Wild Ones (The Lane)

by Wyllys, Kristine

  Wild Ones

  By Kristine Wyllys

  Bri Martin likes her skirts too short, her heels too high, and trouble close at hand. So when big, brooding underground boxer Luke Turner comes into the bar where she works and starts a fight before she brings his first drink, she can’t help being intrigued. Luke is everything she never wanted and everything she can’t resist.

  Soon, Luke is showing up everywhere Bri is, and she can’t break free of his hold on her, nor does she want to. When her best friend turns on her, it’s Luke who is there. When Luke’s opponent comes after her to send Luke a message, it’s he who comes to her rescue.

  Before Bri knows it, she’s caught in the midst of a rivalry between her boyfriend and her boss, both of whom are not content to settle their scores inside the ring. She swore she’d never live this life, so like the one she once ran from. But only by confronting her past can she decide where her future lies...and whether Luke can be a part of it.

  61,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  Happy 2014! You know, I love futuristic romance, and I swear it wasn’t that long ago that I was reading books in the genre that used years like 2014 and 2015 to indicate a time that seemed really far out. Of course, I suppose I’ll be saying something similar twenty years from now, when it’s 2035. (And isn’t that a weird thought?) As it happens, in the lineup this month we have both a futuristic romance and a hero who travels from the future, and both give a unique look into a future that’s actually a little further out.

  I love the premise of Libby Drew’s time-travel male/male romance, Paradox Lost, in which a time-travel guide who takes clients to “whenever” must travel back to 2020 and enlist the aid of a PI to find a missing client. And in PJ Schnyder’s Fighting Kat, Kat and Rygard go deep undercover, posing as gladiators. In the interstellar arena, it’s all about who’s the strongest predator…

  I mentioned futuristic romance, but how about a trip to the past in Jeannie Ruesch’s historical romantic suspense, Cloaked in Danger. Aria Whitney’s life has taken her from the sands of Egypt to the ballrooms of London, but when her father goes missing, can the handsome earl with a dark secret help her find him, or will a dangerous scandal threaten both their lives?

  In Mistress by Magick, Laura Navarre concludes her fallen angel Magick Trilogy, a riveting historical fantasy romance trilogy set in Tudor times. Also wrapping up a trilogy this month is Fiona Lowe. In Runaway Groom, the third book in the Wedding Fever trilogy, can a Harley-riding Aussie guy on the road trip of his life allow an uptight and disgraced lawyer to steal his heart? The first two books, Saved by the Bride and Picture Perfect Wedding, are now available, as well.

  Debut author Anna Richland delivers First to Burn, the first book in her Immortal Vikings series with a hero straight from the time of Beowulf. Wulf Wardsen is an elite soldier whose very existence breaks all the rules—and he’s deep in the military zone of Afghanistan with an army doctor determined to do everything by the book. Meanwhile, Cindy Spencer Pape brings back her very popular steampunk romance series, The Gaslight Chronicles, with the latest installment, Ashes & Alchemy.

  This January, Heather Long delivers the start of a new series of contemporary romances. If you like your romance a little on the crazy, cracktastic side, this book is sure to please. Cinderella had her fairy godmother and Princess Mia had her grandmother, but Alyx—she gets a software magnate who knows that in his world, Some Like It Royal. And speaking of cracktastic, Kelsey Browning has another installment in her steamy Texas Nights series. Roxanne Eberly wants nothing more than to make her lingerie store a success. Enter up-and-coming attorney Jamie Wright, who’s all tangled up in Roxanne’s life...and her lingerie...in Running the Red Light. If you want to start from the beginning, pick up Personal Assets!

  Mystery fans will be glad to welcome another installment from Jean Harrington in her Murders by Design series. In Rooms to Die For, when interior designer Deva Dunne finds a body hanging from a balcony in the gorgeous Naples Design Mall, she soon learns she’s caught up in a mall drug bust gone viral.

  We’re thrilled to offer a large lineup of debut authors this month, in addition to Anna Richland. Joining us with books in the new-adult, erotic romance and contemporary genres are a new group of incredibly talented authors we’re proud to welcome to Carina Press. Elia Winters debuts with erotic romance Purely Professional. When a journalist explores the submissive side of her sexuality with her Dominant neighbor, she must confront what these encounters mean for her own sexual identity, her career and her budding relationship.

  Three debut authors bring new-adult offerings to Carina Press. Danube Adele proves the new-adult genre is more than just contemporary romance in Quicksilver Dreams. One moment Taylor was just a regular girl working two jobs to pay her bills, and the next, she was reading minds, dreamwalking and being saved from bad guys by her sexy neighbor, Ryder Langston. In Tell Me When by Stina Lindenblatt, college freshman Amber Scott begrudgingly lets Marcus Reid into her life, but she didn’t expect the king of hookups would share his painful past. And Kristine Wyllys brings us the first of two steamy, dark-edged stories full of action, vivid storytelling and emotional intensity. Don’t miss Wild Ones.

  Our last debut author, Rhonda Shaw, caught me by surprise with her book, The Changeup. People who know my sports tastes know I don’t normally go in for baseball. And those who know my reading tastes know I don’t usually go for an older heroine/younger man set-up. But Rhonda’s story hooked me from the start and I’m pleased to be releasing her first book this month. I hope you enjoy this contemporary sports romance as much as I did, and perhaps find a new book boyfriend in sweet and sexy pitching phenom Chase Patton!

  I’m not one for making New Year’s resolutions, but I will make one—we’ll continue to strive to bring you a variety of fantastic books from authors who deliver stories that you’ll want to talk about. Thank you for joining us for another year of publishing at Carina Press—we’ll do our absolute best to make it an amazing one!

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to generalinquiries@carinapress.com. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Editorial Director, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

  www.twitter.com/carinapress

  www.facebook.com/carinapress

  Dedication

  To Mr. Niner.

  They say doing what the naysayers said you couldn’t is the sweetest revenge.

  They were right.

  It’s sweeter than cake.

  Acknowledgments

  So many people went into the telling of this story, who were there for me from conception to birth, that I don’t know how I could possibly thank them all. To those people: thank you for standing behind me, encouraging me, cheering me on and answering all my frantic emails. Thank you for not being offended if I’ve forgotten to name you personally because, hand to God, you were not forgotten in the scheme of things.

  A special thank-you goes out to my twin-girl, colonel, the Tina Fey to my Amy Poehler, Nina, who dropped everything she was doing to tell me to drop everything I was doing and tell Bri and Luke’s story. Girlfriend, you were my first reader and biggest supporter. Thank you for being you and indulging the wild one in me with inappropriate haikus, booze and tree houses. You’re my Plus One, my sweatpants, and I would have never chased this dream had you not been there encouraging me to do so.

>   Rachel, the rocket ship to my moon shoes, thank you for being my pocket Asian and knitting me the magic gloves and always reading everything I’ve ever written. Everyone should be lucky enough to have a bestie like you. We’ll always have Home Depot.

  To my editor, Deb, once upon a time I followed you on Twitter and dreamed of having someone in my corner like you. Thank you. Thank you a million times over. You made this all come true. You believed in my world, you got my Bri, and you never cringed at the newbie writer who lost her train of thought on the phone with kids talking in the background and sent you emails agonizing over details.

  To Angela James and the rest of the team over at Carina, I’m on my knees thanking you for this opportunity. The day I got The Call, informing me I got my first choice in publishers, will always be one of my shiniest moments.

  To Justine, thank you for always laughing when I referred to this thing as my ten-year project and for using the word awesome as much as I do.

  Alissa, Bonnie, Cat, Micah, Rachel S and Sarah: ’Sup, girlfriends. Thank you for being the firsts and so bloody supportive. I couldn’t have done this without knowing I had friends like you who were cheering on the sidelines, reading glasses at the ready.

  To Mr. Elliott, never Bill, thank you for introducing me to Shakespeare and teachers who care about their students long after they’ve left the classroom. Also, it’s not gratis if you have earned it, and you earned it a long time ago when you believed in a kid who argued that Romeo and Juliet was not a love story.

  Aunt Julie, thank you for your “yes, you ares” and proclamations that you would be first in line to get a copy. You’ll never have to fight that line as long as it’s coming from my pantsless corner.

  Da, Grandma and Kortny, thank you for always plying the reader in me with books and Kindles and Nerd Apparel and basically everything a geek like me lives and breathes. And to the rest of my huge, wonderful, slightly insane extended family, thank you for sharing your last names with me and cheering on that weird girl who you were forced to claim through blood or marriage.

  To my mama, thank you for the years’ worth of pens and paper and pride and faith. You bought me books when you couldn’t afford them and bragged about your writer daughter before I would even call myself that. You read me Oh, the Places You’ll Go! then pushed me to move my own mountains. You’re my biggest fan, my constant and my home.

  To my husband, thank you for letting me disappear into the cave and never expecting dinner and always finding the perfect movies for me. Everything I am is because of you, because I’m yours and you’re mine, and I couldn’t love you more if my life depended on it.

  My magical boychildren with lightning eyes and booming thunder laughs and souls made of stardust: I love you. You taught me what dreams really look like and no matter what I accomplish in this life, you two will always be the best things I’ve ever made.

  And lastly, to you, the reader, thank you for looking twice and giving these crazy kids a chance. Their story isn’t perfect but it’s theirs, every dirty, broken, grimy piece of it, and I can’t thank you enough for letting me tell it.

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About the Author

  Copyright

  “These violent delights have violent ends.”

  —William Shakespeare

  Chapter One

  Five years ago

  “My da—dad will be angry if I’m late, Michael.”

  The quarterback of our high school’s football team—Go Trojans, snicker nudge wink—just grinned at me, dark wavy hair falling into his eyes, and I grew warm all over. I didn’t like Michael, not really. He was dumber than a box of rocks, arrogant and mostly a douche, but he was pretty to look at and a master of the backseat tango. He also had big arms, a glorious benefit to his father’s obsession with him eventually playing college ball, and I had a thing for arms.

  “We’ll have you back before he even knows you’ve been gone,” he assured me with a wink, reaching over to squeeze my knee. “Your daddy will still think I’m a regular Prince Charming good enough to date his princess.”

  I bit back the mocking reply threatening to escape. Michael was so full of himself, so convinced everyone adored him as much as he adored himself, it never dawned on him that my da called him “Charming” as an insult. He didn’t like anyone, my da, let alone some teenage boy with a head nearly too big for his football helmet.

  These were the things I remembered clearly from that night. The smell of sweat and stale fast food that clung to the upholstery in Michael’s car. The feel of his hand on my bare leg and the warm summer air that ghosted over my own hand as it hung outside the window, surfing the wind as we flew through the darkness toward the rundown apartment where my drunken, mean black Irish da waited. The sharp bite of regret that I had to leave the party early.

  It was unremarkable, that night, which might be the reason so much of it has been lost to me over the years. I made curfew. Ma was gone, off making money in ways we were all aware of but never acknowledged out loud. Da was only a few drinks in, deep enough that his voice took on that heavy Irish lilt I knew so well, but not quite enough that his Irish temper had made an appearance, something I also knew well. I’d played the game and won again. The chamber had been empty.

  I was good, the best really, at this precarious dodge-and-dance number we’d established over the years. Better than my older brother, Christian, had been. He had fled two years before, taking the coward’s way out, unable to hack it. I should have felt sorry for him, maybe even missed him a little. But he had abandoned me to the game to fend for myself, and there was no loyalty in our family. It was every man for himself. He was gone and I remained and these were the facts, bare of any emotion behind them.

  I took a shower and retreated to the room Christian and I had once shared. His bed was still across from mine and, while I never used it save to throw my ancient, tattered book bag on, I liked the reminder. That I was the stronger one, the survivor.

  I fell asleep in my bra and underwear, both inherited from my ma, and maybe that contributed to what happened next. Or maybe it would have happened anyway. Maybe I had never won that round of Russian roulette. Maybe the chamber hadn’t been empty, the bullet had just been jammed for a minute. Maybe I had already been shot and I was just too stupid, too overly confident, a little too much like Michael, to notice.

  Hands in places they should have never been woke me up out of a sound sleep. Hands that were supposed to pick me up to reach the moon and stars, not touch me where Michael’s hands had been only hours ago, erasing the memory of them. The smell of whiskey overwhelmed me, surrounded me and clouded my head, my ma’s name falling from his lips as coarse hair grazed my leg. I jerked upright with a yelp and fought like a wildcat. I struck out blindly, shoved and beat against the soft chest that loomed over me, desperate to force it away.

  Dull recognition flared in too-close muddy eyes, followed by a curse, then a blinding pain rocked my head back, radiating in dizzying waves across my face. Minutes, hours, days later the fog cleared and the storm shifted, leaving bruises and blood and aching ribs in its wake. I could only just make out the blames that
were shifted and shoved off on me, the voice they were spoken in thick and hateful as I curled into a ball of tender mushy skin and muscles. Another curse was yelled in a rough brogue, and glass shattered somewhere close by. The tornado that was my da wreaked category-five havoc in my room, breaking and destroying anything he could get his hands on. Hands that had been on me first, had broken me first.

  Bile rose in my throat, violent and acidic, as he stalked from my room, rolling thunder in his steps, and took his rage out on the rest of the house, abusing furniture and decor too battered to fetch any kind of price in the local pawn shops. Sometimes I think I can still taste it choking me.

  Hours later, or maybe not, I stumbled to my closet, grabbed a bag, throwing everything that I could fit into it, vaguely aware that at some point, my ma had come in and now she was taking the brunt of my da’s fury. I skipped over the bras as Ma’s voice rose an octave, responding to something I had been tuning out. I didn’t even glance at the small stack of underwear before I shoved the drawer that always stuck halfway shut, not even trying to be quiet about it. I didn’t have that many of either, only a few pairs, but I left them all behind. Left them in my place. Ma could have them back. He could have them. I didn’t care. Just so long as they never touched my body again.

  Money was a scarce thing in our house, but I snatched up the measly stash I had been saving for years and, while my parents screamed at each other from their room—not about me, never about me—I muttered an apology to Christian’s ghost.

  Then I ran.

  “My only love sprung from my only hate!”

  —William Shakespeare

  Chapter Two

  Present Day

  I sauntered through a cloud of smoke as I made my way back to the bar, putting an extra sway in my step as I passed by a table full of boys with faces that no doubt still matched their IDs. I could feel their eyes following me and I glanced back over my shoulder, giving them a wink, catching them nudging each other, before I turned away. I was willing to let them think whatever they wanted, so long as they let their wallets do the talking for them when I got back. I wasn’t worried about it too much. The young ones usually did. They hadn’t learned any better yet.