by C. M. Owens
“What were you showcasing at the gallery?” he asks, not bothered by the bodies bumping into us as they dance around our unmoving ones.
“Several pieces, actually. Why? Did you come peruse?” I drawl, only partially interested in his answer.
He cocks his head, his own secretive smile etching up. “I own the gallery.”
Ah, that explains the extra dose of cockiness.
My eyebrows go up, and he smiles cockier. Not very humble, is he?
I grab the sides of his face, and his smile dies as I tug his head down. He acts like he’s about to struggle when I narrow my eyes and make a show of looking him over.
“Funny. I was thinking you to be more of the model type. Perfect symmetry.”
His eyebrows go up again, and he stares at me like he thinks I’m crazy, while I keep his face smashed between my hands, giving his lips a bit of a fish-pucker effect. He’s still too pretty even like that.
“You truly are a beautiful man,” I say on a long sigh as I release the sides of his face.
“Beautiful?” he asks, laughing lightly.
“Yes. A beautiful…prick.”
I pat the side of his cheek, and all the humor in his expression disappears.
“See you tomorrow, Pretty Prick,” I say over my shoulder as I sashay away in my awesome boots. “See you guys bright and early,” I say cheerily to the table of artists.
“You okay to walk back to your place alone?” Rudy asks so helpfully.
I wink at him. “Don’t worry. Most people here seem really terrified of people who talk to themselves. People seem to give me a wide berth the louder I talk to myself.”
I’m met with a lot of blinks as I grab my purse, but Liam is suddenly back at the table.
“Someone should walk you back to your hotel,” Liam says firmly.
My smile creeps up, and I peer over at him. “I’m not at a hotel. I’m staying with a family friend. And don’t worry,” I tell him as I walk away. Without turning around, I loudly add, “I’m a Wild One.”
Chapter 3
Wild One Tip #222
Don’t fight us when we’re saving your damn life. Otherwise, we might decide to just let you die.
LIAM
I’m not sure what it is about her that I find fascinating.
She’s cute, but it’s LA; cute girls are a dime a dozen. And in her case, she’s sort of sweetly cute with a homegrown air about her, which is not my normal interest.
I’m not sure if it’s the way she doesn’t seem to swoon around me, or if it’s that challenging glint she gets in her eyes when I try to bring her down a notch. Usually, people stumble over themselves to let me talk down to them. Especially new artists.
But not Kylie Malone.
Who the fuck is Kylie Malone?
She’s dressed in her gear, listening attentively to the guide. I’m worried for some reason that she’s full of shit and in over her head. She does not look like someone who has done enough jumps to be on this trip.
She could get killed, for fuck’s sake.
She’s like a honey-haired, grownup version of Shirley Temple, and obviously that doesn’t scream thrill seeker!
She’s wearing some really ugly tennis shoes today, instead of the cowboy boots she was donning so proudly last night. I’m not sure why that is getting my attention. I’m not sure why she’s getting so much of my attention.
“You guys ready?” the guide calls out, bringing me out of my thoughts.
I watch as he splits up our jumps, timing each one, and Kylie gestures for me to go in front of her.
“After you, Shirley Temple,” I yell with a smirk.
She rolls her eyes, and she steps to the edge. My breath catches in my throat when she turns to face me. At first I think she’s going to panic, but then a daring little grin spreads over her face, and she winks at me before flipping—fucking flipping—backwards out of the plane.
That’s not allowed, damn it.
I rush to the doorway, watching as she kicks through the air, spinning around and creating aerial movements like a pro.
Well, I’ll be damned.
I leap out on command, and I try to glide toward her, keeping a safe distance as I watch her spin her circles and flip well below me. I don’t want to be in her chute radius.
Perfectly timed, her chute bursts open, and I keep falling, having some ground to make up. She’s way out ahead of me, but when my time comes to deploy my chute, panic sinks in.
It’s hung.
Trying not to freak the hell out, I jerk and jerk on the cord, but it doesn’t budge.
I look down, seeing the clouds break apart as the ground approaches too quickly.
Every muscle is flexed as I try to jerk open the damn chute, but it’s jammed, refusing to budge, even the backup chute seems to locked up.
I know I checked it a thousand times. I know it was working, damn it!
I never fuck this up. Thoughts racing a thousand miles a minute, panic continues to build, alone with the growing stone in the pit of my stomach, and the uncontainable pressure building in my chest.
The wind actually hurts when it pummels me, sounding in my ears like I’m stuck in a vacuum tunnel. My stomach sinks, and I barely glimpse the lake ahead of us. I begin pulling again, hoping for a miracle.
I finally feel something give, and the backup chute flies open, but I’m still descending too fast, not having enough time to slow like I need to. My stomach feels like it’s climbing out of my throat as the panic I’ve been avoiding claws its way to the surface.
I barely manage to guide myself over the water when I crash to it, feeling sharp, excruciating pain shoot up my leg as I land awkwardly on it. The water almost feels like a wall on impact, and my chute drops down around me, clinging like wet clothing, as I gasp for air and sink, fighting with one good leg to keep my head above water.
I grab a knife from my hip, jerk it up, ignoring the searing pain in my leg as I cut through the chute, feeling fresh air waft over me.
It hurts too bad to try and kick with my right leg, and I’m struggling with the wet parachute and the water as I try to get my pack off before it drags me down.
My eyes glance up just in time to see Kylie disconnect, her discarded chute flying into the air as she crosses her arms over her chest, crosses her feet at the ankles, and drops at least thirty feet into the water.
“Don’t,” I shout, gurgling on water as my head dips below the surface.
I fight, struggling, and force my way back up until my head breaks the surface again. It’s short-lived, because I’m dragged under again by the relentless extra weight, gaining no purchase with the use of one leg.
But there are suddenly hands on my middle, touching me, freeing me. The pack comes off, and it feels like I lose thirty pounds.
My head springs up above water with more ease, and I gasp several bursts of air as my body starts moving backwards.
“Stay flat!” someone yells, but I’m loopy, confused. Almost incoherent.
It’s not until I’m being dragged onto the shore, coughing incessantly to free my lungs of all the water that crept in, that I turn to see the girl who is kneeling beside me, saying something I can’t hear as she pulls my helmet off.
Her hair is drenched, her helmet is already gone, and she’s hovering over me, her lips moving to silent words too far away for my ears.
The pain…is too intense. It feels like my leg is on fire and being hammered at the same time. Each breath I take feels like liquid frost and knives.
All I can hear is my rapidly firing heartbeat drumming in my ears as my vision dims.
My last thought is that Shirley Fucking Temple just saved my life.
Chapter 4
Wild Ones Tip #68
We’re the nicest fuckers you’re ever gonna know. (Kidding. If that’s true, you’ve lived a sad life.)
LIAM
Two days ago I had surgery, and today I finally got to come home with my leg—from thigh to heel—in
a cast.
Yeah. Shattered that motherfucker real good.
Happens when you hit the water so hard that it reacts like a solid mass. I’m lucky the malfunctioning chute slowed my speed enough to let me survive.
I groan, shifting up on the bed, wondering if that pain medication is just a placebo, because I’m still hurting like a little bitch boy with no pain tolerance.
My door buzzes over and over, and I wince as I grab the remote by the bed. Finally, someone has come to check on me.
“Hello?” I ask into the remote, but then the image pops up on the screen, and a curly-haired girl is looking back at me. Well, she’s looking at the camera.
“Just came by to make sure you’re alive,” she says. “And to drop off a piece of art you obviously bought.”
She holds up the sculpture I purchased the second I saw it. Before she saved my life. Before I even knew she existed. I never bothered to meet the artist, never do.
It’s a sculpture that in no way looks like it was made by Shirley Temple.
I push the button to unlock the door. “Come in. I’m in the last room on the right.”
She pushes through the door, and I wheeze on a breath, feeling the crack in my ribs wreaking havoc, just like the doctor said it would.
She walks in, looking perky and refreshing.
“Hey, Shirley,” I say with a grin, surprisingly happy to see her.
Well, to see anyone. I’m dying of thirst. And pain.
“It’s Kylie,” she corrects, narrowing her eyes at me.
“I know. Thanks for bringing that sculpture by.”
She shrugs, coming over to check me out.
I couldn’t stand being at the hospital, but now I wish I hadn’t left, because…no one is returning my calls, and I can’t walk around alone. Everyone keeps saying they’ll swing by later, but then they dodge my calls when I try to make them hold true to their word.
I was lucky to get my sister to drive me here and help me to the room, before she abandoned me to hurry off to the country club for a date.
“Loki. Funny choice in a sculpture from a girl who looks sweet like you. And an interestingly dark take on it too.”
She tilts her head. “I’m not sweet. Like, not even a little bit,” she says with a sweet smile.
Sure she’s not.
“You were sweet enough to drop thirty or forty feet into the water and drag my ass out of the lake before I drowned, and call an ambulance. Thanks for that, by the way. I’d have thanked you sooner if I had your number.”
She smiles at me like she wasn’t expecting me to show gratitude for the fact she literally saved my life.
“I only have a phone on occasion. They’re too expensive for not much purpose, and I prefer to spend my money elsewhere. And Rudy called for the ambulance.”
My smile grows even more. Who the hell doesn’t have a phone? My nephew is four and has a phone.
“You’re kidding.”
She shakes her head, and she hops up on the bed, careful not to jostle me as she points down at her boots. “My only big expense.”
My eyes run down her legs instead, noting the soft, barely-there tan coating them. Her little white shorts do a number on me too. However, an erection hurts. Hurts damn bad. Because it makes my leg tense. And my leg is pitiful at the moment.
“You okay?” she asks when I grimace.
“I think they’re tricking me with water pills instead of pain pills, because I hurt all over.”
Obviously I don’t explain the erection issue.
She leans over, and her strawberry scent makes me harder, putting me in more pain as she pulls back my pill bottle.
“You must be hurting if you’re taking these and yet you’re still in pain.” She looks over at me, frowning. “When was your last one?”
“Six, maybe seven hours ago.”
Her eyes widen. “It clearly states you need to take one every four hours. That’s why you’re hurting.”
She looks around like she’s noticing we’re all alone.
“No one is here to help?” she asks, looking back over at me.
I laugh humorlessly, then wince again when it jostles me.
“Everyone had something more important to do. Apparently.”
Not even going to lie; it’s embarrassing to say that. I realized I wasn’t loaded down with real friends, but no one? Not even my family?
I pay for my family’s lavish lifestyles, and no one can spare a few hours to help me out?
“You won’t be able to use those crutches for at least a couple of weeks. Rudy said you cracked a few ribs, and that’s a bitch with crutches.”
She says this as though she’s experienced it before, and then she glances down at my leg.
“No one is coming?” she asks, no expression on her face.
I shake my head, looking away from her eyes.
“Guess not.”
“I’ll get you some water, and unless you have a problem with some strange girl roaming around in your house, I’ll help you out until you can use them.” She gestures toward the crutches. “Or until someone comes to take my place.”
I grimace for another reason this time. Now I feel…pathetic.
“You don’t have to. You don’t even know me, and let’s face it, I was a bit of a dick.”
She grins widely. “I’m fully capable of handling any personality. And,” she says, looking around, taking in my room, “these are way better than the digs I’m staying in. You’d be doing me a favor, because I’m sick of smelling my cousin’s ex-college-roommate’s dirty socks.”
She returns her gaze to me, still smiling. She’s trying to make it sound like it’s a give and take situation, when really she’s the only one giving, and trying not to make me feel as pathetic as we both know I am.
“You can spare that kind of time?” I ask, my pride falling apart as we speak.
She grins. “Showcases are only on Fridays. I’m on a tour that my dad set up with some connections of his.”
“You’re one of Shasta’s girls?” I ask, confused.
She beams at me. “Yeah. Shasta owes my dad for something, so she came to look at my work. She fell in love with it, and the next thing I knew, she was setting me up with this gallery tour special she was doing. It was a huge break.”
I reach over and tug one of those curls before I can stop myself, and she continues to hold a grin, amused…not slapping my hand away. That’s got to be a good sign.
But then she turns and slides off the bed, and I listen as she moves through the house, opening the fridge that echoes through the large and otherwise empty home.
“This place is massive. And it’s just you who lives here?” she calls out.
“Yeah. I like…space.”
“You mean you like showing off,” she says like a true smartass.
I grin. “Maybe a little. Believe it or not, I worked hard to earn my money. Galleries are just a hobby for me. I own at least fifteen of the best in the world. But my money started from building a chip that changed the way cell phones work.”
“Huh. So that’s why they’re so expensive,” she deadpans, which is…not what I was expecting.
She’s a hard one to impress.
Then again, I do look like death worked me into an early grave, and she’s here because no one else sees the need to bother with me. That’s not very impressive.
Just as she comes back into the room, holding a bottle of water and wearing a teasing smile, I ask, “Why are you doing this?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Because I didn’t get a nose full of water so I could drag you out of that lake, just to watch you suffer alone. Besides, I really do hate gym socks. They disgust me. My boots have been scared. I’ll have Harry drop my things off, if you’ll let me borrow your phone.”
I try not to smile, because I don’t want her to see just how relieved I am. That way she won’t feel guilty if she decides this isn’t a job she has to take.
“I’ll pa
y you, obviously.”
She swats her hand like she’s batting away the offer. “If I wanted money, I would have already made demands. You can pay me back by giving me a space to do some art. I get stir crazy if I don’t have room to spread out, and Harry’s place has been making me stir crazy. Terrible things happen when I get stir crazy.”
My smile grows.
“What terrible things?” I ask with as much seriousness as I can muster.
She gives me a stern look.
“I tug at my hair. It gets frizzy. You don’t want to see me when that happens.”
I laugh, then groan when it hurts. As the pain subsides, I gesture behind me.
“You can take the room next to this one for art. The one down the hall is the biggest guest room if you want to sleep in there.”
She spreads out on my bed, lifting the remote to find a channel. “I’m good sleeping here. Trust me, you’re going to need my help if you have to pee in the middle of the night.”
I study her profile, wondering why in the hell she even gives a damn.
It takes no time at all to realize that Kylie Malone just does whatever in the hell she wants. And it’s usually the nice thing.
Even if it is for a dick like me.
Chapter 5
Wild Ones Tip #894
Fire extinguishers are a necessary evil in our presence.
Make sure all flammable rooms are stocked with at least three of them.
KYLIE
On day seven, he’s staying awake more than he’s sleeping, which is progress. I’m sort of glad he can’t go upstairs. Then I’d have to explain why there’s duct-tape covering the window.
Well, the hole in the window, rather.
It’s not like I meant for the hairdryer to go through it. It’s not like I intentionally spilled an entire bottle of baby oil that resulted in me falling while that hairdryer flew out said window.
Don’t worry. I’ll nail it shut with some ply wood I found out back once he’s dead to the world again and can’t hear me hammering away.
No harm. No foul. At least not until he’s healed enough to go up there and see the damage. I’ll be long gone by then.
