5. Wilder
CHAPTER FIVE
wilder
You stole seeds of me
And replaced them
With seeds of you
But you didn’t know
We’ll never grow
Because I’m poison
E vangeline wrenches open my bedroom door and flees at a run. Every muscle in my body tightens with the urge to go after her, but I curl forward instead and fist my hands in my hair.
“Eva? Whoa—what’s wrong?”
She must ignore Rye, because seconds later his frame fills my open doorway. He scowls at me. “What did you do this time?”
The low laugh that comes out of me sounds batshit crazy. “Made sure she’ll never come back to me.”
His eyes widen. “On purpose?”
“You hurt me on purpose.”
I didn’t mean to. Fuck, I didn’t mean to hurt her. I was barely hanging on to sanity, every shred of my self-control focused on not kissing her soft pink mouth. Not stripping off her clothes and feasting on every inch of her skin. Not freeing my dick and shoving inside her, stretching and claiming what no other man has.
I almost lost it a few times, overwhelmed by the way she looked at me, lust drunk and needy, and the texture and scent of her. Her blushing face, her supple thigh, her pussy… She was so wet. Drenched for me. So fucking soft. So hot and tight around my fingers.
My dick pulses angrily. I have no idea why I didn’t blow my load in my pants, the fly of which is currently wet from her. Probably because I was so focused on every breath she took that—for the first time ever—I wasn’t thinking about myself.
But I still fucked it up. I hurt her. Again.
Shame slithers around my shoulders, tightening around my neck.
“No,” I say hoarsely, “not on purpose.”
“What the hell, man?” Rye’s voice is low and concerned. “I know whatever happened on tour made things more complicated for you guys, but why can’t you apologize? Make it right?”
I shake my head, another unhinged laugh leaving me. “It’s not that simple.” Before he can say anything, I lift a hand and aim my glare. “Look, I get that you want to help, but leave it. Besides, you should be thanking me.”
He frowns. “For what?”
I stand, grabbing my car keys. “Come on, dude. It’s obvious you’re in love with her.” Ignoring the pound of trepidation in my chest, I force more poison out. “She’s all yours now. Virginity intact. Maybe give her a few hours to recover from how hard she just came on my fingers, though.”
The blood drains from Rye’s face, making his freckles stand out even more. He takes a step into the room, his big hands clenched into fists.
I hope he comes at me. I won’t even fight it.
I hope he breaks my fucking jaw.
“You’re a piece of shit, Wild. I love Eva like a sister. She’s my best friend in the whole world. I thought you were my friend, too. I thought you were her friend.”
When I don’t say anything, he shakes his head slowly. His anger drains away, replaced by pity. My skin crawls.
“You’ve always been a moody fuck, but the last year has been off the scale. Get some help, man. None of us want to see you crash and burn.” He spins on his heel and stalks into the hallway, yelling back at me, “Burgers are ready, asshole.”
Tossing my keys to the floor, I flop back onto the bed and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. A mistake I realize too late as Eva’s delicious scent invades my nose. I hold my fingers to my face, breathing her in until I can’t stand it anymore. Then I sit up and grab my phone, shooting a text to Christine to cancel.
Maybe I didn’t mean to hurt Eva physically, but I definitely meant to shock and hurt her emotionally when I said that vulgar shit and called Christine right in front of her.
Rye’s right.
I’m a piece of shit.
Muted footsteps in the hallway bring my head up. Twisted anticipation dies suddenly when Matt Sullivan appears. One look at his face tells me I’m about to get my ass handed to me. While I’m not worried that Eva ran downstairs and told her dad I fingered her, she was on the verge of tears when she left my room. Matt knows I’m the reason his daughter was crying.
I open my mouth.
“Don’t bother, kid,” he says, leaning against the doorjamb and crossing muscular, tattooed arms. “Shut up and listen. I came here to thank you.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
A mirthless smile curves his lips. “Eva’s been thinking about leaving the band since before you signed to Indigo. She stayed for you, to support your dream. You know something else? The music she makes alone sounds nothing like Night Theory. It’s fucking good, though. Got this dark, electro-pop vibe.”
She makes music without me?
“Anyway,” Matt continues like he didn’t just shatter a fundamental pillar of my reality. “I don’t know what you did to make her finally cut the co-dependent cord between you guys, but regardless of your motives, it was the right thing to do. You feel me?”
I nod numbly.
“Also—and this is important, so open your punk-ass ears—I’m not happy Eva’s hurting, but in the long run, it’s a good thing. Because you and I both know you’re not it.” I’m confused until he adds, “She deserves more than you’re capable of giving. On every. Fucking. Level. Wanna know how I know?”
My stomach churns at the implication he’s aware that whatever Eva and I are, it’s more than friends. Unable to hold his stare, I lower my head. Knowing it’s futile, I still quip, “No, thanks.”
“Tough shit,” Matt says lightly. “I know because looking at you is like staring into the past. But unlike all the idiots on the outside, I’m not implying you’re Julian 2.0.”
I look up, stupidly hopeful.
His blue eyes spear me. “You’re ten times worse. Stay the fuck away from my daughter, Wilder.”
“Jesus Christ,” I hiss, rubbing my face—again, a mistake, because all I smell is his daughter’s pussy. At least my windows are all open, and my jeans are black, so he can’t see the wet spot she made.
Matt knocks his knuckles against the doorframe. He turns to leave, then pauses. “Final piece of advice?”
“Sure, why not,” I say bitterly.
“You’re a helluva songwriter and musician. Maybe even better than your dad, though I’ll deny it if you tell anyone I said that. But if you keep treating the people who love you like currency, you’re gonna go bankrupt. And when that happens, all the fame in the world won’t be worth a damn thing.”
With a final nod, he disappears.
“Whatever,” I mutter to myself. “That makes no fucking sense.”
Except the longer I sit here thinking about the fact Evangeline makes her own music just fine without me, the more sense it makes.
I’ve been using her for years, since the first song we made together. Sucking away at the bond between us, treating her like a commodity to be consumed. All for my benefit. To make my dreams come true. Not hers—never hers. I don’t even know what her dreams are, having always assumed they aligned with mine.
When was the last time I asked her anything about herself? Does she want to pursue a solo music career? Go to college? Why does she rent that crumbling house and never buy shit for herself when she has a giant trust fund?
A shaky feeling overtakes my body as I realize the one person I thought I knew better than anyone might actually be a stranger. What I thought was solid ground is crumbling under my feet.
Until yesterday, I had no idea she wanted to leave Night Theory. No idea she wasn’t fully invested in our future as giants in the industry. Because our nine-year musical partnership was about me, not her. Not us.
She does deserve more than I can give her. Even if I don’t know how to think of her as anything but mine . Even if I want to kill Eddie for kissing her, and the thought of some other man touching her body, of her wanting him to, makes me see red.
Maybe I don’t know Evangeline like I thought I did, but she knows me in a way no one else does—not even my mom. I’ve already given her more of myself than anyone else; giving her the rest terrifies me. Maybe that means I’m a coward. Or maybe I’m simply obeying instinct, a cellular wisdom that transcends logic. It would explain why I’ve kept her at arm’s length all these years. Why I haven’t let myself know her. Really, really know her.
Because falling in love with Evangeline Sullivan will destroy me.
Sitting up, I look around at the poster-strewn walls that have heard hundreds of our songs and harmonies. Arguments, shouts of excitement, and belly-aching laughs. Tears sting my eyes, which finally drop to the nightstand and the black notebook my mom gave me.
My breath stills as a new emotion rises, faint but growing more defined every second.
Despite the betrayal still burning inside me at Evangeline’s choice, despite feeling abandoned and fractured and bereft at the thought of her leaving the band—leaving me —I suddenly feel something else, too.
Something a lot like hope. A lot like freedom.
She doesn’t need me.
Which means maybe I was wrong.
Maybe I don’t need her, either.