Wild Card

by Elsie Silver

For the ones who were told their dreams were too dreamy but who went on to make them come true anyway. And for my awful high school English teacher, Mr. C, who looked me in the eye at sixteen years old and told me I’d never be a good writer. Thanks for the motivation.

And that voice? It’s the furthest thing from girlish. That voice is all grown-up. It’s not giddy or overly bright. It’s all honey and spice, smooth with a hint of heat—borderline sensual without even trying.

I think I’d like to spend some time in her brain just so I can get the hell out of mine.

“Oh, tonight? Tonight is just our meet-cute. It’s the night we’ll tell our kids about one day. Remember?”

Because the world works in mysterious ways, and it would never squander a meet-cute like ours.

To the outside observer, it would appear that I’m staring at the guy I showed up here with. But they would be wrong. I’m staring at his dad.

“The fuck did you just say to her?” Bash’s voice is cold as ice from across the table.

CLYDE GIBBONS. What a bizarre little man.

“Go look at something purple! It’ll help support your crown chakra!”

Then he looked me straight in the eye and told me to never work for free. To never sell myself short or question my value.

All I know is that the first thing that comes to mind is, If I live, I’m coming after you.

“I’m just a frail old man, not long for this world. Let me get my kicks in where I can.”

“Goddamn, you must be good with your hands.” We freeze in time, and I watch pink splotches pop up on her round cheeks as she slowly turns her head in my direction. Fuck, she’s so pretty, I can’t even stand it. Eyes wide and pleading, she adds, “I mean, you must be handy.” “I’m both.”

Perplexing—that’s what Sebastian Rousseau is. Inconsistent too. His moods shift like the tides.

The pain in his voice is like a spear to my chest. It aches for him. I ache for him.

We connected. We had that spark. The one you can’t force. The kind that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. And the worst part is, we both know it.

“Gwen. I can’t fuck it all up. I can’t cross that line, no matter how tempted I am.”

“The thing is, Gwen, next time you want to watch me, you should just ask.”

“Or what? You might man up and take something for yourself for once?” I snap.

I take something for myself for once. My hands dart out and grip Gwen’s waist. “You know what?” I snarl, yanking her toward me, staring at her plush mouth as her lips softly part—no doubt to say something infuriating. But I don’t let her get a word in edgewise. “Fuck it,” I mutter. Then I kiss her.

“That he was a fool to let you get away. But that it was just as well because I could fuck you better.”

“Don’t act so surprised. I love that big doofus like he’s my own, and to be frank, you’re feeling an awful lot like my second doofus.”

I decide that where Sebastian Rousseau is concerned, I’ll take what I can get. It might not be forever, but I’ll settle for right now. So I slip under the duvet and let him hold me.

It’s the simple things. It’s building a life with someone. I’d settle for just that. But it can’t be just someone. I think deep down I want it to be the one. I’ve been hurt too badly for it not to be.

“I wish Bash were in love with me. Then maybe he’d make me nice breakfasts too.”

All I can see is her. All I can feel is her. All I can taste is her. I’m fucking drowning in her and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Gwen, baby, I need you to be quiet. You can scream for me later. But right now, I need you to shut your mouth and take this cock like the good girl I know you can be.”

“You’re a fucking wild card. Unpredictable and never what I expect. You scare the hell out of me every damn day. But today more than any of them. Because I thought I lost you.” His voice cracks. So does my heart. “And I love you, and I hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell you.”

“You’re my limes, Bash. I’m the tequila. You and me? We’re gonna spend the rest of our lives making margaritas, okay?”

“Oh good. We both have a hero complex,”