Chapter 2
two
. . .
Colin
My knee surgeon's warning not to run for the next three months flashed through my brain as I tore off after the small scoundrel who'd stolen my sweatshirt.
I'd have let her keep the thing if it weren't for the fact that both my phone and wallet were in the pockets.
She was fast and wily like a squirrel, and with my recently repaired ACL, I was slow and lumbering like a three-legged camel. I trampled across the top row of seats.
"Hey, bro, you're not supposed to run on that knee," Zander yelled up, unhelpfully.
I paused and easily spotted my giant brother in the sea of heads. "Well, you wanna chase her?"
"Nah, it's your sweatshirt," Zander called back.
I looked around for a fast-moving black sweatshirt, but the little stinker was good at this.
It seemed that the winner of tonight's big fight should have had better things to do than chase after one small, speedy woman, but we were both hunting the same mouse.
Gregor ignored people shoving objects toward him for an autograph.
He stood in the top row and turned his massive head back and forth like a lighthouse beam.
I had the advantage because I knew our sneaky little prey was draped in my black sweatshirt.
He was still looking for the pink shirt and that explained why she'd grabbed my sweatshirt in the first place.
Was she a girlfriend? A pushy groupie? Why the hell did he look so mad?
My gaze swept down and across the auditorium.
Bingo. She was darting around the back side of the octagon and heading toward an emergency exit.
Once again, ignoring my shitty knee and doctor's advice, I raced down the rows of seats.
Zander laughed as I hurried past him. He'd had an extra ticket for the fight, and I'd jumped at the chance to go.
Wasn't expecting this ending though. Mostly I wanted that damn phone. It cost a fucking fortune.
Draped in black, the thief darted like a speedy-moving shadow toward the emergency exit.
An alarm rang as she pushed it open and shot out into the alley.
I snatched the heavy door before it swung shut.
No one seemed concerned about the alarm.
She was tiny and fast, but I caught up to her in a few long strides.
I lunged forward and grabbed her arm but caught only sleeve.
The sweatshirt slipped off one shoulder, then the other.
She took off around the corner. At least I had my jacket back.
I patted the pockets for the phone and wallet.
She raced back around the corner and slammed right into me.
Her camera jammed painfully into my chest. I caught her before she fell on her butt.
"He's coming." She maneuvered behind me and tucked herself against my back. I'd become a hiding place, and the guy she was playing hide and seek with was probably the toughest fucking dude on the planet.
I draped the sweatshirt casually over my shoulder and leaned against the corner of the building like I was some cool cat in one of those old black and white flicks.
I was just missing the tilted fedora. I grew up with a father who was so intimidating, people in town crossed the street to avoid him.
My brothers and I knew to hide, sometimes for several days, whenever he was angry.
You never wanted to cross paths with Finnegan Wilde when he was in a bad mood.
Even with that kind of survival training, I was pretty damn nervous as I stood there and watched Gregor, the heavyweight champ, stomp toward me. His lethal fists were clenched.
"Hey, did ya see a small woman with a pink shirt and camera go by?"
I could feel the pink-shirted culprit tense up behind me. She moved even closer to me as if she hoped she could disappear entirely.
"Uh, yeah, sure did. A car stopped out there on the curb, and she jumped inside. They took off going north."
"Fuck fuck fuck. What kind of car?"
"Shit, sorry, wasn't really paying attention. A silver Audi or some fancy sedan, I think."
"Fuck." Gregor swung around, and I half expected him to throw his fist into the side of the building. He stormed off and went back inside.
I turned around. The tiny thief stared up at me with big blue eyes.
A diamond stud sparkled from the side of her button nose.
Fuck, she was beautiful. How did I not notice that?
I was losing my Wilde touch. I took my phone and wallet out of the pockets and handed her back the hoodie.
"Here, your camouflage. Think you're going to need it.
What the hell did you do to that guy? You know, the guy who can kill people with one punch? "
She absently touched her camera as if making sure it was still hanging around her neck. "You wouldn't believe it if I told you. I still don't believe it." She eagerly pulled on the sweatshirt. I reached down and rolled up the sleeves so her hands could pop through.
"You should probably go before he comes back out.
You were never here." I glanced around the building.
"Coast is clear. Do you need a ride?" I asked as I turned back around.
She was already racing down the sidewalk, the oversized sweatshirt billowing behind her like a black sail.
"Well, shit, you're welcome." I glanced down at my throbbing knee.
"Knee's fine, too. Just hurts like hell, but off you go … into the night … mystery girl."
"Who the fuck are you talking to?" Zander asked and then, in his usual Zander style, didn't wait for an answer. "Let's go eat. I'm fucking starved."
"When are you not starved?" We headed toward the parking lot.
"Looks like you're limping," Zander said.
"That'll teach you to run off after sweatshirt thieves.
What was that about anyway, and why the hell would she want your smelly jacket?
" He looked me up and down. "So, you never caught her?
Getting slow with all these sports injuries.
Pretty soon, you'll be stuck in the easy chair next to dad, sucking down beers and farting when you sneeze. "
Around Rockhurst, our hometown, Zander was known for being a formidable opponent in a fight.
He had a right hook that could flatten anyone, and his girlfriend was the smartest woman in town, hands down, but unless a topic centered entirely around my big-headed brother, he had no clue what was going on.
Self-centered ignorance was what Nev, his girlfriend, called it.
I called it firstborn superiority complex.
He just didn't give a damn unless it was about him …
or Nev. I pitied any person who threatened or harmed his girlfriend.
I struggled to keep up with him. My knee ached. "First of all, I caught her, but I gave her my sweatshirt."
"So, she was hot," he said.
"Why do you say that?" I asked. "I was just helping her out of a bad situation."
"Yep, she was hot," he muttered.
"Whatever." I waved off his comment. "My phone and wallet were in the pockets. Otherwise, I wouldn't have bothered to run after her." We reached Zander's truck and climbed inside. I flinched as I pulled my bad leg up.
"Hope she was worth it," Zander said. "Did you at least get her number?"
"Fuck, such a massive skull, but you are only capable of one line of thinking at a time."
Zander started the truck. His music blasted through the speakers. He turned it down and looked over at me. "She turned you down cold." He shook his head. "A Wilde always gets the phone number."
"Ok, fuckface, just drive. No number was given because no number was asked for because that stone-fisted moose Gregor lumbered out of the venue looking for her."
Zander peeled out of the parking lot. "Fuck, you were messing with Gregor's girl? Ronan's reckless stupidity is rubbing off on you."
"First of all, I might remind you that Ro could not go tonight because he was attending a four-year-old's birthday party.
His reckless stupidity flew out the window after he met Rachel, and I wasn't messing with Gregor's girl.
He looked really pissed, snorting fire out of those big, bloodied nostrils and all that. "
"Maybe he thought she was two-timing him with a slick blond snowboarder," Zander teased.
"Can we stop talking? You're making my head hurt."
"Suit yourself." Zander reached forward and turned up the tunes.
I stretched my leg out. The throbbing had slowed to a dull ache, an ache that always seemed to be there just to remind me about that shitty day on the slopes.
The trophy. One last run. I shook the thought from my head because it was fucking with my concentration.
Concentration—my weakest link to a championship season.
It was the same in school. ADHD. That was the label.
First gate coming up. The ice is worn slick from all the riders.
Boom, first gate passed and the clock is with me.
Flying now. Feels like I'm fucking airborne.
Everything working. Body in rhythm with the mountainside.
Slipping past each gate with ease. Gonna be a good run but don't lose focus yet.
Sun is bright. Sky is blue as paint on an old Chevy truck.
Spectators lining the course are a blur.
Heel, toe, keeping up the speed. A flash of neon yellow pulls my gaze toward the trees.
Fucking ADHD. My board leaves the ground.
I curl into myself to mitigate the impact.
Nose of the board clips a gate and yanks the whole thing awkwardly to the side taking my foot with it.
A sharp rip in my knee. I yell out in pain and brace for impact.
I'm at the point of no return. The ice is hard.
It knocks the wind out of me. Fuck. I'm done and so is my fucking knee.
"Earth to Colin," Zander's deep, chiding tone cuts through my thoughts. "Where'd you go? Out on the slopes?"
I nod.
"You were reliving that wipeout again," he said plainly.
Zander was a self-centered asshole, but when it came to his brothers, he was also totally dialed in, a skill he'd learned early on.
As wild and reckless as my older brother was growing up, he also spent a good amount of his time keeping his four younger brothers from getting into trouble and getting themselves killed.
He had no choice except to step into the role of protector.
Our dad was a shit parent. Talk about self-centered.
With the exception of my twin Ronan, we all had different moms, and each was quick to walk out after a few years with Dad.
He could woo them to the altar but then his true self came out and scared them off.
Dad had too many powerful and cutthroat lawyers on speed dial for any of them to win a custody battle, and our behavior made it easy for them to take off, leaving us behind with the notorious Finnegan Wilde.
"Look, remember when I took that big jump on the dirt bike and wiped out both my ankles?" Zander asked.
"How could I forget? We all had to take turns waiting on you like you were some kind of diva." I had no idea where this was going.
"Well, I had some pretty shitty nights for about a year after that crash. I kept dreaming that I was falling out of the sky with nothing but hard ground to stop me."
He ended his narrative there. I looked over at him. "And?"
"Just saying, it took about a year to get over the trauma."
"You were twelve and you got to be homeschooled for two months.
The only thing you missed out on was playing flag football and a school dance.
I can't even train, and I have no idea when I'll get back to the slopes.
Sponsors, my main source of income, are already getting cold feet. Not the same, Z." I sat back grumpily.
"Shit, you're really sore that the sweatshirt thief didn't give you her number."
I sat up straighter. "I told you—you know what? Never mind. Not going to be pulled into a Zander mind game." I slumped down again. "Asshole," I muttered.
My brother smiled proudly as he drove toward the pancake house.