Wilde by Abby Brooks
Chapter Thirty
Leo
And that is fucking that. Too proud to apologize, Hurricane Amy blasts out of my life, leaving me to stare after her in shock. But only for a minute because fuck that shit.
That woman is a bullet from a fifty-caliber rifle aimed straight at my life. Thank God I stepped out of the way before the kill shot landed.
One call to Matix and all systems are go on the move to LA. A week after the break with Amy, he flies me out there and I spend another week planning the next chapter of my life. I find an apartment. Sign a lease on a storefront in the swankiest part of town and then deck the place out in the newest and best of everything. Inked LA is a fucking dream come true and I can’t wait to get my ass in the shop and forget everything that ever happened in deadweight Logan, Colorado.
Flying back home to pack feels like defeat, until I realize it’s the last step on my path. I just need to get my things and then I can close the door on my past once and for all. I have enough money to cover the house payment until I find the right buyer. There’s no need to stress. Not that it’s the ideal way to do things, but it’s better than sticking around until it’s sold.
My entire house is boxed up, save for a few things left in the bedroom. Part of me just wants to torch it all. Toss everything I own into the trash and really, truly give myself a fresh start.
New furniture.
New silverware.
New attitude…
Nah.
There’s nothing wrong with me the way I am—other than actually thinking Amy might be the first and only person to understand me. Fuck that shit. Never again will I let someone in, just so they can shit all over my heart. I’ll keep my charismatic yet prickly exterior firmly in place from now until forever.
My camp will never again be overrun.
“Fucking childish?” I murmur. “Fucking Neverland? She’s the one living a fantasy. I’m turning my dreams into reality.”
I yank a sketchbook off my desk and consider packing it up, but it’s the one with the sketch of my perfect woman. It’s so contaminated by memories of Amy, I can’t even bring myself to look at it anymore. On a whim, I toss it in the garbage. The solid thunk as it crashes into the can brings a smile to my face. Or at least it’s supposed to be a smile. The glaring smirk feels a tad too ‘evil villain,’ especially since I’m contemplating filling the trash can with my past, taking it out to the patio, and actually lighting it on fire.
A text sends my phone wiggling across the table, and I swipe a hand through my hair. For the first couple days I was in Los Angeles, Amy texted a lot. She apologized for how things went down and asked if we could talk, but it was too little too late. She broke my heart getting into that ambulance with that douche. The fact that I had to wait for a decent apology until after I left the state?
Suffice it to say I never replied.
It hurts. I don’t want it to, but it does. I was just starting to really look forward to being a dad…
Clearing my throat, I grab my phone and find a text from Hank. I should have been relieved it wasn’t Amy, but something—disappointment?—wraps a fist around my heart.
Hank: Can’t believe you’re moving to LA, man. I’d say I’m gonna miss ya, but I never see you as it is…
I laugh to myself and put the phone back in its place.
Maybe there’s room for my family in my new life.
Maybe that’s one thing that will change.
Just not all of them. Chet can die in a fire. Speaking of which, I scoop up the trash can, toss a few more flammable items in it and head toward the patio. On my way out of my room, the sketchbook catches my eye, crumpled in the bottom of the bin, the cover pulled back to reveal the drawing of my perfect woman. I tear the page out of the book and smooth the crinkled corners, then put the trash can at my feet.
“I can’t throw you away, now can I?”
After all, that drawing is probably the closest I’ll ever get to feminine perfection.
A finger traces the curve of her hips as I relive finally getting the half smile and determined gaze just right.
“Shit.” I pull back and hold the sketch at arm’s length, squinting. “You do look like Amy.”
How did I never see it before? Those are her eyes. Her smile. Her hips, lips, breasts. The determination? That’s hers too.
“Shoulda drawn you with a shit ton more crazy. Maybe some broken trees and debris in the background to show the strength of your gale force winds.”
I try to laugh at my sarcasm, but I can’t. Instead, I run a hand over the sketch and a hollow feeling settles into my heart.
My perfect woman is Hurricane Amy.
She’s carrying my baby.
She was right there all along.
And she’s gone.
I rake a hand through my hair. How annoying. Here I am, packing up my life to finally make the move to LA and she’s still taking up real estate in my head.
Desperate for a distraction, I swipe my phone off the table to mess with Hank just in time to see an email come in. The furniture I bought from Babyer Verden was delivered. What a great day that had been, the two of us wandering around, arm in arm and just…
…good.
Things were good.
Amy looked so adorable, so happy, so grateful as I paid for that ridiculously overpriced set. I’d thought she was grateful for me. For my company. The more I think about it, the more I realize she was probably just excited I shelled out all that money and she didn’t have to worry about it.
Is it all sitting in boxes on her dad’s front porch? How will they get it into her room? For fuck’s sake, will it even fit?
“None of this is my problem anymore,” I say to my phone, then crinkle up the drawing and toss it in the trash.
Except it is my problem. That’s my baby.
Am I really just gonna walk away?
I survey the stacks of boxes, hands shoved in pockets as I bob my head. It looks like that’s exactly what I’m doing.
“That’s what you get for going Wilde,” I say to an imaginary Amy, standing in the doorway, one hand protectively covering her stomach as she stares at me with that determined gaze.
Funny how it doesn’t feel quite like the mic drop I intend.