Taming His Wild Girl by Lee Savino

Chapter 3

Isabelle

Isat at the back of the bus where it was darkest and quietest, pressed my burning forehead against the cold window, and stared blankly at the dark stores and houses rushing by.

Joel.

His name seemed to beat through my veins. To vibrate in my soul.

My all-time biggest crush. Four years older, and even hotter.

He’d changed. He was no longer the scruffy young cowboy I’d lost my heart to. He looked like a city boy now, in his crisp blue button-down. But he still had that deep, outdoorsy tan.

He always used to wear those red plaid lumberjack shirts with the sleeves torn off, showing off his big muscly biceps. I couldn’t help smiling at the memory. And those sexy tattoos. God, those tattoos. I used to know each one by heart. I’d caught him working in the barn once, without a shirt, and memorized the art of them.

His jaw was broader now, and his forehead was heavier. He’d shed the last signs of boyishness, but his eyes were the same—those deep set amber irises that had peered right into my soul and understood that I wasn’t the uptight little girl everyone thought I was.

That I was growing into a woman, with a woman’s needs. My parents just hadn’t figured it out.

Then that night at the rodeo.

It flooded back to me on a wave of hot, tingling shame.

I’d wanted to impress him so bad. I’d gone to get the beers to show him I was a grown-up. But the bartender wouldn’t serve me, of course. Then a couple of douches gave me a bunch of shots, and my stupid brain thought I could sneak them back to Joel.

Then it had all gone so wrong. My parents had shown up, and I’d been well past tipsy. The first and last time I got wasted in my life. My parents marched me out of the rodeo, and I puked by the car. I couldn’t remember what else had happened. I just remembered Joel looking at me sadly, gripping his white cowboy hat in his hands as the shadows flickered across his tanned face.

I knew I’d done something bad to cause Joel’s hurt and my parents’ rage. But it wasn’t until days later, after we’d lurched out of the vacation and driven back home, that my parents told me what I’d said.

That Joel had kissed me.

I’d laughed, because it was so ridiculous. Of course that wasn’t what happened. No way had he been attracted to my sixteen-year-old self. I knew what I looked like—ramrod straight, hair scraped back, shirt buttoned up to my neck, and plain face, no make-up. I knew I must have kissed him instead. I just wished like hell that I could remember it.

He’d been such a sweetheart that night, taking me out, showing me a normal time.

And I’d betrayed him. Thrown his kindness right back in his face, gotten him into trouble with my parents and his parents. He should hate my guts.

But now he was back, offering to help me. No one helped me. It had always been all me. My parents had been good people. But they’d sat me down when I was twelve and explained that they were there to provide support, but if I was going to succeed, then I had to do it all by myself.

Then they were gone in, a moment. A long moment of shrieking metal and screams, followed by infinite darkness. I’d been unconscious for a long time. When I finally woke up, I was fine, aside from a broken leg full of pins. My career was over, of course. But that didn’t matter, because everyone I loved was dead. My whole family wiped out by one selfish prick who hadn’t taken a break when he was supposed to. He’d dozed behind the wheel of his semi while it massacred four people.

I’d survived, barely. That was what my life was now—the bare minimum, the lowest level on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs: survival. Pain in my leg, barbed wire caging my heart.

When the bus reached my stop, I climbed off and trudged to my hateful apartment. Everything about it said sleazy money—from the high-security entrance, to the cheesy McMansion exterior, to all the glitter and bling of the interior design. Albanian chic, my roommate called it. She wasn’t so bad, most of the time. I’d been grateful to move in with her after being on my own. I’d been alone since my family died and I’d run from foster care. No money, no safety net. Sleeping rough, working a string of shitty jobs that barely allowed me to rent a hotel room week to week. The long hard scramble out of a hole that only grew deeper, closing in over my head, blotting out all light.

That was how the Albanians got me—the promise of money, a decent apartment. All I had to do was serve drinks to loud, drunk, gropey guys. I knew the owners were dangerous. I’d just prayed they’d leave me alone.

Then I discovered the ‘small print’. They owned everything. Not only the apartment where I lived with another stripper, but me as well. Apparently, I was under contract for a year. Turned out strippers had to pay for the privilege of stripping at this joint, and if you were broke, the bosses ‘lent’ you the money, and you had to repay it. It was bullshit, and it made my blood boil. But there wasn’t a single thing I could do about it. When I complained, Elio put his meaty paw around my neck and muttered something about his ‘network’. I knew what that meant: they were mob, and they had associates everywhere. If I ran, they’d catch up with me. Destiny told me they’d hurt a girl who’d tried to escape before she’d paid off her debt. I think she was trying to be nice, but who knew in this joint? It was a nest of vipers that I’d jumped into with my eyes shut. Just do your time, she’d told me, as if I was in jail. It’ll pass, and you’ll be free to leave.

At least I got a place to stay out of it. Except…

The sound hit me before I even turned the key in the lock. Pounding death metal. Which meant my roommate and her loser boyfriend would be up all night, getting high on meth. My heart sank.

I stumbled into my room and collapsed on my bed. This was my life now. A year of exposing my private parts to strangers. Four nights a week. A horrible, squirmy feeling went through me. I crammed the sleeve of my sweater into my mouth, and squeezed my eyes shut.

Come and stay with me. I’ll take care of you.

Joel’s words had lit a flicker of hope in my heart. The thought of getting away from all this. Of never having to go back to Beyond Hope again. It was like a beautiful dream.

I snorted. I used to dream about being a famous ballerina. Now I dreamed about not being killed by the mob. What an innocent child I’d been.

There’d been such shock in those amber eyes of his. Not horror and disgust at what I was doing, but concern for me. For a dumb moment, I’d longed to throw myself into his arms. Wrap my arms around his waist and press my head against his big chest. As I lay in my bed, I let the daydream continue. I imagined him stroking my hair, gently lifting my chin, then pressing his firm, full lips to mine. A reenactment of the kiss I couldn’t even remember.

The thought of him flooded my veins, with a sweetness I hadn’t felt for years. He’d even smelled the same. Spearmint gum, and that woodsy cologne he used to wear in the evenings. And underneath that, his natural scent of fresh air and hard work, with a hint of hay drying in the sun.

It didn’t seem possible, but after everything I’d done, he still cared for me. He must have waited for me outside the club for two hours tonight. That meant something.

But staying with him was dangerous. For me and for him. Joel didn’t know Anton like I did. He hadn’t seen the little cutting motion Anton had done across his throat to warn me not to let Joel come around the club again. They’d kill us both; I knew that.

Which meant I could never see Joel again.

I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They coursed down my cheeks, and before I knew it, I was sobbing, my face buried in my pillow, muffling the sounds.

There would be no rescue. There would be no Joel.

I’d made my bed. I was just going to have to lie in it for the next year.