Wild Side (Rose Hill #3)

29. Rhys

CHAPTER 29

RHYS

“What the fuck was that?” I spit the words across Anthony’s office before the door has even clicked shut behind me. On my way in, I walked past several colleagues, and though they offered polite hellos, they stayed far away thanks to the massive storm cloud hanging over my head.

Anthony looks up at me over the rims of his wire-framed glasses. He’s wearing a suit like always, and his head looks freshly shaved. “Nice to see you too, Rhys.”

I don’t bother sitting down. I’m too agitated.

Instead, I toss my phone down, grip the back of the chair, and lean over his desk. “I’ve been trying to call you.” I nod at my phone. “The weird I-stole-your-girlfriend storyline full of over-the-top sexual innuendos needs to die a fiery death. I’m not playing that fucking game, Anthony. I’m a wrestler, not a soap opera actor.”

“Yeah, but you look like you could be on one.” His hands spread wide as though he’s envisioning a headline. “ He stole his girl, and now he’ll steal his championship belt ,” he quips, clearly not concerned about the fury rolling from me.

“This has always been a no. End it.” I’ve always maintained that I don’t want one of these storylines and have threatened to quit if they wrote me one. And I’ve been in demand enough to get away with it.

The older man leans back in his swivel chair, peering at me over steepled fingers. “You agreed to this when you took unexpected time off to get married. Plus, the internet is buzzing about you popping up for that promo with a shiny new wedding ring on your finger.”

Fuck, I should have taken that off. That’s Tabby’s ring. Not a prop.

But he’s not above using my personal life for his show.

My teeth gnash as protectiveness surges through me. I’ve always known Anthony is not my friend. He’s a businessman, a shark with dollar signs in his eyes, and I’ve only been able to keep him at a heel because he’s needed me more than I’ve needed him.

Until that one call. And I’d make that call again, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to rip his fucking head off.

“Nice wedding gift, Tony,” I grit out.

The asshole just smiles. “Relax. It’s not like you need to fuck her. We’re talking a kiss when the timing is ri?—”

“Absofuckinglutely not.” My knuckles go white as I grip the chair.

“And an unmasking, but you’ll get your championship back. It will push you into full baby-face territory and give Will that full heel turn we want for him.”

Shock renders me speechless. Baby face means he wants to make me the “good guy,” and turning Will heel means “full bad guy.” Personally, I prefer to straddle the middle line, but it’s not looking like I’m being given that option. My body coils tight as I glare back at my boss. “I’m not doing this.”

He shrugs. “You’re under contract, and you gave verbal agreement. You’re too honest to say you didn’t.”

A feeling of helplessness surges through me. It takes me back to my childhood. Moved around. Assigned to new families. Choices being made about my life when I had no say in them. My power stripped.

Words fail me as my throat constricts. Years spent working for this company. The travel, the lost sleep, the injuries, the exhaustion, the loneliness. And this is where it gets me.

“Elle had no problem with the creative direction, so it’s time for you to swallow your pride and get on board.”

I scoff. “Of course she didn’t.”

I’ve been beating off her advances behind the scenes for the better part of the last two years. She’s a prime example of someone who knows exactly what she wants from me—a partner in the company to create a wrestling legacy with. To be attached to the highest paid and arguably most popular wrestler on the roster. Maybe we’re a match that way. But I could not be less attracted to her.

Most of all, I don’t trust her, which might be the biggest turnoff of all. She knows nothing about me, so I can’t for the life of me understand why she pursues me beyond superficial reasons.

It’s shit like this that’s kept me single.

It’s shit like this that makes me think of Tabitha. Strange as it may seem, I trust her. And this entire situation makes my chest ache with missing her.

She’d have an earful to give Anthony right about now. She’d go to bat for me.

Where Elle knows I’m going to hate this and is eager to do it anyway.

“Monday night, you’ll open the show, and while you’re talking, Jake and Axel will jump you from behind. You’ll start off strong, and then it will go downhill quickly. Elle is going to come out with a chair and save the day. At the end, you’ll do something affectionate and let her lead you back out. Do you need to get your wife’s permission or something?” He sneers the last line.

My jaw works. If I wasn’t so angry, I’d laugh. Because this is laughably stupid. They’ve never given me a romance storyline, and I have been abundantly clear that I don’t want one. For personal reasons and because it makes little sense with my reclusive mountain man character.

It’s then that my phone lights up and my new background, the selfie that Tabitha snapped wearing my mask, glows back at me. A text notification from her sits just beneath.

The light draws Anthony’s attention. “Tabby? She’s cute.”

Something inside me snarls at him for using her nickname. It feels too personal, and I don’t like it one bit. “Her name is Tabitha, not that you need to know. Because you? You’re going to keep my wife’s name out of your fucking mouth.”

My boss raises his eyebrows at me, as though both amused and surprised to be on the receiving end of my fury.

“I’m weeks away from reclaiming my title at the biggest event of the year, and you want me to get rescued by my fake girlfriend after two B-list goons attack me?” The word fake feels more accurate on my lips than it ever felt when referring to Tabitha.

“We’re going with wife . You guys eloped. A secret love. A rush to the altar before Will could stop it. That’s the story. So remember to wear the ring.”

The knife he lodged in my gut twists. “That’s fucking ridiculous! The audience will never buy that.” My temper flares, and so does Anthony’s.

He shoots to standing, fist slamming on his desk. He’s known to be an asshole and a yeller, but I’ve been spared his fits. Until now.

“You listen to me, boy! And you listen good. You’re going to make them buy it! I’ve given you free rein and far too much say. That ends now. You’re going to fall in line, just like every other wrestler in this company. Get that god complex under control, and stop referring to this as your title.” My tongue presses into my cheek, and I glance away from his beady blue eyes. I’m too furious to even look at him.

His fist slams again. “Look at me, Rhys! This title is mine ! Everything in this building is mine ! I built this company. This business. And you are lucky I take your ass along on the ride with me. Now get out of here, and go find some fucking gratitude.”

My mouth is dry, and my throat feels like it might turn inside out. I’ve never considered Anthony a friend, but I’ve respected him in my own way. We’ve worked well together.

But this? Today? It makes my stomach turn. It’s tossed me back in time in an unexpected way—having to be grateful for whatever scraps I’ve been given. Maybe I’ve overstepped, but having my control stripped like this?

He’s gone too far.

I have nothing left to say, so I turn rigidly and stride out of the asshole’s office.

Will waits outside, his handsome face twisted in a chagrined grimace, blond curls sweat-slicked against his forehead after a hard workout. “Boss… Fuck, man, I’m sorry.”

Clearly, he heard the conversation. Will might come off as an airheaded tool in the ring, but he’s not that guy. He knows he’s about to lose his belt, and no matter how fake this gig might be, it easily starts to feel real. Losing a fake championship doesn’t feel fake at all. It hurts and comes with a heavy dose of humility.

I clap his shoulder, not wanting him to stress, even though I’m spiraling. This isn’t his problem. It’s mine. “Not on you, pal. Meet you in the ring this afternoon for practice. We’re gonna give them a hell of a show.”

He nods, eyes scanning me as I move past him, continuing down the hallway, wanting nothing more than to get the fuck out of this building.

“Rhys!” Elle’s too-sweet voice grates down the back of my neck like nails on a chalkboard.

“Not now,” I growl without turning.

“We need to plan what we’re?—”

I pivot toward her. “Elle, do not push me on this. I am not in the mood. And I do not like this.”

She smiles gently, still moving in my direction. “We’re going to make this fun. Don’t worry.”

I hold a hand up to stop her approach. “Elle, if someone tells you they don’t like something, you fucking stop.”

Her eyes widen like I’ve hurt her feelings rather than just told her the truth, and with a shake of my head, I leave. The training center headquarters, like an arena made for wrestling, has several exits, and I take the closest I can find, not especially caring where I end up. I’m planning on taking a few laps around the building to help calm myself down, so it doesn’t matter.

The minute I hit the warm, humid Tampa air outside, I suck in a breath. It tastes bad, nothing like the crisp mountain air in Rose Hill. It tastes like salt and smog rather than rose petals and sunshine.

I’ve always loved wrestling—the training, the conditioning, the drama, everything about it. But today, for the first time, I wish I were lying on a blanket with Tabitha and Milo, picking out shapes in the clouds.

I look up, and the sky is a uniform shade of gray, rain threatening at any moment.

My fingers pulse around my phone. I’m both desperate to open Tabitha’s text and nervous to see what it says.

She didn’t respond to my final message last night, and it left me wondering if I took it too far by telling her she’s special. I didn’t know whether to message her again. Didn’t know if it would come off too… eager. And then I figured, we’re married, so what’s the worst that could happen? She ends up thinking I’m a huge sap? Oh well.

But there isn’t a shred of awkwardness in her message.

Tabby:

Did you know that if you trace Dupris back to its French origins, it means “from the meadow”?

My brows lift. Of all the messages I expected from her, that was not it.

Rhys:

I did not. Are you looking me up?

She responds right away.

Tabby:

Seeing the marriage certificate got me thinking about last names. Gwen was talking about feeling grounded in the universe by exploring your roots, and I thought I’d dig around a little for mine too. Garrison has a few meanings, so I’m choosing my favorite, which is “fortified stronghold.”

I swallow. That sounds like something Gwen would talk about, but my feelings around my family name are complicated. I haven’t spent much time looking into my background. Instead, I’ve focused on looking ahead.

Tabby:

And you know, actually, most Dupris families lived in Canada. So maybe you really were meant to end up here. Part-time. Or whatever.

Rhys:

Maybe.

I do not know where she’s going with this, but even though it’s a subject I hate, I want her to keep talking. I like the idea of being meant to end up in Rose Hill. That would mean grasping control is futile because this life is just rolling along—beyond my power.

Tabby:

There’s even one search result that says newer variations of Dupree (with an accent, because, French) might mean “special family.” The website doesn’t look very legit. But who cares? Maybe you like that one better.

I wince. I’m not sure that definition is better at all. Seems a little tongue-in-cheek if you ask the kid who was passed from family to family.

Rhys:

Special, all right.

Tabby:

Our family *is* special. Unique circumstances. Chosen rather than born into. All tied together in an unusual way.

Rhys:

Tabby. Our marriage is one big extenuating circumstance. I’m not sure you could call us a family.

Tabby:

Rhys. I’ll call us a family if I want to.

Family.

I swallow hard. It’s difficult to read intonation over text, but I don’t get the sense she’s joking even though that’s the first place my head goes. After the dressing-down Anthony just gave me, having Tabitha call us a family is equal parts shocking and soothing.

Rhys:

What are you up to today?

Tabby:

When Milo wakes up, we’re going to prep some frozen meals. Any requests?

Rhys:

I don’t know when I’ll be back.

Tabby:

That’s okay. We’ll be ready for when you are.

I sigh, walking as my thumbs fly, and my chest goes tight. I love eating anything she makes for me. Her meals aren’t just delicious—it feels like she cares about me.

Rhys:

Okay. I loved that first pasta you made me. The one with the bacon.

Tabby:

Carbonara! Will do. But it’s touchy to reheat, so I’ll have to show you how.

I love the domesticity of this conversation. I love it when she’s soft like this. Her walls become a little less opaque as she gives me a glimpse into what it’s like being part of a family. It makes me wonder if she’s found a way to forgive me for Erika and the role she thinks I’ve played. She hasn’t mentioned that lately, which is both a relief and a problem.

Because when it comes out… I don’t know. I didn’t plan for the white lie to matter. She hated me anyway, so I didn’t care. Why not let her hate me a little more if it made the death of her sister a lighter burden?

But now it feels like a lie that sits between us, growing larger and more cumbersome by the day. Especially since I find myself wanting to talk to her more and more.

I want to tell her about the shit show here at HQ so badly. My first inclination is to think she won’t care to get involved. But the subtle way she’s been reaching out gives me a flicker of hope that she’ll have some ridiculous spin on the situation.

Deep down, I want to trust her enough to bring this up, no matter how embarrassing it might feel. I won’t bring up the unmasking, because truthfully, I’d rather take my mask off than kiss Elle on national television. So I spit it out with zero tact before I can talk myself out of it.

Rhys:

Work is shit. They’re making me pretend Elle and I eloped.

Tabby:

Juicy. I love the drama.

Rhys:

There’s internet chatter about me wearing a wedding ring in that promo we filmed.

Tabby:

Oh shit. I noticed it and didn’t even think about that. I should have told you to take it off.

I bristle as I start my second lap around the massive building. I don’t want to take it off.

Rhys:

Tabby, I’m not taking my ring off and pretending to be single just because I’m working.

Tabby:

Okay. Then let them all think what they want. You and I know the truth, so who cares if millions of people think you’re married to a mega-hot blond? It could be worse.

Rhys:

That is the worst.

Tabby:

Nah. Millions of people are wrong. You’re actually married to a short, flat-chested, prickly chef from Buttfuck Nowhere, Canada. HAHA. Joke’s on them.

Rhys:

No. I’m married to a mega-hot brunette who makes the best carbonara in the world.

Tabby:

Oh, Wild Side, you’re so romantic.

A smile curves my lips. Leave it to Tabitha to make me almost laugh at a time like this.

Rhys:

What if I have to kiss her?

It seems like a juvenile question, but if Tabitha tells me no, then I won’t. I’ll violate my contract—I just need an excuse that isn’t my ego.

Dots roll and then stop. Roll and then stop. Seconds pass with nothing. Then…

Tabby:

Just pretend it’s me. ;)

Rhys:

I’m serious.

Tabby:

So am I.

Rhys:

I don’t like this.

Tabby:

I’m sorry, Rhys. I hate that you’re in this position. I really do. But if it’s any consolation, I don’t always like work either. I hate chopping onions during prep, but some days I get stuck doing it because I can’t pawn it off on the kitchen staff every time. But it’s part of the gig. If this is part of the gig, so be it. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot on my behalf. I’ll be fine. Maybe pretend she’s onions?

Rhys:

Are you sure?

Tabby:

Strangely, I think I’d rather not watch it. So give me a heads-up. But yes, of course—work is work. Like you said, we’ve got a lot of extenuating circumstances. Don’t worry about me.

And that’s all the answer I need to know this is never going to fly. Because I do worry about Tabitha—a lot more than I expected to.