17. Wilder
Wilder
My heart is in my throat the moment I walk into the small café, situated on campus. The visit with my mom hangs over me. Like it always does. For days, she’ll be on my mind until the guilt disappears, and then it’s time to do it all over again.
It’s a vicious cycle of bullshit I don’t quite understand. Why should I feel guilty? Have a heavy heart? Is it because the woman who gave birth to me is slowly losing her own reality and stuck in a fancy prison until she takes her last breath?
Yes? No?
Fuck. I don’t know.
Being a mother wasn’t in her wheelhouse when I was a kid. Boyfriends came and went. Drugs heavily sedated her and changed who she was as a person. Going from a loving mother who worked hard to care for her two boys to the woman who couldn’t lift her head off the couch until she needed a fix.
Her give-a-damn button was fucking busted and never got fixed.
She didn’t care about me. Or Mack. We starved and practically froze. Yet, when the opportunity for me to leave came, I took one look at her slumped on the couch and knew I couldn’t. She needed someone to make sure she kept breathing and eating and surviving.
So, that’s what I’ve done all these years. I joined the Shades to fucking support her as she continued to deteriorate.
I rub at my chest as a heavy pressure weighs on me, like a boulder resting there and threatening to suffocate me. School. My boss. Taking care of Malic and my mother. It all swirls together in a shit-load of responsibility that is slowly crushing my existence.
If I’m not careful, I’ll lose myself in all the things piling up, and they’ll take me under.
I take a deep breath and center myself in the now, taking in the pleasant smells of my favorite café.
I am here. Everything is fine. Mom is okay at the care facility. I’m getting an education. I am bettering myself for the future.
I slip my phone from my pocket, checking how much time I have to waste until my first class of the day. Thirty minutes. That’s enough to order, eat, drink, and then get on my way. Not enough time to dwell on the bullshit I can’t control.
Like my mom’s disease. Like my association with the Shades. Like my life careening off a cliff into the darkness that fucking terrifies me.
Don’t stress about what you can’t control. At least, that’s what I try to tell myself. Over and over again, so I don’t lose my goddamn mind in the bullshit.
Without second-guessing myself, I click on a name I haven’t texted in a few days. We aren’t close. Yet, we aren’t acquaintances, either.
Oliver Davenport.
Wilder: Are you actually coming to class today? Or need my notes again?
I smirk at my jab. For three days, Oliver has been MIA. And the only reason I know is because I’ve had my eyes on him. Or…lack of eyes on him since he’s been holed up in his dorm room with the flu.
For whatever reason, Malic has it in his head that Oliver would make a great fucking addition to our frat, AKA joining Boss Man’s cause.
But I’m not too fucking sure.
I’m not sure anyone is good enough to join our ranks. Why would they want to, anyway? This job is bloody, unrelenting, and unforgiving.
But it was something I had to do. For survival.
Them? They’re hungry for the power the Shades will bring to them. The prestige.
I swallow hard, hitting send and hoping for whatever fucking reason that Oliver makes it. My mind flashes to the day after our first class together.
Since then, Oliver and I have texted here and there. I don’t really know him that well. So why does my heart beat faster as I read over our previous messages? Why does sweat form on my palms, and my tongue feels heavy with words I haven’t said?
Why does Oliver Davenport have this effect on me?
Whatever it is, I shove it down. I don’t have the time or energy to explore whatever is happening to my mind and body.
“Oh, God,” I groan to myself as I scroll through our past text messages, and butterflies burst in my stomach at our interaction.
Wilder: You missed class. Ya good?
Oliver: Flu. It’s bad. I’ll be back soon…
Wilder: You, uh, good then? Need something to help? Meds? Soup?
Oliver: All good. Thanks, man.
My cheeks heat at the thought of giving him soup.
Fuck. What was I thinking? Soup? That was literally the first thing I thought of when he said he wasn’t well.
Soup. I could smack my damn self sometimes.
I didn’t know why I cared. Why I texted.
Maybe the memories of Brutus and my stupid brother plotting against the kid made me protective.
It was that first day of class when Mack and Brutus ganged up on him, getting in his face, and I had to step in.
Assholes.
Oliver is half their size. Small. Dainty, even. With a soft jawline and freckles dotting his cheeks and nose.
There’s…
I lick my lips and rear back at the thoughts running through my head and furrow my brows. No. Oliver is a cool dude. That’s it. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I shake my head and gather myself, really focusing on the shit happening around me again.
I’ve been too lost in my own thoughts since the moment I stepped through the double doors of the café.
I get behind a tall guy I recognize from around campus.
When he sees me, he nods in recognition and then faces forward with an uneasy expression.
With all the gangs and Mafia heirs from different places wandering around campus, I wouldn’t think we’d be the ones people are afraid of.
But we are.
Even more so with Malic at my side. But today, I’m alone. He’s off doing… God knows what. He better not be stalking Huxley again, or I’ll make him pay for that mistake. Malic is going to get both of us killed at the hands of the organization we hate the fucking most.
The Franco Syndicate.
Fuckers.
The line slowly moves forward, eating into the little time I have before class.
More people murmur from the corners of the room, sitting in booths and at tables with steaming coffees.
Fresh pastries and baked breads line the small display box, making my mouth water as hunger stirs inside me and my stomach gurgles loudly.
Damn, when was the last time I ate?
I was in too much of a rush this morning to get to my mom to grab anything. Add the worry sitting in the back of my mind about Malic and whatever he’s up to, and it’s no wonder I’m starving.
I’m worrying myself to death.
God, I really need a drink. Or a round at the damn gym to punch out my frustrations. Speaking of, I wonder when the next fight night will be? It’s usually once or twice a month.
I take a deep breath and count to ten in my mind. I force myself not to think about the fucking kidnapping and the stalking Malic’s been doing. I’m going to have to leash him if I want to control him. I thought that finally getting laid was going to settle him the fuck down.
Well, I thought wrong.
He’s worse than ever.
Maybe I need to track that chick down again and beg her to keep Malic occupied so I can get some work done. Fuck. Nothing says best friends like finding the girl who took his virginity in a bar bathroom and getting on my knees so she can satisfy him some more.
Fuck.
I’m a terrible friend, and that’s a terrible thought.
But Malic needs to get laid again. It was the only thing that got him to fucking focus.
The line moves forward again as I put my phone away and try to bury everything running through my mind. It’s futile, as always, but I still try. When I look up again, the big man who was in front of me has disappeared, and in his place is the guy I’ve had my eyes on.
Oliver fucking Davenport.
My heart skips a damn beat as I zero in on him.
He’s in his usual baggy sweatpants and a short-sleeved shirt that hides everything he has underneath.
His thick-rimmed glasses sit perched on his small nose and cover up his high cheekbones.
I swallow hard, taking in the scars lining his face.
The ones he seems to try to hide behind his shaggy brown hair.
Maybe that’s what draws me to him. He’s been through shit like me. Trauma recognizes trauma.
“I’ll take the maple syrup donut and a tall cup of your southern pecan latte.
Extra hot. With whole milk and whipped cream on top,” he says, sounding slightly uncertain until the college-aged barista nods with a smile flitting across her lips.
I swear she blushes when Oliver runs a shaky hand through his hair and bites his lip.
Shit. Is he flirting?
“Of course, what’s the name for the order?
” she grins, batting her eyelashes at him, slightly turning so her chest is in his line of sight.
Too bad Oliver keeps it professional and maintains eye contact.
How? I don’t have a fucking clue. But I don’t blame the barista for strutting around and trying to get his attention.
I smirk when she grins more, noting the blush dotting Oliver’s cheeks. Well, okay then. Oliver has game.
“Oliver,” he says, clearing his throat as he pays for his items.
“Oliver. All right. I’ll grab your donut and get the latte made for you, if you’d like to step over there. And my name is Stephanie, if you need anything.” She bats her eyelashes again as she emphasizes her name.
“Thanks, Stephanie,” Oliver says in a lower voice now, sidestepping and standing by the pickup counter a few feet away.
I can’t hide my amusement as I step up to the barista, and her entire attitude changes from flirty to serious and unnerved.
I hate that feeling. I don’t want people to be terrified of me because of who I associate with.
It’s just another thing on the endless list of bullshit pressing on my shoulders.
“Wilder,” she says in greeting. “Would you like your usual?” There’s no batting of her eyelashes or a flirty tilt in her voice.
“Thanks, Stephanie,” I say, smirking when I say her name, and she flinches slightly. It’s something I’ve never done before. Shit, I didn’t even know her damn name. She’s always here. Always knows my order.
So, this is quite interesting.
I walk to the pickup counter and strike up a conversation with Oliver. “She was into you, ya know?” I raise a brow when Oliver shrugs, darting his gaze to the ground. “You should get her number?” I tilt my head, gauging his reaction.
It’s not something I would do, per se. I have too much shit to do in my life to waste it on some girl right now. My life is too dangerous, anyway.
“M-maybe next time,” he stammers slightly, lowering his voice an octave.
It’s the first time since I met Oliver that he’s seemed unsure of what happened. Weird.
“Yeah. Next time,” I snort. “So, are you feeling better?”
Oliver’s tension dissipates as he nods, as if he’s coming back to himself. “Much. That flu kicked my ass.”
Then the barista sets Oliver’s cup down, with his name and a phone number written on the side.
“This is just for you.” Stephanie winks, scooting the coffee and the donut into Oliver’s hands.
“Thanks,” Oliver clears his throat, scooping them up and sidestepping so I can grab mine.
I smirk at Stephanie when she backs away, allowing her coworker to hand me my things. “Thanks,” I say, nodding my head at him.
“So,” I say, turning to Oliver, who awkwardly stares at the number on his coffee cup with furrowed brows and then flicks his green eyes to me with uncertainty. There’s something about them. Something I can’t quite put my finger on as my gaze makes its way down his sloped nose and delicate features.
Damn…
“You heading to class?” Oliver asks, interrupting my weird thoughts and throwing me back into the present.
Why the hell is my head going there? Whatever. The quicker we get to class, the quicker I can clear my head of Oliver and my drifting thoughts.
I jerk my chin. “Yeah, I’ll fill you in on the way over about what we did while you were gone.”