Chasing the Wild Sparks
Read Chasing the Wild Sparks Online
Authors: Ren Alexander
By Ren Alexander
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2013 Ren Alexander
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I'd like to thank my husband, Tim, and our two daughters for putting up with a messy house, Hot Pockets for dinner, being glued to the laptop, and for my general grouchy descent into madness. Thank you for having undying faith in me and for the reverse psychology. That still didn't help, but thanks for the effort anyway.
To my best friend and soul sister, Trin. We've known each other since birth. Without your cheerleading, I would've never even started writing again in the first place. You believed in me when that naysayer said I couldn't, even if it was the evil voice inside my head. Now the other ridiculous voices in there can be heard. Thank you for indulging me and for being my sounding board, my trial run and for sharing my tears. You know what I mean.
My dad. Thanks for the lectures. You beat it into my head to
never
give up.
Lecture #352 really helped.
To Barb,
one of Heaven's angels who touched
my life more than she
ever realized.
I love and miss you, my sweet friend.
“Some of these people here are scary as hell, Hadley.”
“Morgan, get off of me!”
“The closer I am to you, the further these people are from me.”
“Honestly, I think you’re being a tad dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Not a chance. I should’ve stopped by an urgent care on the way here and got myself a damned tetanus shot.” I nudge her away and she scornfully asks, “Where’s your man at anyway?”
I impatiently state the obvious, “He’s racing on his dirt bike, Morgan. Where in the hell has your mind been all this time?” I sigh as I crane my neck to see if I can see him anywhere. It was such a mistake bringing my best friend with me. She definitely isn’t cut out for live sporting events. If it’s not college football or basketball on TV, she’s not interested. My longtime boyfriend, Finn Wilder, is participating in a dirt bike race about half an hour outside of where we live in Richmond, Virginia. In the past, he’s raced in amateur motocross events, but today, he’s racing for charity, not to mention the event is being covered by the very same Richmond TV station where he is their star sportscaster, when he’s not risking his life.
“I’ve been here. I just have been distracted by Ma and Pa Kettle over here fighting over the last dip of snuff!” she criticizes loudly, turning up her nose and leaning onto me again, clutching my arm tighter.
“Morgan!” I hiss and look past her to see if anyone heard her mouth. She drags her wavy, dark hair with one hand to drape it over a shoulder, using it as a privacy barrier between her and the “riff-raff,” as she referred to them earlier. “Why did you come with me if you don’t want to be here?”
“Something to do while Ivan is working.” She cringes as someone bumps into her. Ivan is her personal trainer, as well as her boyfriend who works at the gym we belong to. “Excuse you!” she shouts to a group of kids walking down the wooden bleachers.
“Morgan, stop!” I again shake her off and stand to see if I can see Finn’s black and blue bike. Morgan tugs on my arm and I plop back down beside her.
“What?” I ask her edgily.
“Have you talked to Finn?” she asks while digging into her purse.
“About?”
“Hadley, do not play dumb with me. You know what I’m talking about.” I glance down at her duffle bag-sized designer purse as she continues to rummage through it. Oh, yes. Talking to Finn. Nope. Not looking forward to that.
“I did not,” I say and return my attention to the track.
“Why not? There it is!” I look over at her to see she's holding a silver compact. “Now to find my lipstick.”
“I have a couple questions. One: Why do you have a purse that big if you can never find anything in it? Two: Why do you need lipstick at a racing event?” Morgan’s mouth drops open and she gives me a look that is a cross between incredulity and disgust. She rolls her eyes and hands me the mirror.
“Here, hold this. I can’t believe you actually asked me that question, Hadley Beckett,” she scolds and recommences excavating her bag. “A woman must always look her best, no matter where they are.” She stops searching and gives me a roaming, disapproving look. “You should try it sometime.”
Miffed, I automatically look down at my clothes. I’m wearing a light blue t-shirt with small, dark blue sequins scattered throughout, and blue jeans. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I ask her, confusion painting my tone. I assess what’s she’s wearing, a dark blue blouse with dramatic ruffles cascading down the front. She also has on khaki capris and brown-heeled sandals. Her outfit is very classy, as usual for Morgan, but not practical for watching a motorcycle race.
“It’s not just your clothes,” she answers distractedly down towards her purse. I tug at my light brown ponytail self-consciously and scowl at her. “What do you mean?”
“Please, girl. Have you seen your boyfriend lately?” I glance at the track at the mention of him, but from where we’re sitting, I can’t see my #35 yet.
“I see him often.” I grab her purse from her and put it on the other side of me.
“Hey!”
“I want you to tell me what you mean by that statement. You can’t just say that and expect me to not want you to explain yourself.”
“I mean that you look as homeless as some of these people sitting here.”
“Shit, Morgan! Keep your voice down!” I loudly whisper, imploring her as I look around us.
“Oh, who cares?” Morgan dismisses the people around her with a wave of her hand, her orchid nail polish shining in the sunlight. She lifts her dark sunglasses up so I can see into her dark brown eyes. “I mean, you’re dressed rather plainly and you have a hotter-than-fuck boyfriend. You should be dressing your equally hot, little body up so it doesn’t look like he’s dating a 12 year-old.” My mouth pops open at her observation. “You also could use some more makeup and a cuter haircut.” Her eyes float down to my fingers. “And stop wearing black nail polish. You’re not in a satanic cult, a heavy metal band, or are exactly a victim of teen angst.”
“Morgan Yates!” I shriek, but the sound of roaring dirt bikes drown out my protest. A flurry of motorcycles emerges through the small tree grove the track snakes in between, and I, along with everyone else in the stands, minus Morgan, jump up and cheer. I feel her reach around me and snag her purse back. Finn’s bike is near the front, so I squeal as I hop up and down, clapping around Morgan’s compact still in my hand. The riders begin their last circuit and we all take our seats again.
“You didn’t answer my question, bitch.”
I irritably scoff, “After all of your gushing flattery concerning the clothes I’m wearing and my general overall horrid appearance, I forget what you asked.” I glance down at my shiny, black-polished nails before I curl my fingers under my hand. What’s wrong with my nail polish?
“You know I love you, Hadley. I’m only trying to help you keep your man.”
I morosely glower at her. “I don’t need help.”
Do I?
“Really? So how come you won’t answer me? Why haven’t you talked to Finn?”
I sigh heavily and slump my shoulders. “Because we’ve had similar talks in the past, Morgan. He doesn’t want to get married. He has said that repeatedly.”
“Hadley, you’ve been dating him for three years and living apart from each other, at that. When are you two going to grow up and stop the weekend-only fuck fests?”
I wince. “Do you have to put it
that
way?”
“Don’t tell me that
isn’t
what you and that hot piece of ass aren’t doing every weekend,” she poses dubiously.
“No, we knit,” I mutter and look away from her. I can practically hear her rolling her eyes at me.
“You need to talk to him again, Hadley. Three years is enough for you to have wasted your time on a man who isn’t going to commit to you or give you the children that you want. You’re 33 years-old. Won’t he be 34 in a few months?” I swing my head back to her and nod. “His sperm will last forever. You, on the other hand,” she raises an eyebrow and shakes her head sadly, “are in a time crunch. Those eggs of yours aren’t going to wait around forever, you know.” So says the woman who is almost four years younger than me.
Annoyed, I reply, “I know this, Morgan. It’s all I think about lately, but I can’t force him to change his mind and propose.”
“Then, you do it.”
“No, I can’t do that because I know what his answer will be.” He’d reject me without a second thought.
“Well, you have your answer then. If he said no to your proposal, then you would break up with him and move on.”
“With whom? I’m in love with Finn. He’s all I want.” I stare at her waiting for her to elaborate, her dark skin glowing in the sun, no doubt from wearing a dark color on an unseasonably warm, mid-April day.
“He is not all you want. You want a marriage and kids. He doesn’t. But for some ridiculous reason, you let him string you along, and who knows how long he’ll do that to you. He may never grow a pair. It could be indefinitely, Hadley. I don’t want that for you. You need to give him an ultimatum.” I shake my head furiously at her.
“I won’t do that to him. I know he loves me. He just…” I aimlessly look to the track as we wait for them to finish the race.
She finishes my sentence with what I was
not
going to say. “He's just getting his milk for free.”
I look over at her and frown. “Thanks for calling me a cow.”
She laughs, but the smile soon fades from her face. “You are so stubborn,” she accuses me. She sighs. “Remind him of what you want. You deserve happiness. Talk to him, Hadley. Your eggs are going to dry up and blow away.” I know. That’s what I’m afraid of each passing day.
“Talk to who?” a familiar voice asks from above me. I angle my head
up, squinting, to see my friend Rod sitting down next to me.
“Nothing,” I dismissively mumble and look down as he scoots closer to me.
“Come on, Hadders. What’s up? Sorry I’m late. I had to do a couple things and they ran over.”
“It’s a Saturday, Rod. What the hell were you doing?” Morgan asks, pushing me forward so she can see him.
He taunts, her, “None of your bees’ wax. Are you going to cast a spell on me now?” Morgan reaches behind me and punches Rod’s arm.
“Ow!” he cries and rubs his arm. “You are a lawyer, Morgan! You should know that is assault and battery!”
She starts to protest, but I sit back and put my arms out to restrain the both of them. “Come on, you two! Cut it out!”
He pats my shoulder. “What’s going on with you, Hadders? Is your man losing the race? I know what you could do to make him feel better,” he merrily insinuates.
“Shut up, Rod.”
“What? I was going to say buy him an ice cream cone! Damn! You’re being bitchier than your friend Morgan over there. Are you on your period?” I shove Rod as he shakes his head, his short, brown hair lightly blowing in the breeze. He laughs and looks over at Morgan, who flips him off.
Those two are natural-born frenemies. They love to hate each other. I know there is some love there, but it’s hidden deeply, I think. I’m always the buffer. I love them both, yet it does get tiring refereeing their fights. Greg Rodwell has been a friend of ours, mostly mine, since he started at the law firm that Morgan and I work at, Rhodes, Dryden, Charleton & Associates, about two and a half years ago. She’s a lawyer there and I’m a paralegal for one of the partners, Val Dryden, but I’ve also been helping Morgan out until she gets her own assistant—whenever that happens. Rod’s first name is in fact, Greg, but nobody has called him that since Morgan started dubbing him as
Rod
shortly after being hired as a paralegal for another lawyer there, Amos Vaughn. Now everyone calls him
Rod
at work, even Fred the mailman and the people who work in the building’s cafeteria.
He sneers to Morgan, “By the way, cool shades. It’s so nice seeing you out in the daylight with the rest of us lowly mortals. I thought during this time of day you’re usually sleeping in a coffin, or hanging upside down from a tree branch or a belfry. What gives, Elvira?”
“I’m here supporting my best friend and her boyfriend, Ass Rod.”
He playfully huffs, “Name calling. How mature of you, Morbid.”
As the usual referee, I intervene, “Please, you two are acting like bratty children!” I lean forward and rest my head in my hands.
Rod bumps my arm with his. “What were you talking about before I got here?”
“Hadley won’t give Finn an ultimatum,” Morgan interjects before I can blow him off again.
He asks, “An ulti
whatum?
I’ve never heard of
that
one before. I’ve heard of a rusty trombone, a Hot Carl, a Dirty Sanchez, and an Abe Lincoln, but not whatever you just said. Does Wilder do it to you or do you do it to him?”
I immediately sit up. “Oh, my God! Shut up!” I demand as I move closer to Morgan.
“That’s disgusting,” Morgan says as she finally takes her compact out of my hand. “You
would
know that shit.”
“What shit?” Rod asks innocently, genuinely looking confused.
Instead of elaborating, I answer Rod's original question, “Morgan wants me to tell Finn that either we get married or break up.”
“Why would you do that, Hadders? Your man loves you! He gave you this pretty necklace.” Rod reaches over to lift up my silver key necklace off of my chest and plays with it before dropping it. I clutch onto the precious two inch charm. The top of the key is a heart that encases an intricate
F
and a
W
for Finn Wilder. The back of the key shank is engraved:
The key to my Wilder heart.
As he has the key to mine.
I had met Finn in the emergency room three years ago. My dad had been visiting me from my hometown, Annapolis, Maryland for Easter. We had gone out to dinner when I slipped on a patch of ice and landed on my wrist. My dad drove me to the nearest hospital after the pain became unbearable. By the time we arrived, I was crying from the severe aching radiating from my wrist and making my entire arm hurt. We stopped at the desk and my dad helped me fill out a couple forms before we took our seats in the rear of the room. It wasn’t terribly crowded, but I didn’t want the dozen people that were in the room seeing a grown woman bawling because of a broken bone. While I was leaning on my dad as I waited to be called, I noticed an extremely handsome, yet oddly familiar-looking, man staring at me from a short distance away. I also observed that he had a short cast on his left arm, so he definitely knew the pain I was experiencing. I’m sure he thought I was making a bigger spectacle of myself than I should be.