Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Delilah
I shouldn’t have kissed him.
I’d been doing a good job of pushing him away. Hell, I’d been doing it for years, so I should be a pro by now.
Pretend I’d never be interested and give him shit whenever we’re together.
It was my protective armor.
But it’s gotten harder over the past year when I became his weekend babysitter and watched women fall all over him—even though he hadn’t taken any of them home. He’d paid more attention to me than them, and inevitably, my feelings have only grown.
When Waylon asked me to watch him on New Year’s Eve, I agreed because I knew Waylon was burnt out. Although he’s my ex-boyfriend, there’s no bad blood between us.
And now that he’s dating my little sister, Harlow, I consider him more as family than anything.
But Wilder’s a different story.
He always has been and that’s why I tried to stay away and act indifferent or annoyed with him when he was around me.
It’s not cute to crush on your ex’s twin brother, who can’t get his shit together and would never be able to give me what I need or be in a serious relationship. Wilder’s a player, sleeps around, gets drunk every weekend, and doesn’t take life too seriously. Knowing that and still getting involved would be asking for heartbreak.
And when he inevitably would, Waylon and Harlow would be put in the middle.
But he also makes my heart beat faster than any other guy I’ve tried to date.
A connection I’ve never felt before.
I’ve brushed it off for years. Focused on my trick riding career, my family, and my horse, Jasmine.
Tonight, something in me snapped.
When he said this would be the last time I’d have to babysit him, I needed to give him a reason to want to see me again.
Although I’d been giving him shit all night and even got frustrated with him a few times, the way he didn’t think twice about getting in that guy’s face made my stomach flutter.
Being the oldest daughter, who held a lot of responsibilities growing up—even more after my dad’s work accident and Harlow’s incident—and one who thrives on control, it’s a foreign experience to have someone protective of me without a second thought.
It wasn’t the first time he stood up to some drunken idiot, but it was the first time the fuse burning inside that kept me from acting on my feelings finally exploded.
I never expected him to reciprocate when I aggressively kissed him. If anything, I thought he’d push me away or laugh in my face. But I couldn’t help myself. The need to know how his lips tasted and how it felt to have his tongue piercing in my mouth outweighed the possible embarrassment of his rejection.
He hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so I figured his erection was a normal response to being kissed. I didn’t put too much stock in it, but when he got all flustered about me asking for a condom, my insecurities took over.
That and the habit of self-sabotaging whenever the waves of grief and guilt hit me.
Something I’ve learned from grief counseling.
Guilt for enjoying myself when I should be grieving my dad. Although he passed away ten months ago, my mom, sister, and I just celebrated his first birthday in heaven yesterday.
Maybe that’s why I’m out of my mind and not thinking straight.
His unexpected death is still a lot to process and my mental health has been shit since we said goodbye to him.
No matter what I do, I can’t get the image of him lying lifelessly in the hospital bed, looking at peace for the first time in years, and watching the doctor remove his life support.
I hadn’t cried that hard since Harlow was fighting for her life in the ICU seven years prior.
Between his death and coming to terms that I’m a thirty-one-year-old single woman with nothing to show for it sent me down an emotional and mental spiral.
But throwing myself at Wilder and snapping at his rejection means I’ve officially hit rock bottom.
As I drive us through downtown toward Wilder’s family ranch, a squirrel races out onto the street, and I quickly swerve so I don’t hit it.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, relieved no one was on the other side of the road. “Did he cross?”
“Uh, Del?” Wilder’s hesitant voice grabs my attention, and I fear I didn’t miss the squirrel after all. When I turn toward him, he tilts his head. “There’s lights behind ya. You gotta pull over.”
Glancing into my rearview window, I cuss again at the sheriff’s SVU behind me. “Fuckin’ great.”
I lied… this might be rock bottom.
He’s going to think I’m drunk.
Pulling over, I shift into park and then dig through my center console for my insurance card.
A tap on the window makes me jump and then I frown when I see it’s one of Sheriff Wagner’s deputies.
“Delilah Fanning,” Wesley drawls, then peeks around me with his flashlight to see who my passenger is. “And Wilder Hollis. Interestin’ choice.”
“What seems to be the problem, Deputy ?” Wilder asks in his smart-mouth tone that usually gets him into trouble.
Wesley snaps his gaze to mine, ignoring him. “License and proof of insurance?”
I grab my wallet and panic when I can’t yank out my ID. Why is it always so damn hard? My fingers are sweating and not making it any easier.
“Sorry, here.” I hand it over.
Wesley stares at it and then back at me as if we didn’t go to the same high school.
“Is there a reason you were swervin’?” he asks.
“A squirrel ran out in front of me,” I tell him. “I didn’t wanna kill it.”
“A squirrel, huh?” His deep voice echoes as if he doesn’t believe me and then he wrinkles his nose. “Have you been drinkin’, Miss Fanning?”
“I had a couple,” I admit.
“ Hours ago,” Wilder interrupts. “Quit harassin’ her.”
“Shut up,” I hiss at him under my breath. The more he talks, the more Wesley looks annoyed.
“And what about you, Mr. Hollis?” Wesley shines his flashlight directly into Wilder’s eyes.
“What’s it to ya? I’m not drivin’.”
I blow out a frustrated breath.
“I’m gonna need you to step out of the vehicle,” Wesley orders.
“Is that really necessary?” I panic at the thought of him arresting me.
“I smell beer on you, so yes.”
“Someone spilled on me!” I quickly defend, but it’s no use. He’s already yanking the door handle.
“Dude, it’s true. I saw it happen!” Wilder jumps out of his side, rounds the front, and makes the situation even worse.
“Get back in the truck!” Wesley orders, reaching for the taser on his belt.
“I’m not armed. Calm the fuck down. But don’t harass her because you have beef with me.”
Well, that’s news to me.
Although I shouldn’t be too surprised.
Wilder has beef with a lot of people.
“Ain’t got nothin’ to do with you unless you disobey. Get back in and let me do my job,” Wesley demands.
“She was drivin’ me home because I’m the one who was drinkin’, not her.”
“Don’t make me arrest you for disorderly conduct.”
“Oh, fuck off. You’re just pissed because Sheriff Wagner called me a town hero. And I don’t even wear a badge,” he says smugly, crossing his arms.
I swallow hard at Wilder’s taunting words that are sure to get him into even more trouble. The man was born without a filter.
Ten months ago, the same day my dad was found unresponsive, two men kidnapped Harlow. I called her at work and told her to get to the hospital as soon as she could. When she never showed up, I called Waylon. He drove to her work, but her manager claimed she’d left an hour ago. That’s when I called her friend who obsessively tracked her location to check where she was.
Waylon and Wilder drove out to where it said she was—a ranch ten minutes out of town. One guy was guarding the barn doors with a paintball gun, so Wilder shot him in the shoulder to take him down. Waylon was able to go in to look for Harlow and then found her unconscious.
Sheriff Wagner declared them heroes for saving Harlow and discovering the kidnappers were two of the men from the robbery that forever changed our lives.
Three men broke into my parents’ house that day and two had escaped.
My father shot the one who assaulted and put Harlow in the hospital, but even after his recovery and getting sentenced, he never disclosed his accomplices.
Thanks to the twins, the two idiots got to reunite with their friend behind bars.
“Wilder, stop it!” I shout at him for the third time tonight. “I’m fine. Get back in the truck.”
“Yeah, Wilder,” Wesley taunts. “Listen to your whore of the night and get your ass back?—”
Wilder’s fist cut off Wesley’s words.
“Oh my God!” I squeal, jumping out of the way.
Wesley falls to the ground before he can defend himself, and I kneel beside him to make sure he’s still breathing.
“He’s out cold!” There’s a pulse, but he’s knocked out. “What the fuck were you thinkin’?”
Wilder shakes out his arm, eyes wide in disbelief that I’m pissed at him. “He called you a whore!”
“You assaulted an officer! You’re gonna go to jail.”
“Nah, Sheriff Wagner loves me. I’m a hero, remember?”
“You’re delusional is what you are.” I grab my phone from my truck and dial 911.
“What’re you doin’?”
“Callin’ for an ambulance. You probably gave him a concussion.”
“Maybe he’ll get amnesia and forget this happened?” Wilder quips.
“This ain’t funny, Wilder!” I scold, and when the operator answers, I explain there’s a deputy passed out who needs assistance.
“They’ll be there in a few minutes,” she tells me. “Hang tight.”
This is a fucking nightmare.
“Wanna tell me why the hell you hit my deputy?” Sheriff Wagner crosses his arms, glaring at Wilder.
When he and the ambulance arrived, they put Wesley on a stretcher and sent him off to the hospital. He opened his eyes and spoke, but he’s going to have one hell of headache tomorrow.
“He called Delilah a whore and that’s completely out of line!” Wilder exclaims.
“Before or after he told you to get back in the truck?”
“After.”
“Mm-hmm. And why did you get out in the first place?”
“He was gonna make Delilah do a field sobriety test because he smelled beer on her and we were explainin’ that someone spilled theirs on her. I was the one who was drinkin’, which is why she was drivin’.”
“Well, he originally thought I was drinkin’ because I swerved to avoid hittin’ a squirrel.”
“And had you been drinkin’?” the sheriff asks.
“I had a couple margaritas earlier in the night before switchin’ to soda,” I admit.
“Alright, I’m gonna give you a breathalyzer and then take Wilder down to the station.”
“For what?” Wilder gapes.
The sheriff stares at him pointedly as if to say don’t push his buttons with stupid questions. Wilder’s lucky he’s not in handcuffs as it is, but the Hollis family is basically town royalty around here. Sheriff Wagner also knows Wilder won’t run or go anywhere, so he doesn’t bother cuffing him.
I’ve never known anyone besides Wilder to get away with so much shit.
“You better pray the judge takes it easy on you or that Wesley doesn’t press charges.”
Oh shit. Considering they have history, there’s no way he’s not going to.
“He called her a whore,” Wilder reminds him.
“And he’ll be dealt with appropriately,” Sheriff Wagner says. “Especially since I sent him home two hours ago.”
“What?” Wilder and I exclaim simultaneously.
“He wasn’t even on duty?” Wilder asks, sounding even more pissed off than before. “So he targeted us.”
“I don’t know until I get his statement. Regardless, you still assaulted an officer.”
What the hell was Wesley doing for two hours after his shift?
After the breathalyzer proves I’m not over the legal drinking limit, Sheriff Wagner tells me I’m free to go and then leads Wilder to the back of his SUV.
“Can I take him home after you book him or are you holdin’ him?”
“As long as he cooperates, he’ll get PR’d until he sees the judge on Monday.”
So after they take his prints and mugshot, he’ll be released from custody without having to post bail, with the promise he’ll appear in court. The sheriff doesn’t like keeping people over the weekend, especially if he knows they’re not a flight risk.
But I’m sure there are other reasons, too.
“Sure ya wanna wait that long? It’s gonna take a while since it’s the weekend and now I have to deal with a deputy in the hospital.” His aggravated tone and glare move toward Wilder.
“Yeah, I’m in charge of gettin’ him home in one piece.”
He shrugs. “Alright.”
I return to my truck and start the engine. I’m already exhausted, but the adrenaline keeps me awake long enough to follow him to the station.
Once I arrive at the sheriff’s office, I sit in the waiting room with a few other people and doze off against someone’s shoulder. By the time I wake up, Wilder’s carrying me bridal style.
“What’re you doin’?” I ask, yawning.
“Figured you didn’t wanna have a sleepover with the sheriff or the random guy you were snorin’ on, so I’m takin’ ya to my house.”
He manages to open the passenger side door and then places me gently in the seat.
“I’m supposed to drive you ,” I complain, another yawn escaping me.
“I’d rather make it home in one piece, so I’m gonna take you to my place to sleep.”
“I am not havin’ sex with you!”
He laughs, reaches for my buckle, and then slides it across my body to click it in. “Don’t recall askin’ you. In fact, you’re the one who was askin’ me for a condom. Remember?”
I squeeze my eyes, mortified because for a few moments, I forgot about that.
After he closes my door, he hops into the driver’s seat and takes us toward the ranch.
“You ever consider goin’ to anger management for all the fights you get into?” I ask to break the silence but also curious. I know he suffers from depression, but he uses fighting as a resolution instead of walking away from the conflict, which has been an issue for longer than I’ve known him.
“Yeah, my therapist mentioned it a time or two.” He scratches his cheek and his tongue pokes against it. “But I figure it’s better than self-harmin’, right? Fightin’ releases adrenaline, endorphins, and dopamine—similar to what I feel when I cut and get relief from the pain.”
I hate that for him—that in order to relieve himself from his inner turmoil and depressive episodes, he has to physically hurt himself. Waylon told me about his twin brother while we were dating, but I’ve noticed how Wilder tries to cover it up. He pretends he’s fine or does whatever he can to repress it—drinking, one-night stands, fighting.
I was relieved when he admitted he was going to therapy. It won’t “fix” his depression, but I can tell he’s also trying to find healthier ways to cope.
But as someone who’s been going to grief counseling for several months, not every week or even day is a good one, and sometimes all that progress goes out the window.
“Maybe you should join a gym. Do some kickboxin’? I heard that’s a good outlet.”
He glances at me, grinning. “Maybe I will. If you go with me?”
“Me?”
“Yeah…I think you need an outlet, too.”
I sigh because he’s right. After Dad died, I took the season off from trick riding, which usually kept my mind occupied. Now the only thing that keeps me busy is my store management job at Lacey’s Lingerie. I enjoy it for the most part, but it doesn’t compare to the rush I’d get from hanging upside down from a saddle or doing flips on Jasmine’s back.
But I lost that passion I once felt about it—honestly, I lost my spark about most things in my life.
“Only if you teach me how to kick your ass,” I retort.
He barks out a laugh. “Deal.”