Wild: Heaven Hill Generations, #2

Prologue

Addie

March (The Present)

You’re so full of shit. I hug Tatum tightly around the neck, doing my best to get my emotions under control. I’m glad you’re okay. I was worried, I reference the wreck my best friend had while running from her boyfriend’s crazy parents. She’s the closest thing I have to a sister, and when I heard she’d been in an accident, my mind immediately went to worst-case scenario.

Conditions had been treacherous after an ice storm had almost crippled Warren County, and Tatum had lost control, ending up with an injured ankle and a totaled SUV. As I’m about to say something else to her, the doorbell to CRISIS, the women’s shelter my mom runs, rings, causing us to both glance up at the camera positioned over the door.

And this moment is when my normal day comes to an abrupt end. The man standing at the door is one I’ve been hanging out with lately. In secret. Meaning no one knows, except he and I. Since we started, I’ve wanted to keep it that way. Yet here he is, right in my damn front yard.

What the fuck is he doing here? Hurrying out, I open and close the door, pulling him away from the entrance, hoping no one else can hear what we’re about to say to one another. I’m not prepared to answer the questions that his presence here today might bring forward.

What are you doing here? I hiss, folding my arms over my chest. Part of the move is self-preservation, to keep him from getting too close. The other reason is because of the chill in the air - it’s gone down to my bones. Badly I want to snuggle up against him, the way I did last night after he’d gone to sleep and before I snuck out in the dark of the night. I shiver because the weather is cold still, patches of ice cover the ground, snow falls down softly, and if this was any other situation, it’d be damn near romantic. But I’m not normal, and this situation is what it is.

He takes those sunglasses of his off, pushing the bag he’s holding towards me.

Your clothes. Figured you might want them back, especially when you left in the middle of the night in just a pair of my sweatpants and a t-shirt. His face holds a mocking smile. It’s obvious he’s unhappy with me and pissed off about the way I left. Irritation is evident in his expression as he stares down at me.

My face burns and I pray that no one has turned on the mic at the door, that they aren’t hearing this. The situation with Wilder Evans is so complicated, such a fucking shit show. I don’t relish explaining it to anyone who might ask. In the time we’ve been hanging out, he’s gotten too close. So that means I need to push. Push him as far away as I can. You can burn them for all I care.

You and I both know that’s a lie, Addie. The bra and panties? They’re your favorites. They’re my favorites. He gestures between us. The heat in his eyes burns me to the core. I’ve never known a man as intense as he is, and maybe that’s what scares me the most.

I close my eyes against the picture he makes standing over me. All broad-shouldered, hair a little too long, scruff covering his entire jaw, those blue eyes of his bright as he stares at me. The leather jacket he wears gives him the look of a man not to be messed with. The black jeans that are almost white at the knees and crotch rest easily on his hips, just the right amount of baggy I like. The wallet chain, the watch he wears on his wrist, the silver belt buckle, the earrings in his ears, and the ink I know that rests underneath the shirt he wears. Everything about Wilder turns me on.

But he’s dangerous. Reminds me way too much of my Dad and makes me want things I swore I never wanted. In a life where I’ve never felt I truly belong, the man standing in front of me is the other piece to my irregular puzzle shape. While I’m the bottom right corner that only has so much to give – he’s the piece that snugs right in, connecting me to the rest of them all. That shit’s scary and exactly why I push him away.

He swept into my life when I least expected him, but right when I needed him, simultaneously pissing me off and taking a knife to the side that I should have taken. Since then we haven’t been able to stay away from one another, but we both know it has to stop. When I don’t take the bag, he sets it on the steps, and then leans in, his lips pressing against my cheek. It almost breaks my heart, the sweetness of it all, the soft way he caresses my arm, moving his fingers down to mine.

Don’t. I turn, but not quick enough to avoid the affection.

C’mon Addie, you and I both know this isn’t over. He puts his sunglasses back on.

Yes it is, I say the words with steel in my voice. Maybe if I say it enough, it’ll be true.

No, it’s not. People like us? Who aren’t sure where we fit? We fit together. We’re the outlaws, the outliers, the rebels without a cause. Only we do have a cause. To figure out where the fuck we belong.

I don’t belong anywhere, I argue, fully believing what I’m telling him. There’s a rambling spirit inside me, one that wants to explore everything, see where I truly feel at home.

A devilish smile spreads across his face, the same type of smile that got him into my panties the first time. You do, you belong with me.

I don’t, Wild. I really don’t. I shake my head, breathing in the cold air, hoping it settles the raging sea of my stomach and heart. Last night, I did feel a peace with him I’ve never felt anywhere else before.

You’ll see. I’m gonna show you that we belong.

I don’t belong anywhere. Don’t know my real family, don’t know where I came from, have no fucking idea where I’m going. It’s in your best interest to just let me go.

He gives me a look before he starts walking to his bike. As he gets there, he swings a leg over, taking a seat. I know exactly what it’s like to have him straddle me the way he’s straddling the seat, and I’m trying like hell not to let that distract me. He starts the bike, giving me a wave as he leaves.

I watch him until I can no longer see him, before I pick up the bag and go back in, where I tell a questioning Tate that I don’t want to tell my story just yet.

My heart is just starting to calm when my mom comes in with hot chocolate for us. As she hands me mine, I’m not prepared for what she has to say.

Your dad called from the clubhouse while you were talking to Wild outside. He said to tell you thank you for taking care of him, but there’s no reason now you should be hanging out with the new prospect outside of club situations.

Prospect? When the fuck did that happen? How could he not have told me over the last few days we’ve spent together?

And that’s when I realize life totally is out to get me, and it’s thrown me a great big fuck you. As I look down at my feet, I have the thought maybe sometimes to move forward, you have to go back. Back to where it all started, even if that beginning is as big of a mystery to you as it is to everyone else.

One

Wild

January (The Past)

Inhale the future, exhale the past.

I read that on a shirt somewhere in a gift shop at the beach. It was hanging above all these wooden signs that had white-girl wasted sayings on them. You know, the ramblings of a girl who’s had her heart broken and gotten drunk on three glasses of wine. Those sayings always made me roll my eyes. I never believed any of them were true until this morning when I packed the saddlebags of my motorcycle to the brim, put on a backpack and started heading north up I-55. I’m not sure where I want to go, all I do know for sure is I wanna be anywhere but here. Mississippi has nothing and no one for me. The only things that matter are the bike between my legs, the memories in my brain, and the container of ashes that hold the only person who ever gave a shit about me.

Exhaling is getting a lot easier the further I get away from the pain, the loneliness, and the same old shit. On the horizon as I head north, is the unknown, it may not be better, but it can’t be much worse than this nothing feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Cities pass as I ride, heading nowhere in particular. All I know is I want to go north. I pass Jackson and Hernando, Memphis once I cross the border, hopping onto I-40 and then at Nashville I hit I-65.

Hours later I approach a city called Bowling Green. It’s normal-sized, bigger than where I’m from, I realize when I see a sign proclaiming it’s available for the next five exits. As I’m approaching exit twenty-eight, my bike starts making a horrible noise.

Of course, I say to the wind, to anyone who will listen. Of course this shit would happen to me.

I coast off the exit and into a parking lot of a placed called Wet Wanda’s. I have no idea what this is, but it looks like a strip joint. At this time of early evening, no one is in the parking lot and as I come to a stop, my bike dies. There’s a gas station across the street, but there’s no one for me to call.

I’m alone in the fucking world.

There’s no one to even know I’ve left or where I’m going. Never has the feeling of complete abandonment been so front and center as it is right now. There’s a heaviness in my gut, a tightness in my throat. Is this where I give up? Is this the end for me? When I finally say enough is enough and tell this cruel place I’m in both physically and mentally I’ve had enough?

It would be so easy. So goddamn easy. Nobody would miss me. Nobody would care. Hell, nobody would even know. I’d be just another John Doe waiting for someone to identify me. Only no one would show up. No different than what’s happened in many other towns all along this great nation.

Looking to the left and right, I try to make a decision, what is it I’m going to do? For all intents and purposes no one even knows the name Wilder Evans – it means nothing – if I get rid of my wallet before I do it, I can leave without a trace.

As those thoughts are jumbling around in my head, running through my mind like one of those trains I lived near back in Mississippi, I hear the rumble of motorcycle pipes. That reminds me of the shitty farmhouse back in Mississippi too. Every time a train would go by, a swift wind would come through, it would shake the structure. Knocking off the pictures my grandfather loved of his bride in happier times. Back before my mom made a mess of things, and I became an extra mouth to feed. Or let’s call it like it was – a smart mouth dick who needed someone to love him.

Thank God for gramps, because I didn’t even know what it felt like to have arms wrapped around me the first time he gave me a hug.

The sound of those bikes gets closer, and I begin to feel nervous as I see two men wearing cuts. I’ve never been affiliated with a MC, not officially, but when I did hang out with others back home, they were all joined in. They classified me as a hanger-on, and I guess my whole life has been something of that nature.

The two men come to a stop in front of me, both shutting the motors off. Even though one of them wears a full-face helmet, and the rest of us wear sunglasses, they watch me. I know they do, and I watch them. There are a million ways they can see me. Am I just a loner passing through? Am I someone coming here, trying to make trouble?

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.

You need help? The one on the left asks as he takes off his helmet, gloves and swings his leg over the bike.

I think I threw a rod, blew a motor or something, I answer, swallowing roughly against the fear in my throat.

Had the bike long? He walks over and I get a good look at him. He has what most would call movie-star good looks, sandy blonde hair, a little long, and an easy smile.

About a year, I bought it used, and I’m not sure how well it was taken care of before I got it.

Always gotta take care of your bike, man.

I was more interested in leaving the past behind, I admit without meaning to. Maybe it needed to be said out loud for me to believe it.

The guy looks behind him at the other guy. Then you’ve come to the right place. Welcome to Bowling Green, I’m Jagger, he points to himself and then behind him. That’s Layne. We work at a repair shop. We’ll get this fixed right up for you.

I’m struggling. Is this an answer to my thoughts earlier, or just something that’s going to prolong the inevitable? Either way I’m fucked. I have no money, I inhale deeply. No family, no place to go, no one to ask for it.

Luckily for you, Layne takes his sunglasses off, leveling me with a stare. We’re in the business of helping people. We’ll get this bike taken care of for you, and you can pay us back, in payments if you need to.

That’s all great, but where the fuck am I gonna stay?

The two of them look at each other, and I realize I’ve said that out loud. Shit. No disrespect meant.

None taken. Our club owns some rental property, Layne pulls his cell out. And there’s this one dude we rent to. We like to keep tabs on him since he’s always late as fuck with his rent. He has an extra room, and he owes us a favor. If you can stand the smell of weed, Skunk would be more than happy to have you.

With no options and nothing but the open road looking me in the face, I make a snap decision. I’ll stay here, pay off my bike repairs, and see what the fuck the next few months have for me. Anything has to be better than what I’ve come from.

Appreciate it, I hold out my hand to the both of them.

Jagger grins. It’s kinda what we do. Help the ones who can’t help themselves.

If he only knew how fucking true those words were.

Two

Addie

Mid-January

You sure you don’t want to come hang out with me and Remy? Tatum asks as she stands poised at the mirror, ready to put color onto her bare lips.

Sighing, I get up from her bed. No, trust me, I don’t wanna be around the two of you. Feeling like a third wheel? Not my idea of a good time. Doesn’t mean I don’t love you, though. I walk over and reach out, giving her a hug.

To me you’re not a third wheel. She pouts, the red color she’s applied making the motion appear exaggerated. You’ve always been my ride or die.

Hearing those words almost brings tears to my eyes, because the loneliness I’ve been feeling lately doesn’t relent. But that’s something I haven’t shared with anyone. Even when I’m at my parents’. The stigma of being adopted, not belonging, has been weighing heavily on me the last few months. I know I should be able to talk to Tate or my dad about it. Tyler Blackfoot would no doubt spit some wisdom, but something keeps holding me back from sharing. Instead, I pretend to be the same person I’ve always been. "Same, Tate, same. Thanks