Wild Card

by Elsie Silver

he doesn’t stop rubbing my feet, even as the swell of his hardening dick contacts the heel of my foot. Unlike so many of the guys I’ve dated, though, he doesn’t pounce on the opportunity to make this moment about sex. Instead, he continues massaging my feet with surprising skill. He rubs them until I drift off from his soothing touch, allowing myself to enjoy being taken care of for the first time in a very, very long time

I bowl and work on my mental health so that I can be in proper shape to do the job that I love. Hell, I even attend the odd yoga class. Every day feels better. The combination of healthy eating, exercise, and companionship has me feeling lighter overall.

in an endless sea of nights that were only ever numb, she made me feel something.

With her, nothing seems like that big of an ask. It turns out that when I care about someone—when I love someone—I’m willing to do anything for them. Join a stupid bowling team that I never really wanted to. Give them a kidney. Play Disney Princess with some shitty raccoon. All just to make them happy.

The realization brings me a sense of peace I’ve never felt before. Like I’m not just rushing through life, trying to get to the next place. Running from my past and desperately searching for a place I belong. Suddenly, I don’t have anywhere else to be. I’m right where I belong.

Making Sebastian Rousseau—Mr. Always in Control—fall apart is my crowning achievement.

I pour as much of myself as I can into this one kiss, begging her to stay, begging her to wait, begging her to make it through this thing with me. Because I have a sinking suspicion that what’s on the other side of this struggle might be…everything. I just have to figure out how to keep it.

“I think if you weren’t a little scared, you’d probably be stupid. And you’re a lot of things, Bash”—he holds his beer up now, clinking it against my glass—“but stupid is not one of them.”

that’s just the type of guy Emmett Brandt is. Kind of an asshole, but you don’t even need to ask for help before he’s promising to show up anyway—shaving an hour off his travel time, no less. I swear to god I could call him in the middle of the night and tell him I need to bury a body. The only thing he’d reply with is on my way.

“The question was: What is the driest place on earth? The answer is the Atacama Desert—Team Four, you got it right. But I would like to give an honorable mention to Tabitha Garrison for submitting Terence’s bed as the answer for Team Two.”

“Gwen?” he asks. “Yeah, that’s me,” I say, trying not to give in to the welling tears in my eyes. There’s an embroidered patch over his heart that spells out Eaton and I focus on that instead. “So glad we found you.” He smiles, and it might be the most reassuring smile in the world. Something about him screams confident and capable, and it eases the knot in my chest. He reaches a hand toward me. “Hi. I’m Beau. Here to help you out. What do you say we get the hell off this mountain?”

“Thank you, Tripp. And thank you for your help today. You really stepped up. And I know you’ve already got a dad to be proud of you, but if you wanted some random guy you barely know to be proud of you too, well, your dreams have come true.” Tripp lets out a dry chuckle, rolling his eyes. “I’ll take that. But you really aren’t so random, you know. A second dad might be all right. Eventually.” Bash smiles, looking a bit overwhelmed by the moment. But, of course, Tripp has to offset that by adding, “Gwen, I’m never calling you Mom, though.”

I breathe him in. I breathe my anxiety out. I breathe him in. I breathe my doubt out. I breathe him in. I breathe my fears out.

She has the special gift of making everything around her better. Including me.