Wild Card

by Elsie Silver

Despite the way I’ve behaved around her lately, Gwen doesn’t annoy me. Not in the least. She’s a go-with-the-flow free spirit, and I’m laced up tight—fighting against the flow a lot of the time. But she just…doesn’t.

“It will help ground you. Feel the pulse of the earth on your bare skin.” I scoff, and she peeks out one eye. “Shut up and lose your socks, Sebastian.” Her snapping at me like that makes me chuckle. It’s so out of character. And yet, I’m reaching for my socks and soon standing barefoot beside her.

“It’s fucking cold,” I mutter. Gwen smiles, eyes fluttering closed once again as she sighs deeply. “Makes you feel alive, right?” I don’t respond to that. I’m not sure what to say, because, as ridiculous as it sounds, yeah, it does make me feel alive.

“It would be weird if you weren’t nervous, Bash. It’s normal to let your brain wander down every path of possibility. So long as we don’t let it go too far. You have to come back to that feeling of knowing yourself better than anyone. Of being so in tune with yourself that your mind always comes back to center. You need that stability. Grounding.” “You have a lot of practice with

“For example, right now my thoughts start to turn to what must you think of me? I was often told growing up that I’m too much⁠—” “Who the fuck told you that?” She doesn’t respond at all to my outburst even though all I want to know is who had enough nerve to say that to her face so I can set them straight. “And I allow myself to acknowledge that I am not every person’s cup of tea. Maybe I am more than they can handle. And that’s okay because I’m quite fond of myself and no one can take that away from me. I’m at peace with who I am, so what you think of me doesn’t matter.” I think you’re just right is what I want to say. But I don’t. Instead, I go with, “I don’t think you’re too much.” She turns and winks at me. “I don’t care.” Then, her head tilts my way. “Now you go. Close your eyes and quit staring at me like you’re going to beat someone up to defend my honor.”

“But, Bash, what if you live?” Her question echoes in my head as her warm palm molds to mine. I feel her pulse. It thrums through my body. Hell, maybe I even feel the earth beneath my feet a little differently. All I know is that the first thing that comes to mind is, If I live, I’m coming after you.

“Knock, knock!” I call out, rapping my fist against the open door of Clyde’s hospital room. “Why do people say ‘knock, knock’ while actually knocking?” he grumbles. “It’s totally redundant.”

“Nice to see you too, Clyde,” I singsong brightly as I sashay into the room. “I brought you flowers.” His gaze flicks to the vase of cheerful, yellow daffodils, soft pink ranunculus, and deep purple hyacinths in my hand. “For what? I didn’t do anything.” “You didn’t die. Congratulations. A huge accomplishment,” I fire back with my sweetest smile, already feeling better for being able to make him smirk. “Guess so, huh? Just need a few more days, and I’ll be back to yoga.”

“I miss you, Clyde, but you won’t be back to yoga until we get clearance from your doctors.” He responds with a petulant eye roll. “These fuckin’ clowns don’t know shit. Did you know they had to write on me with a Sharpie saying which side the kidney needed to go in on? A big X to mark the spot.” He shakes his head as he crosses his arms, disappointment dripping from every motion. “Over a decade of schooling, and these kids don’t even know right from left.”

LOL

“How are you feeling?” Clyde looks longingly out the window before turning big blue puppy dog eyes on me. “Like I want to go home. I will hire you to break me out of this place.”

“Would it be okay if I still taught at the studio?” The prospect of having both jobs is too good to not ask. He shrugs. “Sure. I don’t want you sitting there staring at me all the time. You’ll annoy me.”

“Well, good. You’ll move in with me. No rent necessary.” He looks so pleased that I can’t help but smile. It makes me feel all glowy and warm to see how happy my presence makes him. It’s a reaction I’ve never been able to garner from my father. Instead, I seem only to exasperate and disappoint him.

“Count me in.” He brightens exponentially. “Do you promise?” Does he brighten just a little too much? There’s something suspicious about his reaction. I scan his face for clues. The glint in his eye reminds me of a little boy who knows something he shouldn’t. “You want me to promise?” “Yeah.” He nods solemnly, grumbling as he shifts in the bed. “I know I’m a lot to handle sometimes. People get tired of me. Then they stop showing up.”

If I leave first, no one can stop showing up for me. I don’t give them the chance to get tired of me the way my dad did.

A voice filters from the door. And before I even see its owner, I know who it is. I’d recognize that voice anywhere, and a wave of relief hits me when I hear it. He lived. I already knew he had, but seeing him in the flesh adds a layer of relief.

There are times when everything between us feels so perfectly natural. And other times, it’s like a comedy of errors, where we’re avoiding one another but keep crashing together anyway. I hate how awkward things are with us in those moments. It’s like the ultimate missed connection topped off with a huge amount of baggage. And longing. And…regret. So much regret. Should have, could have, would have.

Why didn’t I take his number? Why didn’t I try to find him? Why did I automatically assume I wasn’t good enough for him to stay interested?

My gaze snags on the front of his sweatpants as he props his hands on his hips and talks. The gray sweats. The ones that leave almost nothing to the imagination.

My attention moves from Bash’s big dick to the words he just said. My head turns slowly in Clyde’s direction as I piece it together. He stays focused on Bash, like a puppy who’s done something naughty and is avoiding eye contact. “Oh, thank you, Bash. That’s perfect.” My jaw unhinges as I watch Clyde…play him. His voice is all soft, his shoulders just slightly hunched. “I actually hired someone already.”

“She’s already been helping me,” Clyde says with a wince. “I don’t trust anyone else.” I chuckle now because I’m going to give Clyde a goddamn Oscar later. He knows exactly what he’s doing. But I quickly swallow my amusement when Bash’s head snaps in my direction. Clyde isn’t the least bit put off, though. He carries on unperturbed. “Just because you gave me a kidney doesn’t mean that you’re the boss of me now.” “Thank god,” Bash grumbles. “That’s a terrifying fucking prospect.”

He glares at me like I’m a problem that needs fixing. And that feeling I’ve spent years running from—the one where I worry that I’m an inconvenience—rears its ugly head. Of course Bash doesn’t want me in his home. If I stop and think about it, it’s unfair to even ask. He’s just forged a relationship with his son. Me living at his house? Red freaking flag.

“Quit gawking at his ass,” Clyde whispers, making me snap my gaze away. “I’m not. I’m looking at his back.” He giggles. This grizzled old man giggles. Like a little girl. My eyes narrow, and now it’s my turn to cross my arms and look down my nose at him. Suspicious. “Are you in pain?” “Me? No. I’m on more drugs than I’ve taken in my entire life. I can’t even feel my face.” I suspected before, but the truth of it dawns on me at once. At best, he’s stirring the pot. And at worst, he’s trying to play matchmaker. “You’re being a little shit-disturber, aren’t you?” The man’s lips twitch, and he waves me off. “I’m just a frail old man, not long for this world. Let me get my kicks in where I can.” I shake my head at him in disbelief and he peeks my way with a wink. “Plus, his shit could use a little disturbing.”

The doorbell rings and I have to talk myself into walking toward it. Because I know who’s on the other side. Gwen. Airport Gwen. Beach Gwen. Tripp’s Gwen. Gwen, who Tripp never so much as mentions. I scoff, shaking off the way that thought makes my stomach turn and stride toward the door. As my hand wraps around the handle, I steel myself because every time I lay eyes on her, it’s this full-body, visceral reaction. I freeze up like a fucking teenager. My heart pounds. My hands get clammy. And I have to clamp my molars together to keep from sighing like an awestruck little boy. Because Gwen isn’t just hot as fuck. She’s kind. And fun. And thoughtful. And flexible. How do I know? Because I found her social media channels. I couldn’t keep myself from looking at her when I woke up from surgery. Alive. Just like she reassured me I would be. And honestly, it’s fucking embarrassing.

I’m not oblivious to the shit Clyde pulled, but that’s not why I said yes. It’s the way she flippantly wrote herself off as a burden. The way her smile fell and her amethyst eyes went flat. Her quiet voice at the beach when she so casually mentioned that she’s been told she’s too much. I didn’t like it. Didn’t want to contribute to it. We barely know each other, but I know the woman isn’t a burden. Like she said, she’s self-sufficient. She lands on her feet. And I didn’t want to be one more obstacle for her to overcome. So I decided to be mature about it. Even though, thanks to Gwen Dawson, turning regret and self-loathing into an erection appears to be my new superpower.

just like I predicted, I take one look at her and the world around us stands still.

Then we just stare at each other—me gripping the door so hard that my knuckles turn white and her hugging her duffel bag against herself like a shield. Because me being a surly dickhead all the time is probably not super reassuring. But the truth is, I don’t know how to act around her. I fear if I soften up even a smidge, I’ll cross a boundary I shouldn’t. Take something that isn’t mine.

Even just having her here in a professional capacity, living under the same roof as me, is a dangerous temptation.

Watching Gwen stop and stare is satisfying as hell. Those plush lips, slightly parted. That impressed expression sparking ideas in me. It’s all trouble.

“Impressive.” Her head joggles, like she doesn’t quite agree with my assessment. “Almost as impressive as the depth of my daddy issues and the uniform kink my upbringing sent me out into the world with.” She barks out a laugh, and I try not to choke on my own saliva. “Jesus, Gwen.” Her responding laugh is light as she lifts a hand while placing the other over her chest. “Your Honor, I only speak the truth.”

It feels like I’m walking to the gallows because living under the same roof as Gwen Dawson is sure to be the death of me.

She doesn’t even look my way as she muses, “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.”

I’ve had too many quiet days spent recovering thinking about her. And I hate it. I hate it because what I want to do is close this gap between us. Shove her up against the wall. Peel those tight fucking yoga pants off that perfectly round ass. But I can’t. And I hate it. In fact, my desperate craving makes me hate myself a little bit too.

“The energy in this truck is fuckin’ weird.” Clyde’s beady eyes bore into the rearview mirror from the back seat. Gwen and I worked expediently to get Clyde formally discharged, coordinating with the porter to get him arranged in my truck. When there’s a task to do right in front of us, Gwen and I get shit done well enough. But when you take the task away, the tension seeps back in. That’s probably what Clyde is referring to—the way we’re both sitting stiffly in the front like two kids forced to share a bench on the school bus. Weird? Absolutely.

“Just focusing on the road, Clyde. I’ve got precious cargo in the back seat,” I deadpan, drawing a snort from Gwen and an eye roll from the older man. “That’s rich,” he grumbles. “We all know I’m only here because you’re a big, broody, dutiful motherfucker.” I sigh. He’s not wrong. I am those things. In fact, I pride myself on being dutiful—reliable. But with Clyde, it’s more than that. I care about him. I mean, I haven’t told him that. But I gave him my fucking kidney. What more does he want? A tattoo across my forehead? “Clyde, if I didn’t want you to live with me while you recover, I wouldn’t have offered.” “Heartwarming,” he mumbles, turning his head to look out the window. “You’re just so nice.”

“If you’d let me finish, you wouldn’t have to be having a big cry over an incomplete sentence.” My jaw works. “Comment stands.”

“Well, I think being nice has more to do with behaving in a way that’s driven by social expectations. Whereas being kind is behaving in a way that’s driven by a concern for other people’s well-being. And the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive. I’d be rather wary of someone who is nice but not kind.” I fight the urge to squirm in my seat as her words hang in the cab of my truck. It’s a compliment, but I don’t know what to do with it. So I keep my eyes on the road, seeing my driveway ahead like a portal to freedom and escape from being stuck in a small space with these two. “Ah,” Clyde drawls, as though understanding is dawning on him in some grand fashion. Then, he grins at me in the mirror, and I just know he’s about to toss a grenade and metaphorically run away giggling. “So it’s like how he’s being generally not nice to you in an attempt to be kind to his son?”

“Funny how a little pain brought you around to the merits of modern medicine so quickly.” I shoot him a glare. “Can you not antagonize him for one day? I know this is your love language or whatever, but I want to make sure everything is okay.” All I get in return is an irritated glare. One I give right back. Because I’m not in the mood for Bash’s shit right now.

If I’m anything, it’s hard on myself.

“It’s a miracle I’ve survived this many days post-surgery without someone propping me up with every pillow in this house.” I turn back slowly to face Bash, who clearly just can’t help himself. “Do you want me to come upstairs and get you settled as well? If you keep this attitude up, I can hold a pillow down over your face to make it stop.” Bash swallows roughly while continuing to glare at me but says nothing. “Careful,” Clyde interjects with a raspy cackle, “some people are into that kind of shit.”

“I know this arrangement is best for everyone, so I’m tolerating it. I wouldn’t change it, but I don’t love it. This isn’t some happy-family dynamic. We’re roommates. You do your thing. I’ll do mine.” I do my best to nod seriously, but Bash is downright sexy. It makes me want to needle him just so he’ll crack a smile. I lean toward Clyde with a stage-whisper loud enough that Bash can hear. “He reminds me of Oscar the Grouch sometimes.” Then I turn back to face Bash, wanting to reassure him that I understand. “I love how honest you’re being with us about your expectations and what you need. Clear communication will make sharing the space easier for everyone.” Clyde nods solemnly. “Bash, we understand. This is your trash can, and we’re just living in it.” Bash’s jaw twitches. “The two of you are really annoying together. Do you know that?” I flash him my brightest grin. “Just think of us as the two annoying kids you never wanted.” “Oh, pfft,” Clyde scoffs, landing a playful slap on my arm. “Ain’t no way Bash is thinking about you like a kid.”

“Clyde, you really gotta ease off on him with that.” The man turns to me with a blank expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My head tilts, and I prop my hands on my hips. “Stop playing, silly fucker.” “He likes it.” “I don’t think he does.” Clyde drops the pretense with an annoyed grumble as he reaches for the book I unpacked and placed on the bedside table for him. It’s a compilation of firsthand accounts of alien abduction and, hilariously, exactly the type of literature I’d expect Clyde to consume. “Well, then he needs it.” “What?” He doesn’t look up—just opens the book as he responds with, “Something that makes him happy.” My brows furrow. “Which is what?” Now it’s Clyde’s turn to hit me with a head tilt. “Gwen, stop playing, silly fucker.”

“We’re taking good care of this kidney because no one else likes you enough to give you one.” He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. Funny, ornery old man that he is.

I grew up with this feeling of never being good enough, never trying hard enough. Never quite fitting in. I’m sure the unrelenting questions were my dad’s way of motivating me—it was the drill sergeant in him—but they only stifled me. I was—and still am—too soft to hold up under that brand of motivation. It wasn’t until I got away, saw the world, found yoga that I felt like I might actually be good at something. That I discovered passion. That I learned to love my body. That I found helping others is what fulfills me.

“Gwen. Clyde argues with me enough as it is. Can you just…not?” I swallow at that. Everything about Bash right now screams exhaustion, and guilt nips at me for interrupting his quiet moment. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.” His head rolls along the back of the chair and his dark eyes land on me. I try not to squirm under the intensity of his stare. “You don’t bother me, Gwen.” I give him my best disbelieving look. I don’t want to argue, but I also don’t buy it. He just sighs, turning to stare back at the water. “Not in the way you think.”

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

“You’re confusing, you know that?” I toss my mat down, deciding to honor his wishes and stay outside. “And kind of exhausting,” I add as I take a seat and c...

Why is there a lock on the outside of that door? Fuck my brain. It just won’t let me go these days. It’s like years of working on stilling my mind are shot because I have a crush I can’t shake. And I know myself well enough to realize the question will niggle at me. So instead of forcing myself through it, I quietly ask him, “Why is there a lock on the outside of that balcony door?”

Fight-or-flight—it seems like I usually make him want to fly away as fast as he can.

“I thought I’d have kids.”

“When I built this place, I thought I’d have kids.” I swallow and nod softly. “The room you’re staying in was supposed to be the perfect kid’s room. The bench. The window. I figured by a certain age, they’d want to use the balcony too. But then I worried that when they were small, it might be a safety issue. So I put a dead bolt on the outside so my wife or I could⁠—” He trips over his own words, stopping midsentence with an irritated twist of his lips before forging ahead. “Whatever. I just figured I could lock it from the outside, then head back into my room from the shared balcony and not have to worry about a curious toddler wandering out.”