Wilder (Birds of a Feather Book 1)

by Lena North

  I suddenly had to suppress an inappropriate desire to giggle. Where the heck did Mickey come up with these things?

  “I compliment you on your choice of friends, Wilder,” Paolo said coolly, and without waiting for a reply he continued, “He'll fit in well with your father and his crowd.”

  “What?” I gasped. I had another father, one that I'd never heard anything about, and Paolo knew him?

  “Go to that little dinky town in the mountains and walk into a sleazy joint called Johns. You'll find him there with a beer in his hand, I'm sure.”

  There was a strange buzzing in my ears, and the room seemed to narrow in on me until all I could see was the pale blue eyes in the face of a man I'd spent my whole life trying, and failing, to please. Suddenly it was all too much, and a wave of confusion and grief hit me so hard my chest felt like it would explode. I couldn't stay, couldn't deal with it all, so I grabbed the small box from the table, got to my feet and started walking toward the door.

  “Wilder,” Uncle Andy murmured at my side.

  “I can't deal with all of this now, Uncle Andy,” I whispered. “Please, I need to go. Can you deal with...” I waved my hand toward Paolo Fratinelli as I trailed off and walked away without looking at the man that I for almost twenty years had thought was my father.

  “Mickey, go with her, you drive,” Uncle Andy barked behind me, but I ignored him.

  When I got out on the street, I stopped abruptly and pulled out my sunglasses. The bright sunlight hurt my eyes, and I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, or where I wanted to go.

  “Come, we'll take my car,” Mickey murmured at my side as he slung an arm around my shoulders, pushing me gently toward the old, beat up piece of junk he drove.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked as we wound our way out of the city.

  I stared straight ahead, pressed the small box against my chest and focused on pushing air in and out of my lungs. My mind was still spinning and what I mostly wanted to do was scream, but I held it together.

  “Norton,” I replied hoarsely.

  Chapter Two

  Hawker

  “Stop!”

  “Shit! What?”

  Mickey hit the brakes hard as he continued cursing. We'd been in the car for a few hours, but I'd turned up the volume until music blasted loud enough to prevent conversation, so we'd said absolutely nothing. Mickey knew me well, and one look on my face had told him that I needed to stew on things for a while, so he'd let me do just that. He had been bopping his head slightly to the rhythm of the music, clearly deep in his own thoughts, and he’d not been prepared for my shout.

  I pointed to the line of houses on our right side and he turned off the highway.

  By the time we approached Treville I had finally calmed down a bit, so I'd lowered my gaze to look at the box Mr. Suthermoore Sr. had given me. That's when I noticed my funeral dress with its soft layers of white lace. This spiked my anger again, and my grief, and I wanted desperately to get out of the awful attire.

  “I'm not walking around in this getup, so you need to get in there and find me something to wear that doesn't make me look like a friggin' wraith,” I growled, pointing to a surprisingly large store.

  The sign above the door said “Bozo’s,” which made me think that my outfit would likely be more clown and less fashionista, but anything would be better than what I had on, so I didn't care. To be honest, I wouldn't have cared any other day either. Jeans and a tank top were my usual choice, and since Bozo seemed to be favoring the biker lifestyle, I figured there would be jeans in his, or her, store.

  Mickey stared at me with a whisper of a smile lurking in his eyes.

  “You want clothes from a store called Bozo's, and you want me to buy them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?” he asked, and I could see that he struggled to hold back laughter.

  “Mickey, please...” I whispered, and waved my hand to indicate the dress.

  “Gotcha,” he snorted as he unfolded his massive frame from the small car.

  He came back quickly, tossed a bag in the back seat and drove off.

  “Hey! I want to change,” I exclaimed.

  “That was a biker store, sweetie,” was his strange reply.

  “Yeah, I got that,” I replied.

  “For men.”

  “What?”

  “Really, really big men, Wilder. There wasn't much of a selection in the smallest sizes,” he said, and his face was serious, but I could clearly see a familiar glint in his eyes and I started to worry.

  “Stop the car and show me what you got.”

  He ignored my order, muttered, “Yeah, in a while,” and kept driving. We passed quickly through the lower parts of the mountains until we'd reached the junction where we'd leave the highway leading up to the ski areas, and then he turned onto the smaller road that would take us through the back country toward Norton.

  I wondered what it would be like, the house Willy left me, the village around it, and the people there. Norton wasn't a place anyone ever went to, or at least not anyone I knew. It wasn't forbidden to go to Norton, of course. The main issue was that it was far away from the major cities and there was nowhere to stay up there. All houses were owned by locals. They didn't rent to strangers, or anyone really, and they didn't sell their houses either. Getting a house in the village was through inheritance only, and I had no clue how Gramps had gotten his hands on one. I didn't think he had relatives in that part of our country, though when I thought about it, I didn't know.

  The skiing was rumored to be fantastic on that side of the mountain. There were few lifts, however, and the passes to them were for locals only, so if you went there for the day, you'd have to walk up the mountain. Some hardcore skiers did, and it was considered something to brag about on the after ski at the resort Gramps and I had stayed at. We usually randonnéed several times each winter, but it wasn't my favorite activity, so I'd never asked Willy if we could go to Norton. I wondered why he'd never taken me to his house, or mentioned it, at least.

  “Okay, Wilder, so... you can't get mad,” Mickey said, and I jerked.

  I'd been so deep in my thoughts that I hadn't noticed how he'd turned off the road and into a parking area overlooking the vast open plains and the lower parts of the mountains.

  “What have you done?” I asked slowly.

  “I did the best I could, but they really - and I do mean really - didn't have many options for someone your size,” he replied.

  “Shit,” I murmured, grabbed the bag from the back seat and got out of the car.

  Leather pants. My stupid, idiot friend had bought me a pair of leather pants.

  “They have these things on the sides so you can adjust the size,” I heard Mickey say.

  There was laughter in his voice, although he tried valiantly to hide it. I didn't say anything and turned my eyes back to the pants. They did indeed have leather strappings crisscrossing the outer sides from the waist and all the way down the legs. Beneath the leather straps, there was... nothing. I glared at Mickey.

  “You do realize that these are supposed to be worn with jeans underneath, right?”

  “Did the best I could,” was his reply.

  I reached into the bag again, hoping that whatever else he bought would be enormous and long enough to cover the pants. Then I growled.

  “A vest?” I glared at him and shouted, “You idiot! How about a plaid shirt? Or a t-shirt? Something normal?”

  “Wilder, really. They were huge. Like super huge. No, bigger than huge actually. Ginormous. Like tents. Or -”

  “A leather vest, Mickey? Really? And what am I supposed to wear underneath?”

  “You always have cute underwear, sweetie, and besides, it'll be tight. I figured it would be like a tank top, more or less,” he chuckled.

  I glared at him, stomped a few steps away to toss the bag on a wooden picnic table, and started to pull off my w
hite dress. He was right, I did have nice underwear. My secret rebellion on this god-awful day had been to wear boy briefs made entirely out of black lace, and a matching bra. Standing there in my skimpy underwear I realized that the panties would be clearly visible in the gaps on the sides of the pants.

  “Do you seriously expect me to go commando?” I growled at Mickey as he came up behind me.

  “Did the best I could,” he replied. “Don't worry, it'll be sexy with lace peeking through. You'll have all the biker dudes drooling as you prance around in those pants. It would have looked better with strappy sandals, or any kind of high heels, and Bozo had a very nice selection, though only in my size, or bigger.”

  “Oh, God. Could you be a little less gay every now and then?” I asked, but I did it laughing. The thought of Mickey in strappy sandals was too funny. Gay or not, he was a jeans and t-shirt person, just like me.

  “I've told you a million times, Wilder. I'm not gay,” he said patiently, and he had indeed done that. I just didn't believe him, and I wondered why he still insisted he wasn't when I'd explained to him just as many times that to me, love was love, and I didn't care what way he swung. I'd also never seen him with any of the girls that fawned over him, and they were many. I had however seen him in a tight clinch with a boy a few years back, although I'd never told him that.

  “Whatever,” I murmured, too busy tightening the leather straps to get into that particular argument, again. “There,” I added as I straightened. “How do I look?”

  “You look hot, Wilder,” he replied promptly.

  Okay, I thought, maybe it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Then Mickey started laughing.

  “What?”

  “Bozo had whips, and I thought they were for herding cattle, but looking at you, I’m thinking that I was wrong about that.”

  “Crap,” I murmured

  He just grinned widely, “Just joking, Wilder. It’s a small town in the mountains, no one will care. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “Hmpf,” I grunted, hoping that he was right.

  I'd strapped the pants on as tightly as I could, and the gap on the sides was only about an inch wide, so I'd figured it wasn't too visible. The vest was tight, and I'd buttoned it up so it would cover at least part of my chest, though the lacy bra could probably be seen if I moved my arms. Oh well, I thought. I'd just have to keep my arms to my sides and they'd surely have another store in Norton, or perhaps Willy had some clothes that I could use in the house. My grandfather hadn't been a big man and I'd always loved to wear his flannel shirts.

  The thought of Willy made my throat constrict, and the weight on my chest was back again.

  “Let's move,” I said tersely.

  “Are you okay?” Mickey asked gently.

  “Not really,” I whispered. “But I will be. We'll go to Norton, take a quick look at the assclown supposed to be my father, and then move on to Willy's house. Once we find it, we'll drink all the expensive whiskey I'm sure he kept there. Tomorrow we'll see if we can ski. After that, life moves on. It has to, hasn't it?”

  “You don't want to talk to your father? Ask him -”

  “Absolutely not,” I interrupted. “He's nothing to me. I want to see him, see if he really exists, but then we'll leave. I don't look like Mother at all, so he won't recognize me, and we'll just go to that bar, hang for a while, and then leave.”

  “But Wilder...”

  “No. Don't, Mickey, please. Let's just get this done?”

  I was pleading, but the anger and hurt simmering in my chest could be heard in my voice, and he knew me well enough to recognize that the best thing would be to give in. So we got back into the car and followed the winding road up through the mountain until we finally drove into Norton.

  Mickey slowed down, and I looked around as we crept along the main street. It was a really cute little village with well-kept houses and stores lining both sides of the road. It seemed like I'd have a variety of choices in Norton when it came to replacing Bozo's leather gear. Between two huge windows showing off tees and jeans of all kinds, as well as some really fabulous shoes, there was also a coffee shop with large plush couches and armchairs. It looked like a place I could spend hours in. A couple of restaurants were open, and the snow was cleared away. People were strolling along the sidewalk, even though most of the stores were starting to close up for the day. There seemed to be residential areas on our right, sprawling out from the main street, and to our left, the mountains rose sharply behind the houses.

  Then we reached a square and Mickey slowed down even further until we barely moved. Two ski lifts went up on the mountainsides, so sharply it looked like they were almost vertical. They disappeared around ridges, and I wondered how far up into the mountains they reached.

  “Look at that,” I breathed with awe.

  “Yeah...” Mickey replied, sounding less excited. He liked skiing and was good at it, but he preferred the groomed slopes and rarely followed Willy and me when we went out of bounds.

  “Tomorrow we'll see if ski passes come with the cabin, or if we have to walk,” I said determinedly.

  “Either there are passes or you walk, you mean?”

  I turned to him, grinning, knowing well that he'd be right there with me, grumbling and whining all the way to the top, but still following me each step I took, just like I went swimming with him in the summers, even though I didn’t like it all that much.

  As I turned, my eyes locked on a low building to the side of the lifts. The house was somewhat anonymous, looking like a warehouse or storage building. Over the door, there was a black sign with one single word in neon orange.

  Johns.

  “Look,” I whispered.

  “Fantastic. I need to pee,” Mickey replied cheerfully and turned around to park outside the building, next to a long line of motorcycles.

  I turned to stare at him.

  “I am about to get a first, and last, look at the fat, drunken loser that's supposed to be my father, and that's all you have to say?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Yup,” he grinned, unbuckled and folded out of the car. “Come on Wilder, let's get in there, pee, and then we can leave again.”

  He was clearly trying his best to make this easy for me, although he'd been slugging down soda all the way from Bozo's so he was probably not lying about needing to use the facilities. I took a deep breath, pulled at the ridiculous vest, and adjusted my sunglasses. Then I opened the door and walked into what looked like a roadside joint. Inside, the light was dim, but it wasn't dark, so I figured I'd leave the sunglasses on for a while, not wanting my eyes to attract the attention they usually did. We walked straight up to the bar and then I turned.

  “You'll be okay for a while, sweetie?” Mickey rumbled. “Pee,” he added unnecessarily.

  I nodded but continued to scan the crowd, trying to figure out if any of them could possibly be my father.

  There were perhaps twenty people in the bar. Mostly men, and all in some kind of biker outfit. Jeans, long sleeved tees, and leather vests seemed to be the uniform, but a few had leather pants. Most had black semi-long hair although some were more gray than black. Facial hair of some sort was common, and it was mostly neatly trimmed goatees, but I spotted a few full beards.

  Every one of them stared at me, which was hardly surprising. It was probably not an everyday occurrence for someone like me to walk in, with my leather bitch outfit, long curly white hair and mirror sunglasses. I kept my cool and stared back at them, refusing to let my nervousness shine through. Suddenly, I was grateful for the clothes Mickey had gotten. They would have stared at me regardless, and it would have been worse to walk in there in jeans and a tee, or that horrible white dress. The leather felt almost like a shield.

  “Hey there, little girl. Looking for some fun?”

  A man, probably twenty years my senior, got to his feet and walked toward me. He was tall, wiry, and looked like he hadn't showered in a week. He was al
so slightly unsteady on his feet.

  Jeez, I thought. It was early evening still, and I wondered at what time people started drinking in this place. I didn't mind having a couple of beers, even though, strictly speaking, it wasn't legal. I did mind spending time around people who were drunk, though, mainly because someone usually started to touch my hair or comment on my eyes, and it was always a struggle to get them to stop. I wasn’t too happy about using my fighting skills on someone who was inebriated, but I did when I had to.

  “Not really,” I answered the man blandly.

  Then a thought struck me. This man could actually be my father. There was no resemblance between us, but he was the right age, more or less. I turned away slightly, hoping that this would discourage him.

  It didn't.

  “Bet I could change your mind,” he murmured.

  His voice had deepened into a hoarse, lazy rumble that I supposed he thought was sexy. I thought it sounded ridiculous.

  “No,” I said.

  He grinned, and slid his hand slowly up my side, fingering the opening between the leather straps in my pants.

  “Yeah?” he murmured as he leaned into my side, letting his hand glide up over my chin.

  I grabbed his hand quickly and twisted it around in a backward angle that wouldn't injure him, although it would hurt.

  “I don't want to fight you. Walk away, and there will be no harm done,” I said.

  My voice was loud and crystal clear, cutting through the soft music and all conversation stilled. I heard a few men chuckle, and so did my admirer as he twisted his hand out of my grip.

  “Walking in here looking like you do? You're practically begging for someone to give you a good ride, little girl,” he said confidently.

  I saw Mickey approach from the side, but he was grinning. He stopped a few steps away, knowing well that if things got ugly, then I'd be more dangerous than him, in spite of my much smaller size.

  I backed away from the man and raised my hands, palms toward him.

  “I'm not looking for trouble, and I'm not looking for fun. My friend needed to use the facilities, and we'd like to get something to drink. Then we'll leave. Okay?”