by you.”

  I chuckle as some of the tension punching through me eases. “You don’t even have one cat. I think the risk of you becoming a cat lady is low.”

  “You’re getting off-topic here. I don’t want grey hairs. You should reconsider your actions for today.”

  “You’re gonna look good with those grey hairs. I’ve gotta go.”

  I end the call and tap out a text to her.

  Me: I’m on text today but you’re not gonna need me.

  Scarlett: Good to know you’re available for something. I’ll be sure to take advantage of that every time Gia loses her shit because if I have to listen to it, there’s no way you’re getting out of not hearing all about it too.

  Me: I see you’ve moved on from losing your own shit yesterday.

  Scarlett: Smart men know when to fold ’em. Show me how smart you are.

  Me: I knew you had some country in there somewhere.

  Me: I’m gonna hold ’em, Scar. I know when not to run.

  She doesn’t come back to me, but I don’t expect her to.

  Scarlett’s not going to make this easy; I know the score.

  I hope she does too.

  It’s a long day filled with a lot of bullshit that gets us nowhere. The guys Blade led us to didn’t end up proving useful. It was time wasted after which we wasted a whole lot more time chasing up other leads that gave us nothing.

  Just after 3:00 p.m., I walk into my office at Trilogy and, after pulling up a playlist on Spotify, start going through emails and taking care of issues that have come up across all four restaurants. I haven’t heard from Scarlett since our earlier conversation, so I take that to mean the event at Salty Girl is going well. The fact I also haven’t heard from Gia would indicate this.