Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It) (9 page)

Both of my brothers had
taken off, leaving for boarding school. Since I was younger, I’d
had to wait a little longer to do the same. While Colt chose to
follow directly in our father’s footsteps, both Ash and—once I
got old enough—I had hit the eject button, leaving our whole fucked
up family behind for good. We’d sure taken opposite approaches to
setting off on our own, though. Once I grew up, I’d taken myself
off the grid. Instead, Ash had lit the grid up, somehow becoming a
bonafide rockstar on the cover of tabloid magazines.

Except over the past
year it seemed he’d changed course. He was getting married in May.
To a children’s librarian. And over the holidays he’d asked me to
be the best man at their wedding. I still hadn’t given him an
answer.

On the one hand, when
one of your brothers asked you to be the best man at his wedding, you
said yes. I understood that. I was pretty floored that Ash had asked
me. It meant a lot.

The only problem was if
I said yes, then I’d have to be the best man at his wedding. It
would not be a small, simple wedding. I’d bet money the guest list
would come in close to the entire population of Watson. The event
would be crawling with celebrities. Not my thing.

I put my phone down,
not responding yet. Damn it, I felt so wound up, like I had a live
current of electricity pounding through me. I needed to work out.
Good thing I’d built my own CrossFit gym in my gigantic warehouse.

Had I mentioned the
space I had in Vermont? A few years ago, when I was 21, I’d bought
two acres of land. Rich kid, I know. I rolled my eyes about it, too.

But the thing about
Vermont was land came cheap. Everything was relative. Turned out
owning two acres of a wooded lot in Vermont cost about the same as
renting an annual parking space on the Upper East Side in Manhattan.
I didn’t even need to dip into my trust fund to make the purchase.
I simply wrote a check from the account established to meet my
general, everyday expenses. It was such a small amount to my family
that no one had even batted an eye.

I hadn’t touched the
family money since. Money solved some problems, but in my experience
it created way worse ones. It corrupted and corroded. Stronger than
any smelting fire, it twisted and burned, distorting people’s
intentions and desires. It created a world where you never knew who
was being honest, who was just using you. You weren’t an
individual, you were a Kavanaugh, a dollar sign. And even though I
hated using my family’s money to do it, I’d dipped in that one
time to secure my escape.

I made my way over to
where I kept some sneakers. I wore boots when working with fire, but
now it was time to sweat. I’d wasted enough time today standing
around brooding, all in my head. I didn’t do that. I was a physical
guy, in my work and in how I experienced the world.

One end of my huge
corrugated metal warehouse was devoted to CrossFit. Or at least my
own version of CrossFit. I was sure I’d be in trademark violation
if I used the term, which I never did. I didn’t want to be one of
those braggy guys. Someone had once told me a joke that stuck with
me: “An atheist, a vegan, and a crossfitter walked into a bar. I
only know because they told everyone within two minutes.” I didn’t
want to be that guy.

But throwing around
tires, climbing up and around on ropes and dragging cement blocks on
chains? That was my idea of a good time. And whenever I found myself
getting too much in my head, there was nothing like a body-pounding,
sweaty mess of a workout in my warehouse to get me back in the game.

An hour later, covered
in sweat and panting like a beast, I made my way over to my cabin.
After a shower, a burger and a beer, I felt like myself again. So
what if I’d met a woman last night who’d knocked my socks off?
Who needed socks? And if I did, I had other pairs.

And I didn’t need to
respond to my brother right away. I could think on it a little while
longer. Maybe there was an out and I just hadn’t discovered it yet.
Maybe he’d come to his senses, cancel the whole damn spectacle and
decide to elope. Anything could happen.

Meanwhile, the night
was still young. I wondered what Violet was up to, whether she was
still in town, maybe over at her condo in something silky, sliding
between the sheets.

But, see, that was why
I needed to get busy. Not get busy, but get occupied. In my workshop.
Otherwise I’d find myself in my truck heading on over just to check
in, and I knew exactly what that would lead to. While my cock jumped
up and yelled hell yes, the rest of me replied gravely, hell no. You
had your fun. Now button up.

In my workshop, I liked
to have a bunch of projects in the works at the same time. That gave
me more room to pick and choose whatever I felt drawn to, plus
accommodated delays like waiting for a supply to come in the mail or
a layer of clear coat to dry. My workshop was filled with old,
classic car and motorcycle pieces in different phases of
transformation. But what I felt like working with right now was some
wood. Not that kind of wood.

I had a great section
of an old farmhouse, probably about 100 years old, torn down and left
to rot. The wood had been weathered by the elements and time. No
processing could have given it the kind of texture it had, the depth
of light and shadows. I’d found it a couple of months ago. I’d
grabbed a big piece, hauled it into my pickup—see, tossing around
tires for fun did have its practical applications—and I’d been
waiting to make something of it. It was slightly warped and jagged
but I could picture something more smooth, some shaping to accentuate
the pattern within.

I lost myself for the
next couple of hours, mesmerized by the rhythm of work, the grain of
the wood, the rough texture growing smooth, shaping itself from old
into something new. I’d never meditated before, but I’d had some
people tell me about it. That feeling of flow, without conscious,
formed thoughts, that’s what happened to me when I was deep in it.

Then I sat back, rested
my arms on my knees, and realized what I’d done. The wood before me
looked soft and sensual, curving and swelling in feminine curves. It
looked nearly pornographic. Had I seen that in the grain before? No,
I had not.

I knew who was to
blame. It was Violet. I’d massaged her out of the wood, working my
hands along the curves, caressing them, smoothing them into something
smooth and gleaming. The kind of curves that called to you, made you
want to touch them again and again. With a groan and a swear, I
dropped my head down.

How had she gotten to
me so bad? I hadn’t even had her. Maybe that was it. If we’d had
a hot night of wild sex, over and over again on every surface of my
house, maybe I would have worked her out of my system. Somehow I
doubted it, but still, that could be the problem. I’d had a taste
of paradise, but all it did was make me want to bathe in it, surround
myself in Violet and nothing but Violet for days. So much that I’d
just sculpted her figure.

Well, damn. Maybe I’d
finish another day. Maybe not. Guess it was time to call it quits.
Who knew what else I’d find myself doing if left to my own devices?

I checked my phone. I
didn’t know what I thought I’d find. I hadn’t asked for
Violet’s number. It was better that way.

Harriet had texted, the leader of
our artist’s collective. She made sure the bills got paid for our
showroom downtown, plus arranged for a random assortment of folks to
provide mostly regular staff hours so it could stay open. She wanted
me to head down to the shop tomorrow around one o’clock.

Sure

I replied, without
hesitation, without asking why. Harriet didn’t ask for much, and
she dealt with a whole hell of a lot of headaches. The wild and wooly
types that she managed to corral under one roof took some kind of
powerful voodoo magic, and I for one didn’t want to question it. If
she needed me at one o’clock, I’d be there at one. And then hope
I wouldn’t hear from her again for at least another month.

So that meant I’d be
heading into town tomorrow. Downtown, the most likely place to run
into an L.A. woman sashaying along in her heels and painted-on jeans.
I could picture Violet picking her way along on the ice. Maybe I’d
be there when she’d slip, and she’d need to brace herself against
my chest. She’d press herself against me, maybe linger a moment
longer than necessary. She’d flush all pink like she did last
night, maybe gasp softly if I wrapped a hand around at the small of
her back.

The way she’d arched
into my touch, like she was melting into me, craving more. Her
nipples, dark and stiff with need, so delicate and sensitive and
begging for my attention. The cries she made as I stroked her, the
slick friction along her clit, the pressure on her nipple making her
perfect lips open round into an
O
just for me.

Yeah. It had been a
while. That had to be the reason I was so fixated.

But I didn’t do
fixated. I shook it off, flicking off the lights in my warehouse and
heading back to my cabin. Too bad I’d already taken a shower
earlier that night. I could use another one, turned down real cold.

Violet

“I have to warn you,
not everyone will give you a warm welcome.” The mayor of Watson,
Vermont looked exactly like you’d expect, ruddy cheeked and
wholesome in plaid. I’d never seen so much plaid on so many people
in all my life. And I’m not talking ironic plaid, like neon
throwback 80s plaid or cute little school uniform skirt plaid. It was
earnest lumberjack plaid. I wondered where they even bought it.

“Do people here not
have TVs?” Sam asked, half-sympathetic, half-appalled, as if he’d
just discovered a section of the town carried a mutant, flesh-eating
strain of bacteria.

“No, everyone’s got
a TV.” The mayor looked at Sam with a hint of the same emotions,
like maybe this L.A. guy only had part of a brain. “But not
everyone in town will be excited about filming a reality show here.”

“Why not?” Sam
asked, dumbfounded.

I jumped in. “I
understand, some might see it as disruptive.” I’d dealt with this
before, the jitters prior to brokering a deal. Sam focused more on
scouting talent, making people’s day by telling them they were
about to be given their big chance. I handled all of the associated
problems.

In sell mode, I
continued, “I assure you, we can accommodate concerns. If we do
film here, the show will only feature the people and businesses that
have agreed to participate. Once people see the kind of benefits they
get through greater visibility, I think the problem we’ll have is
picking the ones who get to be involved.”

“Maybe.” He seemed
to be thinking over my sales pitch harder than I’d anticipated.
“I’m on board. I want you to know that.” He gave me a warm
smile. The man was a born politician, I could tell. “But some of
the folks around here? They’re more…ah, how to put it? They’re
more cranky.”

I nodded, like I
totally understood what he meant. Sales always involved connecting
with your target, making them feel a bond. You were in this together.
But the fact was, I wasn’t even sold on using this town as a site.
If we did end up wanting to, though, we’d need the mayor on our
side.

“I guarantee—”

He made a face, like
I’d said the wrong word. “Thing is,” he interrupted, “you
might not want to sell too hard with these folks. They get sort of…”

“Cranky?”

He nodded. “And
suspicious,” he added. “Vermonters are an independent bunch.”

“And we love that,”
I assured him, not even really knowing what I was talking about. “But
surely your business owners will understand the bottom line. Shows
broadcast on the Fame! Network attract millions of viewers. You get,
say, a local quilter.” Vermonters quilted, right? I hoped I’d
picked the right example. The mayor nodded.

“You show a couple of
her quilts on one episode,” I continued. “Then, bam, people are
checking out her website. Within a month she’s shipping out quilts
worldwide.”

“June would need more
time to make that many quilts.” The mayor shook his head at the
thought.

I hopefully suppressed
my eye roll. Apparently the concept of scaling up a business had not
made its way this far north. But where there was a market, there was
a way. If this town had something special—and that remained to be
seen—there’d be people sniffing around in no time, helping pave
the way to increased revenues. For the right price, of course.

A waitress appeared at
our booth and put a scone the size of a small watermelon in front of
me.

“Oh, I didn’t order
this.” I pushed it away, the sight of so many contraband carbs in
one compact lump making me slightly dizzy. Navigating the menu in the
diner had been difficult. It wasn’t an L.A. “diner” with
organic egg whites and turkey bacon. It was a
diner
diner, with a carved wooden bear out front and maple syrup from local
trees sitting on every table in little metal pitchers. But I
definitely hadn’t ordered a scone. Scones were right out.

“It’s on the
house,” the waitress insisted. “We hear you’re guests of
Marty.”

“No, I couldn’t.”
I pushed the plate farther away. When was the last time I’d eaten
something like that? Maybe when I’d been about seven years old?

The waitress looked
more than disappointed. She looked personally injured. “But we just
made them, fresh.” She had the kindly face of a Norman Rockwell
grandma. Rosy cheeks, her gray hair pulled back into a loose bun, she
looked a lot like Mrs. Claus. You didn’t want to disappoint Mrs.
Claus. You might wind up on the naughty list.

I took a bite. Heaven.
Before I knew what was happening, she slathered butter on it.
Homemade butter. Probably churned out back. I had no idea what
churning was, but it sounded awesome.