Wild Side (Rose Hill #3)

42. Tabitha

CHAPTER 42

TABITHA

We turn Pure Pandemonium into a girls’ trip, despite the bitching and moaning from West and my dad—both of whom, basically overnight, have transformed into Wild Side fans. But work and a highly active grandson kept them both home, though I’m certain they plan to watch together.

So it’s me, Skylar, Gwen, Rosie, and even Cora, who make a trip to Los Angeles for the event. We arrive the night before to give ourselves enough time for dinner. Rhys is busy with prep, but it doesn’t stop him from showing up late and spending the night with me at my hotel. He’s so tired that all he does is crawl into bed and hold me. For once, he falls asleep before I do, and I take my turn watching him sleep while I savor the feel of his arms wrapped around me.

In the morning, Rosie treats us all to the spa and puts it on Ford’s business card. She assures us it’s a “write-off” with a little giggle, but as a business owner myself, I’m not so sure that’s true.

Regardless, considering Ford has been featured in Forbes , where they dubbed him the World’s Hottest Billionaire, I’m not too worried about it.

I gratefully accept the gift and bask in a hot stone massage, cold plunge, and hot tub, followed by a facial and pedicure. After years of running myself ragged to care for everyone else, it feels both foreign and deeply satisfying to take care of myself for a few hours.

In the hazy mist of the steam room, I think about Erika, wishing she were here. She’d have acted too cool for a girls’ spa day, but deep down, she’d have enjoyed it. What I’m less certain about is how she’d feel about seeing Rhys and me together. I suspect it would have tapped into those feelings of me getting everything good while she was left with nothing.

Especially knowing now how she felt about Rhys. It’s something I’ve wrestled with since reading her journal entries, but it’s not a sentiment I feel obligated to honor. She was into Rhys for his looks, then for what he could do for her, and in the end, she liked him for his bank account. All of which I find unpalatable.

She may have loved the way he was with Milo. But there’s no mention of his voice, or his hands, or how he’s really vulnerable under that surly exterior. There’s no mention of loving him as Rhys Dupris and as Wild Side.

No, Erika didn’t love Rhys. Not in the way I do. I’ve let go of the guilt and decided I’m not taking anything that was hers or could have been hers. I’m taking one thing for myself after years of giving to everyone else. And I’m not letting him go.

I leave the steam room feeling clearheaded and ready to get dolled up to go watch my husband win his belt back.

I settled on a pair of leather pants and a Wild Side T-shirt that I ordered off the WPW website—though Cora insisted I crop it just enough to show a hint of midriff. Neon green heels to match Rhys’s mask complete the look. Skylar works her magic on my hair, giving me big, blown-out curls I could never achieve on my own. And when I apply a touch more makeup than usual, I feel full-on glam vixen.

We walk to the arena and grab a drink at a high-top table, taking a breather because the merch line Cora wanted to wait in was absurdly long. Plus, the people-watching is downright epic. All ages and all ethnicities. Some people are fully in character, while others are in casual street clothes, accompanying kids wearing tiny plastic versions of the different championship belts.

The amount of Wild Side merch that passes us by is staggering.

Rosie nudges me. “Dude. I used to think Skylar was famous, but I feel like we’ve stepped through a portal into a world where Rhys is a king or something.”

Cora snorts. “He is.”

Gwen peers around with an expression of amused awe painted over every feature. “The energy in this place is fucking wild .”

That makes me laugh, and I shake my head as I take a sip of my criminally priced arena beer.

Skylar nods, looking around with wide eyes. “Agreed.” Her sheltered, fancy-pants upbringing is shining through right now. She looks floored by her surroundings. It’s adorable. “Usually, I get recognized and approached, and I just… Like, I’ve gotten a few looks or waves, but it’s freeing, you know? I was worried.”

She’s been through the wringer with the media and her fans, so she was hesitant to come with us. But West’s idea of going a little incognito, surrounded by friends, seemed to allay her fears.

I reach over and rub her shoulder. “It’s that Wild Side cap you’re wearing. The Skylar Stone everyone thinks they know wouldn’t be caught dead in that.”

She rolls her eyes and inclines her head toward me. “Well, new Skylar is a huge fan of this cap. I’ll start wearing it more often. Green is so in right now.”

“Sky,” Rosie starts in, looking around with a slight smirk on her lips as she lifts both hands. “I think what’s happening here is that the Venn diagram of people who listen to Skylar Stone”—she shakes her left hand—“and the wrestling fans who love it enough to attend live events”—she shakes her right hand—“do not cross over very much.”

We all laugh now because Rosie might not be wrong.

Cora lifts her soda, and we all follow suit as she leads us in a toast. I grin, loving that she’s here, joining in with us. “To Skylar finding her new people and Rhys—uh, Wild Side taking back his championship!”

“Hear, hear!” Skylar says, more loudly than I anticipated. And to that, we all cheers, and then roll out to find our seats.

Rhys:

Expect the unexpected.

Tabby:

What does that mean?!

He never texts me back, which makes waiting for Rhys’s match fucking torture. The arena is electric. Only the best wrestlers are out for tonight’s event, but nothing holds my attention. Nervous butterflies erupt in my stomach, and I twist my wedding ring as each match progresses.

Eventually Million Dollar Bill makes his entrance, strutting out like he owns the place, all blond curls and defined muscle paired with cocky smirks and finger guns. I know Rhys has told me he’s not so bad, but I can’t see it.

He must be a hell of an actor, because he screams douchebag to me. He’s wearing black tights and boots lined with gold trim, and one of those loose-fitting robes that boxers wear, also printed in a garish gold pattern.

I suppose that’s part of the character, but it’s interesting to watch. The crowd is booing him, but it might as well be a cheer. It’s like they’re all in on the joke. They love to hate him, and he thrives on their reaction. He hops up onto the ropes and holds a hand up to his ear, which makes the boos intensify.

His response is a grin. Then he brings his fingers to his lips in a kiss, and extends the gesture to the audience, pressing his fingers to his thumb in a chef’s kiss motion.

It’s theater at its core, and being here in person feels so different from watching it on TV. I find myself swept up in it, and looking down the row of chairs beside me, it would appear that the girls are too. All of them have their hands cupped around their mouths and are booing, except Cora. She looks sullen, glaring at him as though looks could kill, holding up two thumbs down.

When the music changes, the arena goes absolutely insane. Everyone, including me, shoots up to their feet. My front row chair shakes with the noise, and I suspect my ears will ring for at least a full twenty-four hours after this, but I don’t care. I’m consumed. I’m all in. I’m having so much fun.

My stomach flips when Rhys’s hulking form appears at the top of the ramp. Strobes flash and smoke fills the entryway as the first chords of “Killjoy” by Rob Sonic and Aesop Rock blare from every speaker. At the pause in the music, a barrage of fireworks explodes, marking the moment he makes his way down the ramp. Elle appears behind him, as some type of escort, but he doesn’t pay her any mind, even as she lifts her arms, urging the crowd to be louder.

He takes his sweet time, and it’s such a power move. It’s like he knows everyone will wait for him. Like just watching him walk in will satisfy people. He’s so significant that waiting for him to get to the ring builds the anticipation until the air vibrates with it.

Or maybe it’s just me who’s vibrating. My chest rattles from the heavy thud of my heart, and my hands tremble with a heady blend of excitement and nerves.

He turns at the ring and heads in our direction. Although he has walked toward me countless times—passing in the house, heading to the back patio, hand in hand with Milo—I never felt like I might have a fit and faint.

It must be a widespread psychosis that I’m not immune to. Women and men alike stretch their arms over the barrier, hands reaching for him. He glides his fingers over theirs without sparing them a glance, like a benevolent king.

Me? I keep my fingers gripped on the edge, not wanting to stand out or make a show of anything while he’s in character.

I know his hands will be all over me later, so I let his fans have their moment. But it doesn’t stop me from licking my lips as he approaches. I think he’s looking at me—no, staring at me—but it’s hard to tell with the mask on and his wet-looking hair dangling over his cheeks.

Still, just the illusion of his attention makes my mouth go dry.

Cora, the first seat in our row, sticks her hand out when he nears. And it pays off. She gets a casual high five and a wink from a mask-framed eye.

The other girls follow suit.

And I freeze like a lovesick teenager. I just stare at him with slightly parted lips and white knuckles. But bless him, he doesn’t make a show of me locking up. Instead, he hits me with a panty-melting smirk and trails a finger over the tops of my knuckles, initiating contact in a way that people around us don’t fail to notice.

Elle’s eyes land on mine, a flash of venom there that I don’t bother feeding into.

I’ve already won, and we both know it, so I turn my attention back to the man commanding a crowd of seventy thousand like a puppet master. It takes me a minute to catch my breath, and by the time I do, he’s almost finished standing up on every corner of the square ring, drawing enthusiastic cheers from each side as he goes.

Before I know it, the announcer has introduced both him and Will, held up the belt that’s on the line tonight, and sent them to their respective corners.

The bell rings, and all bets are off.

Both men launch at each other in a blur of limbs. Punches and kicks land, and it reminds me of what Rhys told me this morning. Yes, much of it is fake, but when you’re in character, it becomes difficult to remember that. Even though losing a belt is part of the plan, it can still feel like a gut punch. And winning can feel more real than it is.

The match goes on and I can see the men growing more tired. The sweat. The heavy breathing. It’s grueling, but they forge ahead. I watch him own the ring with a new appreciation—and a new level of anxiety. Suddenly, everything he’s doing looks much more dangerous. When he flies from the top ropes, everyone cheers, but I press a palm to my chest and watch with bated breath. When he goes down and falls to the stomps of his opponent, my teeth clench.

Again, the crowd starts their chants of this is awesome as both men pull out every trick in their bag. Strength, agility, and cardiovascular fitness blend to put on a hell of a show.

I can see why he skips rope. I understand why he does yoga. Because he’s not just all muscle. He moves like a wildcat. He can kip-up from flat on his back and kick higher than his head.

They pin each other several times over, always kicking out on the two count.

It’s all absurd and completely entertaining.

When Rhys tosses Will from the ring, I startle and rear back. Will crawls away and grips the divider, slumping over it right in front of me.

“Oh my god,” he huffs. At first, I’m concerned that he’s injured, but then he peeks up at me. “Rhys told me you hate me.” His words are hushed, but I hear them all the same. He takes a break, dramatically resting his forehead on the black padded wall, thumping his fist like he’s working through the pain before gritting out, “Still nice to meet you.”

I bark out a laugh, but my amusement fades when Rhys’s shadow looms over us. He bends over Will, gripping his hair and holding his back, and he whispers into his ear with an unhinged grin. “Did I say you could talk to my wife?”

“Oh, hot,” Rosie exclaims, which makes me let out a manic giggle.

I cannot believe this is my life.

What I can believe is the way the crowd goes wild as Rhys lays Will out with one high kick and lifts his bulky body in preparation for his finishing move. Over the mountain.

Chants of Wild Side, Wild Side, Wild Side thunder through the arena as he lifts Will in the opening choke hold. Then Will pushes off in a dramatic arc over Rhys’s six-foot-five frame. His body goes limp and bows over the structure of the ring as he lands. Rhys, sweaty and out of breath, drops to the mat and lies over him, one leg hitched up under Will’s arm.

The ref drops, too, fist held high before beating it down on the ground.

One .

Two.

Three.

Pandemonium.

That’s the only way to explain it. Absolute mayhem that makes me giddy and unhinged. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs as I watch Rhys hold his hands up in victory and turn in a slow circle, soaking up the pure chaos of his win.

He looks so happy. Tears spring to my eyes, and I bounce on the spot, screaming even louder.

Elle leaps into the ring with the championship belt, holding it out to him with a wide smile. Rhys pauses only for a beat before taking the hardware.

She says something to him I can’t make out before stretching her arms toward him, one toned leg stepping forward in a sultry stride—all hip sway and sass and just exaggerated enough to be slow.

Too slow.

Because Rhys has turned and slid out of the ring toward me .

With the massive gold belt slung over his shoulder, he stalks toward me, making my stomach plummet and my heart thunder. The weight of all the eyes in the arena combined with every camera at front row swiveling in my direction freezes me.

“What are you doing?” I whisper-shout as he draws close to our ringside seats.

But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he just reaches for me. One strong hand grips the back of my neck as he drags me toward him and kisses me soundly for everyone to see. My hands land on his slicked pecs and slide up to his shoulders as whistles and cheers break out around us. I feel the roughness of his stubble against my mouth and the smoothness of his mask against my cheek. He slips his tongue into my mouth in one teasing swipe that has me pressing closer to him, not caring about the setting at all.

Only when he draws away does he answer my question. “Kissing my wife, obviously.”

His eyes are bright, sparking with life. He’s panting, and since he kissed me breathless, so am I.

People talk and move around us, but it all fades away when his next words hit my ears. “Take my mask off, baby.”

“ What? ”

“You heard me.”

“But, Rhys…” My eyes bounce between his, my heart suddenly lodged in my throat. “You?—”

“Tabby, I’m tired of hiding. I don’t need to anymore, thanks to you. This is my choice. You and me. Together.”

My eyes well with tears, and for a girl who couldn’t cry for months, I feel precariously close to crying. “You’re sure?”

He nods, hands cupping my jaw. “Very sure.”

I lift one trembling hand to the back of his head and fumble with the snaps on each of the two straps as the arena goes eerily quiet. Without even realizing, my left hand has been holding the mask in place, keeping it from falling away.

My eyes meet his again, searching for one last confirmation that he wants this. My lungs are tight, and it feels as though all the oxygen has been sucked out of the arena.

His lips tip up in the smirk that used to infuriate me. Now, it makes my core hum with excitement. “What are you waiting for, Mrs. Wild Side?”

With a tearful giggle, I shake my head at him and pull the mask away to an incredible surge of raucous cheering.

He kisses me again before pressing his forehead against mine and whispering, “I love you, Tabitha.”

Then he’s gone.

Facing the cameras, heaving the belt above his head, looking smug as hell.

He makes his way back into the ring to address the audience.

Every eye in the stadium is on him.

But his eyes are on mine the whole time.