Wilde by Abby Brooks

Chapter Two

Five weeks later.

Leo

Bored out of my mind, I glance around the studio and scratch the stubble on my chin. Fuck, it’s slow today. Another reminder of how much my talent’s being wasted in shitty Logan, Colorado. Population: not enough to matter. With a tattoo gun in my hand, I’m an artist. A once in a generation, genuine savant. Legitimate rock stars are wearing my work, for God’s sake. I belong somewhere people care about stuff like that. Where they recognize a gift and appreciate it. Somewhere like Los Angeles.

“Fuck small towns,” I say to Ronnie, the guy I hired to clean the shop. “And fuck the small-minded people in them. Frozen in time with their simple, backward lives.”

Ronnie pauses and leans on his broom, his ample paunch testing the limits of his shirt while his jeans cling precariously to his non-existent rear end. “I’d like to remind you I’m one of those small-minded people and I enjoy my simple, backward life, fuck you very much.”

“It’s different for someone like me.” I wave an apology his way. “Growing up in the ass-crack of America is like breathing through a straw every day of my life. It might not kill me, but it’s sure as hell no way to live.”

“I forgot I was in the presence of genius.” Ronnie bows, rolls his damn eyes as he yanks his ever-falling pants back over his ass, and returns to sweeping. “Obviously it’s different for someone like you.”

Well shit. I’ve offended him.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say as I push off the counter. “Getting the hell away from here has been my singular life ambition since my dad died. Which is exactly why I’m moving to LA.”

Ronnie glances my way. “I’m sure your mom and brothers can’t wait to see you go.”

He’s being sarcastic. The Wilde family is royalty in Logan and I’m sure he can’t wrap his head around that fact that they don’t want much to do with me.

“Family.” I take a deep breath and stare at the empty parking lot on the other side of the window. “If they don’t kill you, get the hell away from them before they do.”

“You should make that a t-shirt or something, man.” His chuckle fills the room. It was one of the reasons I hired him in the first place. Something about the guy just makes you want to smile.

“The secret to making it there isn’t about what you do nearly as much as it is about everyone knowing what you do. If you want to make a name for yourself in that crowd, you’ve got to be where the name makers are. And yours needs to matter.”

“You don’t say.” Ronnie’s zoned out, but I don’t care.

I’m on a roll. Pacing the space. Excited by the prospect of my future.

“I’ve spent the last two years doing everything I can to promote the hell out of myself. How many times have I dropped everything to catch a last-minute flight to Houston, or Nashville, or Columbus? Wherever a band happened to be when someone decided they wanted my ink. It’s been a grind, but I can finally see my reward on the horizon.”

“That’s great, Wilde. I’m happy for you. I really am.”

He’s not. He actually couldn’t care less, but I pay him well and he’s smart enough to pretend he’s hearing me.

“I’ve been talking with an investor who wants to help me set up a proper studio in Los Angeles. Where the population size does matter. Imagine it, Leo fucking Wilde unleashed on the streets of California. Heaven help those beautiful, confused girls with their eating disorders and daddy issues, just begging for a man like me to come along and help them piss off their parents.”

“I’m sure you’ll be real good at that.” Ronnie chuckles and puts away his broom. “Anything else I can do before I head out?”

“Nah, man. Get home. I’ll talk atcha later.” Since, you know, in order to talk to a person, they have to actually be listening.

“I’m sure you will,” he says with a wry smile, nodding a greeting as he passes someone coming in on his way out.

My brow raises when I catch a whiff of her perfume. It’s the same stuff the chick who insisted on the dumb tattoo wore last month. I glance at the door and lo and behold, there she is. Straight hair, so blonde it’s nearly white, frames a narrow face. Too-full lips part when a set of ice blue eyes hit mine. Pale skin. Small frame. Boring jean shorts and a t-shirt covering a perky pair of tits. She should have been forgettable, but she’s etched into my brain like my ink’s etched into her skin. Permanently.

I brace myself for what’s about to happen. It isn’t the first time I’ve found myself in this situation. Anywhere from a few days to—in this case—several weeks after hooking up with some random chick, they show up, searching for a thing that never was. After the unspeakable things I did to this one in bed, I’m betting this goes one of two ways. Either she caught feelings and came back to convince me what we had was real. Or…she’s about to go full psycho.

Either way, my day just got a lot more interesting.

She looks stressed, like she’s been crying. In this kind of situation, I find it best to be aloof. “What’s the matter, honey? Having second thoughts about your new punctuation?”

The makeup around her eyes is smeared. She’s definitely been crying.

Amy scoffs, tucking her silver-white hair behind her ears. “That’s all you have to say?”

She looks less than happy to see me again, which only pisses me off. “I’m sorry. What is the appropriate thing to say when I run into a girl who got drunk and fucked me once, then snuck out in the middle of the night while I slept?”

“Like you actually wanted me to be there in the morning.” She shakes her head and stares at the floor. “But that’s not why I’m here. Or, I mean…it is, but it isn’t.”

Everything about this feels wrong. I’ve had plenty of girls come back after a Wilde Night. Sometimes they curse me out for not calling. Sometimes—if I’ve saved up enough good karma—they have issues with rejection and will do anything to prove their worth in exchange for the lie of feeling wanted again. But this? This feels different.

This is…

“I’m pregnant.” Amy finally looks me in the eye. “I’m pregnant and it’s yours and I felt like you deserved to know.”

In the span of less than one second, things went from this-could-be-interesting to pump-the-fucking-brakes. My skin burns and my stomach sinks to my feet. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. The walls are shrinking. My chest constricts as a thousand thoughts flood into my head.

No chance. I always use a fucking condom.

This can’t be happening.

What about LA?

I definitely used a condom.

Why should I believe her?

How do I know she’s even pregnant?

Fuck me. I was a little drunk.

Okay, even if she is pregnant, how do I know the baby’s mine?

Did I use a condom?

“Hey?” Amy waves her hand in front of my face. “You still with me?”

I swallow hard and stare at her like she’s speaking a foreign language while I struggle to focus. “What the hell do you mean you’re pregnant?”

She smiles sweetly while her eyes shoot lasers. “You know, how the bee goes from flower to flower pollinating…”

If she’s telling the truth, everything I’ve worked so hard for could vanish. Poof—gone. It’s too much to take. The thought strikes me like a baseball bat to the temple.

A baby…

Mybaby…

No.

No way in hell.

I’ve almost broken free and I’m not giving that up. Not for anyone. Even family. Old or new.

“Sorry, what’s your name again, Doll?” I remember her name—it’s just time for me to piss her off so she’ll slip up and I can catch her in the lie.

What if she’s telling the truth? What if…?

Amy’s mouth falls open as explicit flashes of our night together replay in my head. I expected her to be as forgettable as the others, but those icy blues are etched into my brain.

“I can’t even believe this is my life.” She groans again and rubs her temple. “Amy. My name is Amy. And you’re not exactly being Wilde right now.”

“So why come here, Amy? Why bother driving all the way from—” I wave a hand toward the door “—wherever, just to share your life moment with me?”

Sweat beads at my temples and I pray my words piss her off enough that she’ll let the truth slip. That if I play it cool, she’ll prove she’s just trying to con me. All I have to do is shut her down long enough to wear her out. If I’ve learned anything in this world, it’s that hustlers always go for the easy prey.

She dips her chin and bites her lip. “I don’t want anything. I just…I thought you should know. I mean, you have a right to know.”

Hopelessness radiates out from her in waves. If I was going to draw her, she would be a thin line, covered in shadows, sagging under darkness. Her face would be determined, eyes burning with all the things she didn’t want the world to see.

I scrub a hand over my mouth, as if I could erase everything that’s happened in the last five minutes. “I’m sorry but I can’t just take your word for it. We slept together one time—like a month ago. How do you know you’re pregnant? Why should I believe you are? And, even if you are…and even if I do believe you, how do I know it has anything to do with me?”

Anger flashes across her face. “How do I know I’m pregnant? Well, let’s see, I took a pregnancy test…” She stares up at the ceiling like she’s deciding how much information to share. “And how do I know the baby’s yours? That’s even easier, seeing as you’re only the second person I’ve slept with, and it’s been a bit since the first was in my life.”

“Nope.” I shake my head and step back. “Not buying your little good girl act. Good girls don’t fuck strangers.”

“They do when they’re trying to be spontaneous.” The words drop like a weight, anchoring her to the floor. “I wasn’t looking for this kind of complicated, you know. In fact, it’s about the last thing I wanted to happen. And you’re the last person I would have wanted it to happen with.” Amy’s eyes lock on mine. “But I’m pregnant. And it’s yours.”

Suddenly, the only thing I want is to put pencil to paper. To possess her angles and curves. To work through her strength and weakness and make sense of it in the only way I know how. I memorize the moment because the next time I want to capture desperation, I’d only need to see her face.

I turn my back. “I suggest you go talk to all the other men you broke your dry spell with in the last month.”

This conversation was over before she walked through the door. It has to be.

I’m not going to let myself care.

Because I’m not going to be around.

Amy quietly gets up, walks back to the counter, and jots something on a business card. “Here’s my number in case you deleted it from your phone.”

The door closes behind her and I watch as she climbs into her car and pulls away. I’m still watching long after she’s gone.