Wilde by Abby Brooks
Chapter Three
Leo
After a day that could only be described as completely fucked, I shut off the lights and give the door to Inked a solid tug on my way out. I cross the lot, eager to slip behind the wheel of Jezebel—my candy apple red, sixty-eight Mustang Fastback.
“Amy. My name is Amy.”
I shake away the image of her stretched out on my bed and slip my key into the ignition. Took me two and a half years of blood sweat and cash to restore the car to her present glory, but she’s worth it. Even after a day as shitty as today, I look forward to her throaty rumble as she roars to life.
“I’m pregnant and it’s yours and I felt like you deserved to know.”
Between the 427 cubic inches under the hood, the six-speed manual under the floor, and the drag radials under the tail, my little hellraiser has a reputation for getting any girl in the mood—before I shift out of second gear. I climb in and start the engine, then sit back and enjoy the Rockies breaking the skyline while I try to remember my talking points for dinner. My family has this backward-ass tradition where every Wednesday, no matter where we are or what we have going on in our lives, we’re supposed to drop everything and race back to the family ranch for dinner.
And every fucking Wednesday, I break Mom’s heart a little more than the last time I told her I wasn’t gonna show.
I don’t belong there.
And if my brothers were honest, they don’t want me there.
I’m a black stain on the perfect Wilde name.
Before I’m ready, I release the parking brake and ease my foot off the clutch. Jezebel maneuvers around the potholes as I navigate my way out of the lot. The whole Wednesday dinner thing began as a rule back when my oldest brothers were still in high school. The idea—so says our mother—is to have at least one night a week where everyone sits down together. Becausethat’s what family does: a classic Marie Wilde-ism forever burned into my brain. It’s been a while since I showed, but today is Wednesday and I’m going.
For the last time.
I crank up the radio to drown out the road noise while I lose myself to thoughts of the pretty blonde hellbent on ruining my life.
“Amy. My name is Amy.”
The way she bit her lip and turned her head but refused to acknowledge the pain—for the thirty seconds it took to tattoo her.
How tired she looked when she showed up earlier.
Echoes from our night together drift through my thoughts. Me staring down at her naked body, my hands sliding over her thin torso, grabbing her hips and thrusting myself deeper. She was irresistible as she bit down on my pillow to stifle her moans.
The sorrow behind her eyes as she lobbed the pregnancy grenade at me.
“…it’s about the last thing I wanted to happen. And you’re the last person I would have wanted it to happen with.”
I guess the last part makes sense. I’ve been called a lot of things, but father material isn’t one of them.
She’s got to be running a con. It’s too much of a coincidence to be anything more. I probably spouted off about moving to Los Angeles while I was drunk and she saw an opportunity to shake me down before I left. Simple. Classic.
And completely wrong.
If I know anything, she isn’t that kind of woman. Our night together showed me she’s genuine and wears her heart on her sleeve. She’s more likely to be manipulated than to try to pull one over on someone.
Me, responsible for another life? Holy-fucking-hell, it can’t be real. How would that even work? Headlights from an oncoming car snap me back to reality. Somehow, I’ve made the last turn on the trip and am only a few miles from the ranch.
Shit.
I planned to use the drive to rehearse my you-can-all-go-to-hell speech. I wanted to practice walking through, point by fucking point, all the shit I’ve taken from Chet since I was too young to defend myself, then demand to know why. To force him to admit what was so wrong with me at fourteen that my own brother hated me.
Why? Because I have an artistic soul and sought a different kind of outlet? Because I couldn’t care less about chores? What a bunch of pompous, arrogant assholes. I was a fucking kid, trying to find his way in a world he didn’t understand. Yeah, I made mistakes. Okay fine, for a year or two I made a lot of them. I’m man enough to admit it.
It’s not like I was the first child in history to have a rebellious streak.
Did my family throw their arms wide and pull me into their loving embrace?
No.
But at least they showed their love and loyalty by intervening and trying to get me the help I needed, right?
Nope.
Did they give up and send me off to some hard luck boot camp out of sheer desperation?
Negative.
They did what all good ranchers would. They treated me like another feral, out of control animal who had to be brought to heel…or broken trying.
Chet. It was all Chet. I could see it in his eyes; that piece of shit was only too happy to crush my spirit.
But he never did. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I take a hand off the wheel to rub my temple as I slow the car for the turn up the driveway.
So I’m a little bitter.
With half a lifetime of bad blood, a man can be forgiven for needing to clear the air before he moves on. And if I want a fresh start, this is what I have to do.
The crunch of gravel under the tires as I creep up the driveway only reminds me of the reality ahead. The lights from the main house are in view, but I stare at the road through the rearview mirror as I stop the car. If I go now, I won’t have to deal with any of it. With any of them. Hell, me bailing on dinner doesn’t even require an excuse anymore. Hasn’t for a while.
Goddamn it, I let myself get caught up in her fucking distraction, and this is what I get for it. Forgetting half of what I have to say.
Frustrated, I slam my hands against the wheel and ease my foot off the clutch. “Screw it,” I say to myself as I shut off the engine, then unlatch my seatbelt and walk through my talking points.
Point one: Fuck all of you.
Point two: I’m out.
That about sums it up.
I open the door and stand, glaring at the house as I approach. Tension creeps up my spine as I push through the front door. The sound of forks on plates and laughter in the dining room, has me pausing several feet away.
I lean against the wall at the far end of the room and nod to my mother when she looks up. “Hey.”
Surprised, she smiles warmly as she scoots out of her seat and rushes over to wrap me in a hug. “So glad you could make it tonight, dear.” She squeezes hard, like she’s trying to push all the air out.
“Good to see you too,” I say, patting her back. “But I can’t breathe.”
There really is something about a mother’s love. I’ve easily missed nineteen of the last twenty get togethers but what’s her first reaction when she sees me? Not anger, or contempt. It’s a warm smile, a giant squeeze, and the joy of knowing another of her tribe is home.
She’s the reason this thread wasn’t broken a long time ago.
As for everyone else…
Hank looks up from his conversation with his wife Molly and offers a friendly nod. Jack dips his head in my direction without interrupting his conversation with Gabe and Chet.
And my oldest brother? He continues on without ever looking up. As if I’m not currently standing five feet away.
There’s no place like home.
Mom glances around the room with a sigh. “Oh dear, even our extra-large table is too small for the size of our family. Can you imagine if Frank and Sarah had come in from San Diego?” She shakes her head. “Why don’t you grab a chair from the other room and find a place to squeeze in while I fix you a plate?”
On one side of the table sits Chet’s wife Christy, their son Logan, then Gabe, his wife Meredith, and finally their daughter Gabby, shoehorned in at the end beside Mom. Seated on Mom’s other side is Hank, his wife Mollie, then Jack’s wife Sam, her daughter Vanessa and finally Jack. Then there’s Chet, proudly taking Dad’s spot at the head of the table. Figures.
The seating situation is the perfect metaphor for my place in this family. Which brings me to decision time. Stick to the plan and jump straight into telling them off? Or take the plate of heaven, pick my spot among the natives, and enjoy some of the best home cooked food ever made?
On a whim, I split the difference, thanking my mother for the plate, then carrying it over to the counter to eat at the sink. Seeing as no one complains or offers to make room, it’s fair to say it was the right call.
From the sidelines, I tear off the corner of a steaming hot roll and pop it in my mouth while listening to Chet and Gabe ramble about the importance of family and how one day it’ll be their children running things around here.
Chet finally looks at me and nods, then leans close to Gabe. “It’s good to know the place will stay in the family.”
What the hell? You arrogant prick. Because it’s usually the youngest male who receives all lands and titles as part of his birthright. Bullshit.
Rage boils in my stomach and all the things I’ve wanted to say so many times before come rushing to the forefront of my consciousness. Fuck telling them about LA. They can figure that out once I’m gone. Right now? They’re gonna hear all the shit I’ve swallowed back for the majority of my life.
But then I see my mother, beaming with pride to have her people together. I can’t say any of the things in my head because it would crush her and that’s the last thing I want to do. Without saying a word, I drop my fork and head for the door.
Mom hurries after me. “You can’t be leaving already. You just got here.”
“Sorry, Ma. I’ve got a thing. I love you, though. Thanks for the meal.” I give her a quick squeeze then bound off the porch.
“I love you, too!” She lifts her hand then wraps her arms around her stomach as I climb into the car.
It takes every ounce of self-control, but I keep my shit together all the way to the road. When Jezebel’s tires finally roll off the loose rock onto solid ground, I exercise my rage by dumping the clutch and smashing the gas. My harlot from hell responds exactly the way I built her to. Two thick lines of rubber mark my path as I fishtail into the night.
Childish? Maybe.
But the adrenaline rush you get with five hundred and thirty-five horses at your beck and call is almost as good as sex. Almost.
And what cures a bad mood better than sex?
You don’t think I’m good enough to be in this family, brother? Did you ever stop to consider you might not be so great yourself? You better believe if I was a father—I‘d do a hell of a lot better job than you ever did. Fucking prick.
After a few miles of clearing my head, I come to the conclusion that the ranch is my past, and I’m ready to move on. Time to focus on my future. Which, if karma really is involved here, includes the possibility of a family of my own.
By the time I pull into my driveway, the decision’s been made. I walk through the door, drop my keys on the table, and dig the business card out of my front pocket, then flip it over and shoot a text to the number scribbled on the back.
Here goes nothing as I add Amy to my contacts and tap out a text.
Me: If you aren’t completely full of shit, I’m in.
Me: How are we going to do this?