Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(24)

For the past decade, being one of the headlining superstars on Monday Night Mayhem has consumed my life. It’s taken me all over the world and kept me from slowing down or getting too caught up in my head. The transition from being in a new city every week, surrounded by people, to being stuck on my couch alone was a hard one. It was a lonely one, filled with the nagging worry that I might never return to the one place where I feel most myself.

I force a chuckle, keeping my eyes fixed on the flashing lights trickling in from around the trim of the blackout curtains. “It’s almost like ligaments don’t heal overnight.”

“Ha,” Anthony barks. “You can say that again.”

It irks me that this is his line of thinking. My knee was an ongoing issue. I had a minor tear that I continued to put off for the sake of the company. I performed night after night and took short breaks—a few weeks here and there—when I needed them. For the better part of a year, I lived on a steady stream of Aleve and regular ice baths, all for the sake of the WPW.

And when my body finally gave out on me, they promptly wrote me off the show. My belt got handed over to my colleague Will—known as Million Dollar Bill in the ring—in a last-minute match. One I completed with a blown-out knee.

So it’s a huge relief to be back here. Erika’s loss may have thrown my personal life into chaos, and a dull ache of sadness over her death might be my constant companion, but being here—doing this—makes everything feel just a little bit better.

I wonder if this is how Tabitha feels when she cooks.

Fuck. I need to focus. Not let my mind wander back to her again. So, I shake my head to clear it, and bounce on the balls of my feet as though skipping on the spot. I let my gaze narrow, and my body give in to the hum of excitement.

“You haven’t forgotten what to do out there, have you, Dupris?” Anthony’s voice is an unwelcome intrusion to the moment.

I’ve worked too long and too hard to let Anthony get in my head, and I have every intention of soaking this up. So, I clamp my molars and tug my mask down.

Like always, everything else fades away. Anthony. All the doubt. All the anxiety.

When I become Wild Side, everything falls into place.

Right as the opening notes of my song kick in over the sound system, I grumble, “I haven’t forgotten shit.”

Then I toss the curtains open and stride into the arena, serenaded by the deafening roar of the crowd.

And I almost smile, because they haven’t forgotten me either.





CHAPTER 12


Tabitha





Rhys: Checking in. How’s Milo?

Tabby: He’s just fine.

Rhys: I’ll be away for another week.

Tabby: Great.



MILO IS CURLED BESIDE ME IN BED. IT’S TUESDAY MORNING, and I don’t have to work until dinner. Rhys has been away for two glorious weeks. The sun has been shining, the birds have been chirping, and I’ve been pretending that he and his “I don’t know” plan to take Milo to a place filled with snakes and crocodiles doesn’t exist.

I definitely have not been thinking about his head between my legs. Though, if I was, I could argue that’s a great place for it, because at least I wouldn’t have to listen to him talk or look at his grumpy fucking face.

Milo stirs, reaching for me in his sleep, and although I had been considering rolling out of bed to make a coffee, his sweetness has now convinced me to stay.

I’m paralyzed by how much I love him. By how much I need him. And by the knowledge that he needs me too.

Ever since we told him about Erika, he’s been having nightmares. He wakes up scared, and though they aren’t ever about something real, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know he’s processing a lot. Another call with Trixie confirmed as much.

So I’ve kept him with me in my king-sized bed. We both get more sleep this way, and truth be told, I enjoy watching him sleep. I can lie beside him and pick out all the fragments of my sister. It feels like she’s not as gone when I look at him. Like she lives on in him because his earlobe is shaped exactly how I remember hers. Or the way his bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top—she had that too.

Telling him might have been worse than finding out Erika was gone. Rhys looked like a stony-faced ghost. He sounded like the male version of Siri reading a script, and he looked blank—traumatized—as he did it. It might be the first time I’ve felt a true flicker of empathy for him. I itched to reach out and hold his leg like he’d done mine. But with Milo there, I didn’t. Instead, I jumped in and wove softer wording and a few more sentimental lines.

I don’t know if it helped Rhys, because, as usual, the man barely talks to me. But I do think one glare he shot my way might have been appreciative.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

The conversation was brutal, watching the emotions flicker over Milo’s face. He didn’t cry. Not then. Instead, he’s cried over inconsequential things. His tears have come out in different ways at various times.

And mine? They haven’t come at all. Not since the night I was packing things up in Erika’s house and dropped a heavy box of journals on my foot. The black bruise on the bridge of my foot has only recently smudged away into my regular skin tone. My nose had stung, and my eyes had welled. It had hurt like hell.