Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It)

by Callie Harper

  I hadn’t touched the family money since. Money solved some problems, but in my experience it created way worse ones. It corrupted and corroded. Stronger than any smelting fire, it twisted and burned, distorting people’s intentions and desires. It created a world where you never knew who was being honest, who was just using you. You weren’t an individual, you were a Kavanaugh, a dollar sign. And even though I hated using my family’s money to do it, I’d dipped in that one time to secure my escape.

  I made my way over to where I kept some sneakers. I wore boots when working with fire, but now it was time to sweat. I’d wasted enough time today standing around brooding, all in my head. I didn’t do that. I was a physical guy, in my work and in how I experienced the world.

  One end of my huge corrugated metal warehouse was devoted to CrossFit. Or at least my own version of CrossFit. I was sure I’d be in trademark violation if I used the term, which I never did. I didn’t want to be one of those braggy guys. Someone had once told me a joke that stuck with me: “An atheist, a vegan, and a crossfitter walked into a bar. I only know because they told everyone within two minutes.” I didn’t want to be that guy.

  But throwing around tires, climbing up and around on ropes and dragging cement blocks on chains? That was my idea of a good time. And whenever I found myself getting too much in my head, there was nothing like a body-pounding, sweaty mess of a workout in my warehouse to get me back in the game.

  An hour later, covered in sweat and panting like a beast, I made my way over to my cabin. After a shower, a burger and a beer, I felt like myself again. So what if I’d met a woman last night who’d knocked my socks off? Who needed socks? And if I did, I had other pairs.

  And I didn’t need to respond to my brother right away. I could think on it a little while longer. Maybe there was an out and I just hadn’t discovered it yet. Maybe he’d come to his senses, cancel the whole damn spectacle and decide to elope. Anything could happen.

  Meanwhile, the night was still young. I wondered what Violet was up to, whether she was still in town, maybe over at her condo in something silky, sliding between the sheets.

  But, see, that was why I needed to get busy. Not get busy, but get occupied. In my workshop. Otherwise I’d find myself in my truck heading on over just to check in, and I knew exactly what that would lead to. While my cock jumped up and yelled hell yes, the rest of me replied gravely, hell no. You had your fun. Now button up.

  In my workshop, I liked to have a bunch of projects in the works at the same time. That gave me more room to pick and choose whatever I felt drawn to, plus accommodated delays like waiting for a supply to come in the mail or a layer of clear coat to dry. My workshop was filled with old, classic car and motorcycle pieces in different phases of transformation. But what I felt like working with right now was some wood. Not that kind of wood.

  I had a great section of an old farmhouse, probably about 100 years old, torn down and left to rot. The wood had been weathered by the elements and time. No processing could have given it the kind of texture it had, the depth of light and shadows. I’d found it a couple of months ago. I’d grabbed a big piece, hauled it into my pickup—see, tossing around tires for fun did have its practical applications—and I’d been waiting to make something of it. It was slightly warped and jagged but I could picture something more smooth, some shaping to accentuate the pattern within.

  I lost myself for the next couple of hours, mesmerized by the rhythm of work, the grain of the wood, the rough texture growing smooth, shaping itself from old into something new. I’d never meditated before, but I’d had some people tell me about it. That feeling of flow, without conscious, formed thoughts, that’s what happened to me when I was deep in it.

  Then I sat back, rested my arms on my knees, and realized what I’d done. The wood before me looked soft and sensual, curving and swelling in feminine curves. It looked nearly pornographic. Had I seen that in the grain before? No, I had not.

  I knew who was to blame. It was Violet. I’d massaged her out of the wood, working my hands along the curves, caressing them, smoothing them into something smooth and gleaming. The kind of curves that called to you, made you want to touch them again and again. With a groan and a swear, I dropped my head down.

  How had she gotten to me so bad? I hadn’t even had her. Maybe that was it. If we’d had a hot night of wild sex, over and over again on every surface of my house, maybe I would have worked her out of my system. Somehow I doubted it, but still, that could be the problem. I’d had a taste of paradise, but all it did was make me want to bathe in it, surround myself in Violet and nothing but Violet for days. So much that I’d just sculpted her figure.

  Well, damn. Maybe I’d finish another day. Maybe not. Guess it was time to call it quits. Who knew what else I’d find myself doing if left to my own devices?

  I checked my phone. I didn’t know what I thought I’d find. I hadn’t asked for Violet’s number. It was better that way.

  Harriet had texted, the leader of our artist’s collective. She made sure the bills got paid for our showroom downtown, plus arranged for a random assortment of folks to provide mostly regular staff hours so it could stay open. She wanted me to head down to the shop tomorrow around one o’clock.

  Sure

  I replied, without hesitation, without asking why. Harriet didn’t ask for much, and she dealt with a whole hell of a lot of headaches. The wild and wooly types that she managed to corral under one roof took some kind of powerful voodoo magic, and I for one didn’t want to question it. If she needed me at one o’clock, I’d be there at one. And then hope I wouldn’t hear from her again for at least another month.

  So that meant I’d be heading into town tomorrow. Downtown, the most likely place to run into an L.A. woman sashaying along in her heels and painted-on jeans. I could picture Violet picking her way along on the ice. Maybe I’d be there when she’d slip, and she’d need to brace herself against my chest. She’d press herself against me, maybe linger a moment longer than necessary. She’d flush all pink like she did last night, maybe gasp softly if I wrapped a hand around at the small of her back.

  The way she’d arched into my touch, like she was melting into me, craving more. Her nipples, dark and stiff with need, so delicate and sensitive and begging for my attention. The cries she made as I stroked her, the slick friction along her clit, the pressure on her nipple making her perfect lips open round into an O just for me.

  Yeah. It had been a while. That had to be the reason I was so fixated.

  But I didn’t do fixated. I shook it off, flicking off the lights in my warehouse and heading back to my cabin. Too bad I’d already taken a shower earlier that night. I could use another one, turned down real cold.

  CHAPTER 7

  Violet

  “I have to warn you, not everyone will give you a warm welcome.” The mayor of Watson, Vermont looked exactly like you’d expect, ruddy cheeked and wholesome in plaid. I’d never seen so much plaid on so many people in all my life. And I’m not talking ironic plaid, like neon throwback 80s plaid or cute little school uniform skirt plaid. It was earnest lumberjack plaid. I wondered where they even bought it.

  “Do people here not have TVs?” Sam asked, half-sympathetic, half-appalled, as if he’d just discovered a section of the town carried a mutant, flesh-eating strain of bacteria.

  “No, everyone’s got a TV.” The mayor looked at Sam with a hint of the same emotions, like maybe this L.A. guy only had part of a brain. “But not everyone in town will be excited about filming a reality show here.”

  “Why not?” Sam asked, dumbfounded.

  I jumped in. “I understand, some might see it as disruptive.” I’d dealt with this before, the jitters prior to brokering a deal. Sam focused more on scouting talent, making people’s day by telling them they were about to be given their big chance. I handled all of the associated problems.

  In sell mode, I continued, “I assure you, we can accommodate concerns. If we do film here, the show w
ill only feature the people and businesses that have agreed to participate. Once people see the kind of benefits they get through greater visibility, I think the problem we’ll have is picking the ones who get to be involved.”

  “Maybe.” He seemed to be thinking over my sales pitch harder than I’d anticipated. “I’m on board. I want you to know that.” He gave me a warm smile. The man was a born politician, I could tell. “But some of the folks around here? They’re more…ah, how to put it? They’re more cranky.”

  I nodded, like I totally understood what he meant. Sales always involved connecting with your target, making them feel a bond. You were in this together. But the fact was, I wasn’t even sold on using this town as a site. If we did end up wanting to, though, we’d need the mayor on our side.

  “I guarantee—”

  He made a face, like I’d said the wrong word. “Thing is,” he interrupted, “you might not want to sell too hard with these folks. They get sort of…”

  “Cranky?”

  He nodded. “And suspicious,” he added. “Vermonters are an independent bunch.”

  “And we love that,” I assured him, not even really knowing what I was talking about. “But surely your business owners will understand the bottom line. Shows broadcast on the Fame! Network attract millions of viewers. You get, say, a local quilter.” Vermonters quilted, right? I hoped I’d picked the right example. The mayor nodded.

  “You show a couple of her quilts on one episode,” I continued. “Then, bam, people are checking out her website. Within a month she’s shipping out quilts worldwide.”

  “June would need more time to make that many quilts.” The mayor shook his head at the thought.

  I hopefully suppressed my eye roll. Apparently the concept of scaling up a business had not made its way this far north. But where there was a market, there was a way. If this town had something special—and that remained to be seen—there’d be people sniffing around in no time, helping pave the way to increased revenues. For the right price, of course.

  A waitress appeared at our booth and put a scone the size of a small watermelon in front of me.

  “Oh, I didn’t order this.” I pushed it away, the sight of so many contraband carbs in one compact lump making me slightly dizzy. Navigating the menu in the diner had been difficult. It wasn’t an L.A. “diner” with organic egg whites and turkey bacon. It was a diner diner, with a carved wooden bear out front and maple syrup from local trees sitting on every table in little metal pitchers. But I definitely hadn’t ordered a scone. Scones were right out.

  “It’s on the house,” the waitress insisted. “We hear you’re guests of Marty.”

  “No, I couldn’t.” I pushed the plate farther away. When was the last time I’d eaten something like that? Maybe when I’d been about seven years old?

  The waitress looked more than disappointed. She looked personally injured. “But we just made them, fresh.” She had the kindly face of a Norman Rockwell grandma. Rosy cheeks, her gray hair pulled back into a loose bun, she looked a lot like Mrs. Claus. You didn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Claus. You might wind up on the naughty list.

  I took a bite. Heaven. Before I knew what was happening, she slathered butter on it. Homemade butter. Probably churned out back. I had no idea what churning was, but it sounded awesome.

  Butter. Carbs. Warm from the oven. Holy hell what had I been doing all my life without them?

  Sam watched me with a gleam in his eye akin to a vampire spotting fresh blood. But he exerted more willpower than me. No, he brought his arm up over his eyes as if shielding from sunlight. We didn’t usually encounter anything this tempting in L.A. Juice bars, sushi bars, vegan protein bars, that was the way we rolled. We were wrong.

  “Good, right?” Mrs. Claus winked at me, then ducked back into her magical workshop with the elves where they were hopefully making more scones. I wanted to bring some back with me to the condo.

  “Some folks here will be friendlier than others.” The mayor returned to his earlier theme. “Just go easy on them. Take it slow. I haven’t done much talking about this opportunity to anyone. I didn’t want to…” He paused and looked at me and Sam, choosing his words carefully. “I wanted to give you a chance to meet folks yourselves, in person. That’s always the best way.”

  Funny, I’d been in a meeting just last week about how virtual reality avatars were soon going to replace most business travel. No more boarding planes and sleeping in hotels for a morning meeting, then turning right back again. You could simply send your avatar in your place. We were apparently only a year or two from that technology. Guess Vermont hadn’t gotten the memo.

  After stuffing the rest of the scone into my mouth and buying a half-dozen to bring back with me—no I did not what to know what was in them, thank you, I told Mrs. Claus who apparently was also the baker—the mayor took me and Sam out on the town. And by out on the town, I meant driving around remote, wooded roads that all looked pretty much the same. Heavy snow, large trees, barely any buildings at all.

  It was pretty, though, in a remote arctic apocalyptic kind of way. Too bad the concept for the show wasn’t nuclear winter with a small batch of survivors. That could definitely be filmed on location.

  But all the red barns with their silos, the stone walls that had stood the test of time, the mountains in various hues layering into the distance. I had to admit, Watson was pretty.

  At a tour of the local elementary school, Sam found something else pretty in the form of a bright and cheerful 23-year-old kindergarten teacher. She literally wore a pink cotton dress with white flower springs all over it and her hair up in a high ponytail with a pink and white ribbon. If a super popular cheerleader from the 1950s grew up to become a kindergarten teacher today, she would look like that. Enthusiasm and pep radiated off of her.

  “Would I?!?” she exclaimed when Sam asked if she’d like to join us for dinner.

  The sarcastic bitch in me almost asked back, “I don’t know, would you?” But I put that sarcastic bitch right back in my hip pocket and smiled at her. She’d be perfect for the show. I’d bet money she was a virgin. We’d have to find her a hunk to fall for all under the watchful eyes of millions of viewers. They’d eat it up.

  No sign of a giant, sexy as hell mountain man, though. And we hit all the local hot spots, the post office, the general store, the yoga studio. Actually, it didn’t seem to just be a yoga studio. The woman who worked there, wearing long, dangly earrings, hair woven into two, long braids and a dreamy, far-off look in her eyes, explained that it was a meditation center, a yarn shop, a yoga studio and a community gathering space. However it functioned, it was in desperate need of a new coat of paint. Plus, something about the woman was super off-putting.

  “Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” Sam muttered to me as we pretended to look through a flier advertising psychic services. Apparently the woman was a medium, too.

  “YOU!” Suddenly crisp and clear as a bell, the psychic hippie lady turned to me, grabbing me through my parka which in and of itself was an impressive feat. The jacket had a lot of padding. “I see big changes for you!”

  She looked right into me with her strangely pale blue eyes. I froze, caught in the spotlight, praying she was a fraud as I’d assumed she was. Please don’t let her say anything about a tall, dark, handsome man!

  “A tall, dark, handsome man! Entering into your life!”

  “Wish he was entering mine,” Sam murmured to me, still clearly dismissing her as a nutjob.

  I pulled my arm away. “Thanks, maybe I’ll come by for a reading.”

  “You need to let go and embrace this!” she told me, her eyes wide.

  I stifled a laugh. I’d let go and embraced Heath all right. I’d let go and embraced him all the way to a crazy intense orgasm in the cab of his truck.

  “Thank you!” Sam rescued me, waving goodbye at her and pulling me with him as we exited the store. “So that’s a no,” he declared once we were outside. “But how about that ador
able kindergarten teacher? Can you say storyline?”

  “Storyline.” I pulled myself together, pulling up the zipper of my parka as far as it would go. She probably told everyone that she saw them meeting a tall, dark, handsome man. I wouldn’t fall for that.

  Speaking of falling, I braced myself on Sam, which didn’t help. He weighed about 120 pounds. I needed better shoes. I guessed I could break down and buy some, but where? Did Amazon Prime deliver out here?

  The mayor took us over to the town’s pizza place for lunch. Would you like some carbs with your carbs? It apparently was a place people traveled from all over to eat at. But maybe that wasn’t saying much if the alternative was a Dairy Queen?

  Inside, the exposed brick walls and rafters overhead set a homey and inviting tone. The menu featured all sorts of locally sourced organics, enough to impress even an L.A. foodie. And even better than the yumminess on the menu, more yumminess joined us for the meal. The town constable was in his fifties, stooped over and wearing suspenders. Again, without irony.

  But the fire warden who came with? Yum, yum, yummy. I put him in his late 20s, all shoulders and chest, about six feet tall with a great gleaming white smile and a dimple. Sam was practically falling out of his chair in joy. I agreed, he was nice to look at, but he didn’t set my heart pitter-pat. That was better, now wasn’t it? I felt more like myself. I wasn’t in danger of doing something stupid with this firefighter, or fire warden, whatever he called himself. Warden, constable, this town had funny names for everything. Whatever his title, I wouldn’t let him haul me off into a truck. Only Heath hadn’t had to haul me off. I’d jumped him.