Wilde Boys (Cult Boys #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

FOREST

My father, bless his demented heart, once begged me to understand the difference between a compass and a clock. On a very basic level, the difference appeared obvious. But the harder I thought about the question, the less clear the answer became. They both point somewhere.

Where to go.

When to go.

Yeah, they’re the fucking same thing.

The clock hanging above the window in the kitchen tells me it’s a little after four in the morning, and my compass is telling me my visitor has overstayed his welcome and should be heading for the front door.

I lean against the laminate counter that separates the small living room from the even smaller kitchen.

My guest for the night, Tom, stands on the other side of it.

He’s tall and muscular, showed up in a pair of jeans and boots and not much else.

Hairy chest. Hairier beard, greyed in spurts, and with a hairline starting to recede.

I suppose he made it longer than most men, not really losing his hair until the turn of forty.

“It’s getting late, and we both know what that means,” I say lowly, my voice cracking with exhaustion. I’m not one to be blunt. Nah, I’d rather beat around the fucking bush than ever say exactly what I want to say.

He drums his fingers on the counter, pondering. “What if I told you I’m not done with you tonight?”

“I’d say it’s four in the morning and I think you got your fill.”

Again, I could just tell him to get the fuck out of my trailer, but I suppose I’m trying to be a nicer person these days.

“You’re special, Dyl,” he whispers as he leans over the counter, thumbing over the steel piercing in the center of my lower lip.

I fucking hate that nickname, and suppose I should have picked a different name than Dylan when I started this new life for myself. Dylan seemed normal. I wanted normal. Needed it like trees need oxygen. “What about me is special?”

He sizes me up—dark, seedy eyes dancing over the canvas of tattoos etched into my skin.

“That’s what I thought,” I sigh. “The only thing special about me is that you can bend me into whatever position makes your dick feel best. And yeah, sure, it’s a talent. Doesn’t make me special.”

His mouth cracks at the corner with a smile, exposing chipped, smoke-stained teeth. “When am I going to see you again?”

“The next time you see my face on that yellow app we both spend entirely too much time on.”

He nods. “Say I see you on there sometime around noon?”

“I’ll be sleeping.”

“A little after noon?”

I look at the clock and chuckle. “If you see my face, then I’m looking.”

“You could just take my number.”

My gaze falls back to the older man. “That’s far too committal for my liking. If you want this hole, you have to work for it. You have to earn it, prove you want it more than everyone else blowing up my phone.”

“You enjoy the chase far too much.”

“You have no idea.”

I spent my childhood running through the forest. Chasing others. Being chased. There’s a feral boy somewhere in me I’ve tried to bury as deep as I can, but he claws his way out from beneath the packed soil. No matter how far I run from my past, I can’t fully escape who I once was.

Forest Wilde.

The first born.

The son of the forest.

The chosen one, marked by the Wilds.

“They don’t make guys like you around here.”

I’m well aware we live in a small community. There’s not a lot of openly gay men running around these parts, but there are a few in this very trailer park. “The neighbors next door are gay.”

His eyes light up. “Maybe I should knock on their door.”

“Probably not a good idea,” I suggest with a quiet laugh. “The bigger one looks like he’s killed someone before. Has that look in his eyes. Very protective of his man and their kid.”

Tom arches a brow. “You ever?”

“Killed someone?”

He narrows his eyes on me. “Fucked one of your neighbors?”

“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “Never done that.”

He doesn’t ask the next question. The question that I know is turning like a wheel in his mind, Have you killed someone? His mouth cracks open in the silence, his tongue dabbing over the corner of his lower, chapped lip. He settles on saying nothing.

I point to the door. “But really, it’s four in the morning.”

Hot water is a luxury that’s paid for twice: first for the water itself and then the electric to heat it. That’s why my showers are so quick. Slinging tables at the local dive bar doesn’t pay much.

When I close my eyes, my mind goes elsewhere. It goes straight back to that place I swear I’ll never return. To that place with the walk-in shower big enough for at least five or six, with dark slate walls that crawl with streaks of forest green like discolored veins etched into the hard surface.

When I open my eyes, I’m standing in a plastic tub that’s discolored a murky yellow from decades of neglect with splotches of black mold that claws its way back every time I try to clean it.

Have you killed someone?

Tom never actually asked the question, but I know he’ll lie awake pondering it.

It keeps me up at night sometimes, too.

The ones who went out screaming.

The ones who went out quietly.

The one that changed everything.

When I’m done with my quick shower, I towel dry my buzzed, bleached head and wipe the dense fog from the medicine cabinet hanging over the sink.

In the mirror, I see myself.

And then I see beyond myself. All the fucking cocks I’ve had to suck, all the dicks I’ve had to take.

These tattoos, most of them anyway, weren’t paid for in cash.

Every tattoo–close to a hundred of them—tells two different stories.

There’s a story behind why I have them, and then another story about how I got them.

Some of them are old, faded with the passage of time.

Some of these stories are long lost relics of the pieces of a life long forgotten.

I don’t remember why they exist, and sometimes, I don’t even remember they exist at all until I’m staring at them in the mirror.

Like the crow perched on my left eyebrow beside a curved barbell punched through the corner.

I dry off the rest of my body and climb into a comfortable pair of black briefs.

Faintly, a knock on the front door of the trailer steals my attention. I hurry into a pair of sweats, exit the bathroom, and make my way down the short hall. I’m expecting Tom—relentless as ever—when I open the door, but I’m met with nobody. Just a stillness in the late summer night air.

A knock on the back door, and then another.

I slam the front door and grit my teeth. It’s a quick trek through the living room and kitchen. I rip open the back door. It’s pitch black outside. I reach for the lightbulb and twist it into place. A soft yellow glow lights up the gravel driveway where my dark green motorcycle is parked.

And then the world goes silent as I hear the front door opening. A chill suffocates me, a ghost pulling at the razors of hair on the back of my neck. I turn around slowly to find the front door gently rocking, but nobody is there.

The nearest weapon I can find is in a kitchen drawer, which I rip open and grab a butcher knife. My heart races as I approach the front door. I take a quick glance outside, slam the door shut, and twist the lock. When I turn back around, there’s a note on the counter.

Folded in half.

I drop the knife onto the counter and reach for the note. Open it. There’s an amateur drawing of a naked man in the shower with the words the wilds are calling you home scribbled over the illustration.

A hairy arm wraps around my throat, choking me. I claw at my attacker with painted nails and notice the W branded on the man’s wrist, the same W that’s branded on my own.

“Kid!” a man’s voice screams. “You okay?”

My vision pulls into focus to find my neighbor, Noah, standing at the entrance to the back door. He makes his way inside, boots crunching over broken glass littered across the floor. I spin in a quick circle, searching for my attacker.

He’s not here. Hell if I know if he ever was.

The counter has been wiped clean, the contents scattered across the floor, most broken. There’s a trail of blood on the linoleum floor, leading to the back door where Noah now stands.

The taste of iron sits in the back of my throat, and when I wipe my lip, the side of my palm is painted in blood.

“You look a little winded.” Noah approaches cautiously, dressed in a black tee and shorts.

“Yeah…” I whisper, taking in my surroundings once more. The last thing I remember is an arm around my throat. Everything else is gone, like I’m missing pieces of time. Another memory stolen from me.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” Noah cracks a half-smile. “I chased the guy away. Pretty sure he was bleeding. I’ll wait for you to catch your breath before expecting a proper thank you.”

“Thanks,” I scowl, unsure of what exactly it is I’m thanking him for.

“Between you and I? Fighting is a hobby of mine, and it’s been a long time. So trust me when I say the pleasure is all mine.” He angles a thumb over his shoulder, pointing out the open door. “Did you know that guy?”

I shake my head, but it feels like a lie. It feels like I know that guy, but the truth is I don’t. The W branded onto his wrist though, is the same as the one branded into my own skin. I twist my arm over to hide my wrist from Noah’s gaze.

“If you don’t know him, the odds are you know someone he knows,” Noah continues.

It’s the most he’s ever said to me since I first moved into the trailer park.

“Either someone wants something you have or you have more enemies out there than you’d let on.

I’ve noticed visitors come and go quite frequently. Are you selling drugs?”

“I’m just a horny guy.”

Noah laughs. “I don’t think that guy was looking for sex.”

He’s right. “He came to deliver a message, and it was heard loud and clear.”

I sprint to my bedroom, rip open the closet doors, and grab a bag that’s already been packed.

I learned long ago that for someone like me who has been running for so long, it’s important to always be able to flee in the middle of the night.

I pull a shirt over my head, grab a hoodie, and stuff it into my bag.

When I return to the living area, Noah stands with his arms crossed over each other. “I’ve been through this a lot.”

His confession piques my interest. “Yeah, tell me what you know about ghosts.”

“More than you’ll ever know.” He points to the bag hanging off my shoulder. “Whatever this is you’re running from? You can’t escape it. The ghosts of yesterday always come to collect.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not running from anything, then.”

He straightens himself out and nods, and I get this vibe he’s trying to father-figure me. But the only daddies in my life are the ones nailing me to a bed. “Sure looks like you’re about to run. Let me guess, you’re going to run out that back door, hop on your bike, and disappear into the night?”

I say nothing.

“This place looks like a murder scene,” he continues. “There’s broken glass and blood all over the place. This isn’t something you can shrug your shoulders about and shove under the rug. Running from this doesn’t solve anything.”

“You’re right.” I brush past him. “But like I said, I’m not running from anything. Not anymore. It’s what I’m running to that should concern you.”

Running straight back home.

Running straight back to the Wilds.