Wildest Dreams (Forbidden Love, #2)

by L.J. Shen

“You’re broke as hell.” “Well, if you give me a loan—” “I only give loans to people who can pay them back.” Tate sliced into my speech. “And I have no confidence you’ll seal the deal with Marshall. At any rate, I charge a forty-two percent monthly interest rate.” “Christ, Tatum. That’s a fucking loan shark’s rate.” He stared at me, steadfast. Huh. Guess he dabbled in that too.

All I had was my looks and my charm, and at thirty, I knew I was fast approaching the day my bulging biceps and piercing green-blue eyes would no longer open doors or smash ceilings for me. I needed my app to launch and for it to do well, fast. I’d made good money from being a gigolo. Great money. My penthouse was a gift from a former client, paid up front and in cash. But up until three months ago, I’d never made one good financial decision. I’d burned through money like it was fucking s’mores. Fast cars, designer clothes, and private charters. So once I decided to retire abruptly after a client tried to cop a feel—no, not cop a feel: sexually assault me—my funds began to dwindle at stunning speed.

I shook my head, disoriented. What the fuck was I thinking, agreeing to pay Dylan $10K a week? Tate was right. I didn’t have that kind of money. Though for a reason beyond my grasp, I wanted her to think I did. “I’m fine.” “Bet you won’t be in the next five minutes,” Tate sneered, standing up and glancing over my shoulder. I whipped my head back to see what had caught his attention. Row slid past the bouncers of the trendy bar, wearing a ball cap and a biker jacket. He shouldered through a sea of socialites and finance bros in suits. “Oh, this should be good.” Tate buttoned his shirt. “I love blood sport. I’ll watch from the bar while getting head. Come, Branka.” “It’s Brina.” He ignored her. “Hey, whatever you do?” He squeezed my shoulder on his way out. “Make sure this deal with Marshall happens. You’re working on an app. He all but owns the fucking App Store. He’s formulaic as shit, but whatever he does works. His PR, engineers, creative team—everything is top-notch. Don’t let this opportunity slip by.” I wasn’t going to fuck it up. My entire future was on the line.

Telling Row about my fake engagement to his sister was relatively pain-free. Relatively, because I got to keep my internal organs, but with a warning that he was going to skin and shave me into pastrami slices if I ever touched her.

“I know where you live, and I’m very trigger-happy when it comes to my sister. The last thing she needs is another emotionally stunted fuckboy who breaks her heart. If you as much as touch her pinkie, yours gets chopped off. Understand?”

My dick was constantly hard. When I fixed her car. When I took business meetings. When I was working on the app. When I went to the gym. Even when I watched the presidential debate. Which, let’s admit, was less sexy than a shit-soaked mop. “You think I’d ever do you this dirty?” I slid the coin pendant of my neck chain—the one I never took off—from side to side. “I think you earn your bread making women feel special and good, and Dylan is in a vulnerable position,” Row countered, upturned brown eyes, just like his sister’s, zinging threateningly. “And I think she can’t handle another heartbreak after what happened with Tucker.” “It’s going to be strictly professional. I just need this deal with Bruce Marshall. And he still lives in the Middle Ages or something.”

“I know. That’s why I invited him over to the launch of my spice brand in two weeks. He’ll be here in New York. It’ll give you the chance to play a loved-up asexual couple with my sister.” My jaw goddamn near hit the floor. “Wait—you knew about our arrangement before you walked in here?” “Dylan told Cal.” He shrugged.

RHYLAND

@DylanCasablancas2000! just followed you on Instagram. @DylanCasablancas2000! commented: hello 911? I’d like to report a murder. @DylanCasablancas2000! commented: OF MY OVARIES. @DylanCasablancas2000! commented: you my butt when you get home 2nite @DylanCasablancas2000! posted a new picture. I clicked on the notification, quickly following her back and clicking on her latest post. It was a picture of her grinning, including a close-up on the mammoth engagement ring, clutching a tall man’s arm. You couldn’t see his face because he was taller, but she stared up at him with pure, unadulterated adoration. For a reason I was definitely not going to explore, the image made my blood boil to the point it seared through my veins and gave me third-degree burns. I picked up my phone and called her.

Rhyland: Who the fuck are you hugging in that picture? Because it sure as hell ain’t me. Her reply was immediate—further proof she hadn’t answered my call simply to rile me up. Dylan: A friend. Rhyland: You don’t have any friends here. Dylan: I made one today. Like hell she had. Rhyland: Where? When? Dylan: At Target. Rhyland: He works there? Dylan: Yes. Rhyland: Not anymore he doesn’t. I’ll see to it that he gets fired immediately. What the fuck was wrong with me? Why was I jealous? No—not jealous, just protective of the Bruce Marshall deal. I really didn’t need her to screw it all up with a meaningless fling.

Dylan: I doubt you can get him fired. Rhyland: Oh yeah? Dylan: Yeah. Rhyland: Why? Dylan: He is a mannequin.

Dylan: I had to get creative. And Grav wanted frilly socks. Rhyland: Those IG comments are deranged. Rhyland: I asked for soft launch, not soft porn. Dylan: Is anal considered soft porn? Idk.

Rhyland: We need to keep it PG-13. Remember, Bruce is a person of faith. Dylan: So am I. Dylan: I firmly believe people who want to get their butt fucked should. It’s no one else’s business.

RHYLAND

Three days had passed since Dylan propositioned me for anal in front of my forty thousand followers. Three days since I last spoke to her or Bruce Marshall.

I spent my day going to the gym, grocery shopping, and sweet-talking a few potential investors. I then made the mistake of checking my bank account and regretted the decision immediately. I was fast approaching being in the red, and I still had to pay Dylan an unfathomable amount of money. By the time I returned to the apartment building, it was ten at night. I ended up hitting the fifth-floor button on my way up to my penthouse. It was Dylan’s first week in New York. The least I could do was make sure she’d survived it.

Had something happened to her? If so, it’s not your goddamn responsibility. You already saved her once, the metaphorical devil on my shoulder said. She’s your best friend’s baby sister. If the chick is dead, Row will be a major pain in the ass. Already he’s irrepressibly grumpy, the angel on my shoulder countered. Making an executive decision, I pulled out the extra key Row had given me and turned it inside its hole. I pushed the door open, peering into the apartment. It was quiet and dark, save for the bluish hue of electronic screens. Maybe Dylan had just called it a night early. But I wasn’t going to leave before confirming she and that annoying mini version of her were okay.

I stopped in the hallway, filling the doorframe to the nursery. Her daughter was curled up in a too-small cot, her stubby, Pillsbury-boy arms encircling that damn pink penis. She seemed perfectly fine. I advanced farther down to the master bedroom. Pushed the door open. The bed was empty, still made, the linen pressed under the mattress like in a hotel. I listened to the hum of the AC, the traffic blaring from downstairs, and detected the gentle noise of water swishing. My throat bobbed with a swallow. She was taking a bath. Good. Now you know. Turn around. Walk away. But something stopped me. What if she’d drowned? Got injured? Fallen when she got out of the bath?

A tiny sigh echoed in the bathroom. It had a floor-to-ceiling view of Manhattan, one of those reflective-finish windows that gave the glass a one-way mirror effect. She could watch the entire stretch of Fifth Avenue without it watching her back. I caught a glimpse of her, and my pulse kick-flipped right down my pants, making my cock throb. Dylan had her naked back to me, everything from her spine down covered by a sheet of bubbles. Her hair was caught in a white claw clip. She was staring out the window—not down at the busy, lively street full of people but up at the sky. Her chin was propped on the back of her hands,

The most beautiful girl in the world. Wild but soft. Brave but lost. Imperfect but whole.

Her words were harsh and sarcastic, but there was something tired and defeated about her demeanor. Something that made me step inside without being invited and lean a shoulder against the wall. “You shouldn’t have let yourself in,” she said, her voice void of anger, and I remembered Dylan had never really had her privacy. She’d always lived under other people’s roofs, never spreading those beautiful, black-tipped wings of hers. “That is no way to greet your fiancé,” I tutted. “I forfeit, smart-ass. I feel too much like shit to engage in this battle of wits.”

“What’s going on?” I asked. “I’ve spent the past few days obsessively looking for a job and putting Grav in front of the TV,” she explained. “She didn’t do anything fun. And she misses her granny and Marty. I feel like the worst mom in the world.”

pushing off the wall, striding toward the foot of the clawed bath and taking a seat on the edge of it. I reached down to touch the water, watching the suds disperse as they met my skin. “Bitch, please. You’re not even top twenty thousand worst mothers in the state. What about that asshole woman from Westchester who killed her kid and called 911 after a month?”

Finally, she opened her mouth. “I have a job interview tomorrow at eleven. I need you to babysit Grav.” Shit. I knew it was coming, but I’d pushed it to the back of my mind. I worked my jaw back and forth. “I’m not good with ki—” “We have an agreement.” She cut me off, whipping her head around to look at me. “And I know you won’t let me down, since you need me on your arm for Row’s spice-brand event.” She had me there, and she knew it.

“I would also appreciate it if you could build her toddler bed. It’s in a box in the guest room. And you’ll need to do my groceries. I canceled Row’s auto-deliveries, because they’re full of ingredients I don’t use. I’ve been so caught up with job hunting I don’t even have milk.”

“A marketing intern position at Beaufort. I’m not sure it’s enough to keep us afloat once our arrangement expires, but I have to start somewhere.” She turned her head back to the sky. I didn’t want to sound like a bigger asshole than I already was, but I couldn’t think of one damn reason why a twenty-six-year-old woman who’d poured diner coffee her whole life would be called in for an interview at one of the world’s largest fashion brands, second only to Chanel.

“I’ll be there,” I confirmed. “Is there anything in the sky I should know about? A UFO? A crashing plane? The apocalypse?” Please say the apocalypse. That way, I won’t have to babysit tomorrow. Her reply came somber and off guard. “You know…ever since I gave birth, I’ve stopped dreaming,” she croaked out, her eyes still stuck on the sky. “I spend my days either working or with Gravity. And I love her. I truly do. But being a single mother is the loneliest existence one can have. Between taking care of her, meeting her needs, working, tidying up, making food, and doing the dishes, I barely have time to think. It’s so exhausting that by the time my head hits the pillow, I’m too tired to dream. And I miss my dreams. So every night, before I go to bed, I always look at the stars and dream in my head while I’m wide awake.”

“What do you dream about?” I murmured around the figurative foot I’d shoved into my mouth. She parked her chin on her curled fists. “Lazy weekends on the beach. Traveling. Dancing with friends. Going back to school.” I couldn’t help but notice she hadn’t mentioned a relationship. I nodded. “Wild dreams, huh?” “The wildest.”

“Is that all? The water’s getting cold.” “Yup. See you tomorrow, Cosmos.” I saw my way out. She didn’t respond to her new nickname. The one I made up on the spot. She wanted her dream to last a little longer before she went to sleep.

RHYLAND

The child and I stared at each other reluctantly. She seemed just as unhappy as I was with the arrangement. “So…do you wanna watch South Park or something while I build your bed?” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Mommy says no TV,” she murmured, her big, dark blue eyes clinging to my face. Riiight. Page fourteen, section B of the manual. How could I forget?

“Then what do you want to do?” She pointed to the hallway. “Get out of my sight?” I asked hopefully. “Help build bed,” she huffed, folding her arms. “You can’t,” I said. “It’s dangerous.” “Don’t care.” She blew a raspberry at me. Her mother’s daughter, no doubt. “Yeah, me either, actually, but social norms, et cetera.”

“I’ll need someone to decorate the frame, I guess, if you’re up to that.” She just stared at me as if I were talking to her in Amharic. I’d never spoken this much to a three-year-old before. “What do you mean?” “I need you to make the bed pretty with your crayons,” I explained in simpler terms. “Oh! Yes! I can do that.” We got to work.

The child and I were done within forty minutes. She drew rainbows and clouds and unicorns on the frame while I put it together. She also didn’t shut up for one second and wrestled me into a conversation about ice cream flavors and fluffy animals. I grunted every few sentences to show her I was still there but refused to engage in the conversation. After that, we went downstairs with Dylan’s grocery list. The child tried to convince me to buy her chocolate, but it wasn’t in the manual, so I refused. She started crying and screaming. By the time we’d returned upstairs and unloaded the groceries, I was flustered, frustrated, and done with my day.

“Uncle Rhyrand.” The child tugged at my pants, looking up at me. “I’m hungry. Can we eat?” Dammit. I’d forgotten to give her a snack. It was in the manual, but so were a hundred fucking other things. “Sure. Just let me…” I grabbed the manual, leafing through it. No way was raising children this precise.

Gravity’s preapproved meals, my entire soul left my body. Chicken breast, organic wheat quesadilla, spaghetti and meatballs, broccoli casserole… All those things required cooking from scratch. Most of my meals were Trader Joe’s prepacked dinners or pussy. There was no way I was whipping up any of these home-cooked dishes.

“Well, shit.” “You said bad word.” The child’s eyes widened. “You give me five dollars.” Her palm was open and outstretched in a nanosecond. The apple really didn’t fall far from the tree. I rummaged in my wallet with a grunt. “I don’t have any cash on me.” “That’s not my problem.” Christ. What kind of demon did Dylan make? “Do you accept Zelle or Venmo?” “What?” “Nothing.” I pushed my wallet back into my back pocket. “Tell you what, I’ll treat you to a Happy Meal, and you’ll forgive my potty word.” “What...

I opened my mouth to reprimand her for tricking me, but she beat me to it. “Now I get Happy Meal and milkshake.” Kids truly were the best advertisements for contraception.

DYLAN

“So what made you think you could work at Beaufort, Miss Casablancas?” “Well, I—” “Is it really true that you’ve worked at a diner your whole life?” Tara burst out before I could answer the first question, a snide giggle tugging at her lips. My gaze skidded between them uncertainly. Panic flared, pressing against my rib cage. This wasn’t an interview. This was a bored mean-girl setup. A way for them to pass the time during lunch break. And I’d walked right into it. “I, uh, I think on my feet…” “See, that’s gonna be an issue, because we’re looking for someone who can think with their brain.” Stassia tapped her temple with a shellacked fingernail.

“It’s a turn of phrase,” I said flatly. “How lovely you know those, considering you didn’t even go to college.” Tara’s put-on sugary tone was faker than her lips. The next ten minutes were extremely painful. I pushed myself through the interview, determined not to stand up and leave halfway through. My heart sank lower, like an abandoned ship, drowning deeper with each cutting word and patronizing joke. This was the only interview I’d been invited to after sending more than three hundred applications.

“Well, this was fun.” Tara and Stassia stood up in unison, smoothing down their preppy dresses with seamless choreography. “Don’t call us—we’ll call you.” “Doubt it,” I murmured under my breath, inwardly furious with myself for thinking I’d stood a chance at getting this job. They obviously heard me, because they exchanged amused looks, pressing their hands to their mouths and giggling as they turned their backs on me. I stumbled out of the gorgeous building to the Manhattan sun and the pulse of the city—cars, tourists, businesspeople, food carts—beating against my skin. I couldn’t breathe. I’d never had a panic attack before, so I couldn’t tell if I was having one now. I just knew the world was spinning out of focus, blurring at the edges, like a photo being devoured by fire.

Dylan: Is Grav okay? Rhyland: She is fine. I, however, want to fling myself out the window. She talks constantly. About the dumbest shit. Extorted me twice before noon. Threw three public tantrums. Chased after a dog instead of vice versa. I’m 99.5% sure I got all my cardio for the week running after her. A smile tugged at my lips. Maybe having him as a neighbor wasn’t the worst thing to happen to me. Dylan: Welcome to toddlerhood. Rhyland: Forget welcome. When am I seeing the farewell sign? Dylan: So…this is probably not the right time to ask you this. I just got out of the job interview, but I need a little time to clear my head. Can you stay for another hour? Rhyland: $%^^$#@@#%&& Rhyland: Everything okay? Dylan: Yeah. I just need a second to collect my thoughts. Rhyland: Do you need a dick pic to brighten up your day? Just because we can’t hook up doesn’t mean I’m not charitable. Dylan: Drop dead. Rhyland: It was worth a try. Rhyland: Stay safe. Dylan: What do you care? Rhyland: If something happens to you, I won’t survive taking care of this kid until a family member comes to pick it up.

In the end, I didn’t take an hour. I took three.

“I feel so bad for Grav,” I groaned. “She has a clueless mom and a father she’s never met because he’s too much of an asshole to care about her.” The words rushed out of me. “She’s never going to have anyone to fall back on if I don’t pull myself together.” Thick silence came from the other end of the line before Kieran spoke. “You need a drink.” “No shit,” I scoffed. “No, like, you need to restart your brain. You are obviously going through a small panic attack.” “I knew it,” I cried out. “My skin is breaking out in hives. What do I do, Kieran? I’m five seconds from taking you up on your fake-marriage offer I’m so stressed.” “First of all, thank you,” he said sarcastically. “Second, there’s a bar not far from your new building. The Alchemist. They make the best cocktails. Listen to me carefully now, Dyl. I want you to go there, order yourself the Roku Koori Negroni with a piece of carrot cake, meditate for a few minutes, and think about what you want to do with your life. Nothing is off the table. Don’t be practical. Be passionate. Even if you think it’s too late. Even if you think it’s too hard. Then call me and let me know what it is, okay?” “Okay,” I panted. “Okay.”

DYLAN

The sheen of sweat making her face gleam confirmed her observation. Her eyes were dull and unfocused. I instinctively shot out my hand to clasp hers. “Hey, are you okay?” She nodded. “Yeah.” I closed my eyes and tried to imagine my perfect career. I remembered Kieran’s advice not to be practical, to be passionate. It came to me like a mirage, with vivid clarity. Me. In a doctor’s uniform. Making a change. Ushering an injured child on a gurney. Into a theater. Performing surgery. Steel hands. Cool-headed.

Another vision sifted through my jumbled thoughts. Me. Making the rounds to see my patients, with a clipboard pressed to my chest. Reassuring worried parents. Comforting distressed children. I want to be a doctor. I’d always wanted to be a doctor. It was there in the back of my head, a pipe dream that could never materialize.

now clutching the edge of the bar. Her pupils were the size of soup bowls. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked. “I’m feeling a little dizzy…” She blinked slowly. “Like my heart is beating out of whack.”

I immediately sprang into action. I jumped across the bar, knocking down my cocktail and my cake in the process, then I crouched down to check her pulse. There wasn’t one. Crap. The bartender next to her—a man in his fifties—stared at me helplessly, holding two beers in his hands. “Call 911,” I ordered him. He nodded, dropped everything, and took out his phone. Luckily, I’d done a CPR course when Grav was born. I began alternating between chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth. The other bartender came to stand over me. “Oh fuck, oh fuck. Faye is my best bartender. Is she going to be okay?” “I don’t know,” I said honestly, timing my chest compressions. “Did you call 911?” “Yeah. They asked me a bunch of questions. I…I told them to just come. They should be here any minute.” I checked her heartbeat against her neck again. This time, there was a faint pulse. My shoulders slumped with relief. The adrenaline coursing through my body made me feel almost drunk.