“You could have been killed. Or worse.”
“What can be worse than dying?”
He closes the distance between us, and Talent steps in from the hallway and lingers under the doorframe. Lydia returns from using my bathroom to rinse her mouth out, wiping water from her chin on the back of her hand. They look ready to pounce, like Wilder would ever truly hurt me. It breaks my heart that his behavior has given them a reason to imagine such things. But they don’t see what I see, black eyes fading to gray, glistening with unshed tears. He bites down to keep his chin from quivering, but there’s no hiding the way our hearts ache. It stays between us, like a secret.
“To be at Luca Coppola’s mercy.” Wilder clutches his shirt over his heartbeat. “That would be worse for you than death. He would make sure of it, if only to hurt me after tonight.”
Wilder falls to his knees beside the bed, and I cradle his head in my lap. He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t apologize again. We’re content in each other’s arms, calm in this space like the stretch of highway between Grand Haven and San Francisco. Where the trees loom over the road, standing guard like giants. Anger flows through Wilder’s veins, and I’m defensive, but we’re untouchable, sedated by a dream-like ease.
Talent closes the door. He whispers, “Just give them a minute.”
“Did something happen?” Lydia asks, her voice fading into her bedroom.
My wood-wicked candles crackle, some with low wax levels burn a blue flame, and the others throw shadows across the walls and ceiling. I’m not as concerned with them as I am about the way Wilder’s eyes close as I brush my fingers through his hair. The rhythm of his breathing slows down, and he grows heavy in my lap. Graying eyes blink and open, the moments in-between lasting longer and longer, until he blinks one last time, and they stay closed. The small circles he’s rubbing on my back stop, and his hands relax but don’t fall away.
“Get into bed with me,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his temple.
“No, we’re not staying here tonight.” He shakes his head, inhaling a large breath through his nose as he pushes himself away from the mattress. Wilder stands tall, bloodshot and bruised, offering me a hand. “Come on, we’re going to my house.”
“I need to pack a few things first.”
He extends his hand farther. “You don’t need anything.”
“I need shoes.”
“You don’t.” Wilder turns around, and I climb onto his back, squeezing his sides between my thighs. He hooks his hands under my bottom, and my bare feet swing in front of us. “I have everything you need, baby.”
We leave the apartment. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t live the rest of our days like this. He’s strong enough to carry me, and I’m happy enough to let him. Wilder makes the sweetest, sleepiest sounds as I kiss from his shoulder to his neck, unconcerned with the stillness of the night outside when his pulse flutters against my lips this way.
Normally, he’s hard to pin down, uncontainable and stubborn, but I have him trapped now. It’s amazing to feel his strength against my body, like holstering a loaded gun with the safety off. Fearless and lethal, this man who’d take on the mafia to keep me safe.
“Isn’t this better?” I ask, whispering into his ear.
“Isn’t what better?” he asks.
“Loving me.” I cross my ankles around him, and I might never let go. “Instead of fighting me.”
His lips twitch into a small smile, illumined by a dimly lit streetlight. Cool winter air makes his eyes sparkle, different than when they glistened with sadness in my room. The tip of his nose turns red as the tips of my toes freeze. My nipples harden against his back, and my breath turns to vapor against his skin. I hold Wilder impossibly closer, until there’s no space between us and I’m the warmest girl in the city.
“I’m not done fighting with you, Camilla,” he says, turning his head to look at me over his shoulder. “And I think I can do both.”
This ungodly hour, when only the forsaken and terrible roam, is alive with noises of the night. Crickets conduct their songs, coming to a stop as we approach, only to pick right back up when we pass. Bare branches rustle in the light ocean breeze, a piece of litter tumbles down the street, end over end until it settles in the gutter, and Wilder’s shoes tap on the concrete sidewalk under the sound of buzzing electric lines and streetlamps.
God dipped His fingers in stars and smeared them across a black canvas and called it tonight’s sky. He painted a crescent moon in the corner, greedy with the light. But Wilder presses a button on his car key and headlights fill in the gaps. The roar of the engine silences the branches and cuts off the crickets.
Cool leather seats warm, and Wilder drives with his hand between my thighs. Streetlights cast sharp shadows across his face, and stoplights turn green, yellow, and red. His expression hardens again, and he’s constantly checking his mirrors for other cars on the road. We pass by the Grand Opal where Talent lives, along a stretch of highway that runs parallel with the ocean, until we run into a gated community. A night guard waves us in. Wilder lifts his pointer and middle finger from the steering wheel in greeting.
The houses grow in grandeur the farther into the community we go. I pull my feet close to the seat and smooth my hair down, but last night’s makeup is smeared under my eyes and my skin smells like sex.
“What’s wrong?” Wilder asks, turning onto a road that goes straight up.
“You can take the girl out of the dusty old town, but you can’t take the white trash out of the girl,” I say.
“This shit impresses you?” He doesn’t give the massive homes a second look. Wilder only has eyes for me… and the road so we don’t crash and die. “None of this means anything. I know most of the people who live around here, and they’re all deadbeat motherfuckers.”
“Well, had I grown up in a house like one of these, being locked inside the closet probably wouldn’t have been so bad.”
He swallows hard, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “You’re not trash, Camilla. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
