Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(45)
I try not to laugh. The storyline.
My eyes roam over the screen. A full arena. Signs and screaming fans as far as the eye can see. There’s a man wearing spandex underwear curled up in the middle of the ring while three other huge wrestlers land blows on him. Punches. Kicks. Something that looks like the bum-drops Erika and I used to do on our trampoline.
I wince at the violence, but as the seconds wear on and the camera angles change, I can see the ways they protect him even as they punish him. A foot stomp to make the blows sound louder, an overacted facial expression to make the pain appear worse than it is.
Suddenly, bright white and lime-green lights flash overhead as the first few notes of a song ring out. The decibels from the crowd spike, and Cora lets out a whispered, “Yes,” as a huge man appears at the top of the ramp that leads to the ring in the middle.
Cora’s entire frame orients toward the television, her shoulders pitching forward as though naturally drawn to the man.
And then I watch too.
The wrestler who everyone is excited about is wearing a pair of black military-style pants that are just tight enough to trace his muscular thighs, while hanging low enough to show the two hard slashes that rise from his waistband. His abs are defined, but not comically so. He doesn’t look like a bodybuilder—he just looks big. All man.
Even the wrestlers in the ring stop their assault. It’s staged, but I’m still pulled into the drama of it.
The newcomer stands at the entryway, fists clenched at his sides, his head tilted downward as smoke billows out from behind him. His shoulders are broad and round, his pecs a perfectly proportional match. My gaze skims the hard planes of clear tan skin, black tattoos scrolling up one arm, a dusting of hair on his chest.
He tips his head up, and a Batman-like mask on his face comes into view. It’s black with lime-green highlights and covers his nose and cheeks before opening below to a pair of shapely lips. Despite the mask, I’m leaning forward to see more of him. I’m pulled in by the mystery of it all, entranced by the inkling of familiarity.
“Oh my god. Yes. Fuck them up, Wild Side.” Cora has completely forgotten about the packing up she was doing.
And to be frank, I’m just as invested.
Harsh paintbrush slashes on the screens behind him spell out Wild Side. And then the man begins to walk as fucking fireworks shoot off on either side of him.
It’s watching him move that has me tilting my head.
It’s the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides, the thumbs swiping over his index finger.
It’s the way he walks that has my breath freezing in my lungs. The raw power he exudes, the way he holds himself like a king, commanding the thousands of people in that arena to acknowledge him, follow him.
It’s the detailed black tattoos that swirl on his right arm that give him away.
Heat suffuses my body. I may barely know the man, and I may have never watched wrestling before, but I identify him instantly.
Recognition pounds me, and all the bits and pieces of him come together. Hours at the gym. Weeks away. The bruises.
God. It all makes so much sense.
Now I’m the one turning toward the kitchen as though I can see around a corner. Can he hear us? Does he know? Is he assuming I won’t recognize him with that mask?
“Your dad is waiting,” I say, bringing my splintered attention back to Cora.
“Yeah. Just hang on. Wild Side is my favorite. This won’t take him long.”
Her definition of won’t take him long might be different from mine. Because the wrestler takes his sweet-ass time strolling down the walkway, the crowd growing more excited with each step. He doesn’t seem to be in a rush, considering there is a man getting the shit beat out of him by three others.
He stops close to the ring, and the screen switches to a camera angle with a closer view of his masked face. Those shapely lips quirk up in a cocky smirk, and his tongue presses into the side of his stubbled cheek. He oozes an unbearable amount of confidence.
It does funny things to my ovaries.
“They’ve done it now, Pete,” one of the announcers says with a gleeful flourish. “They haven’t had to worry about Wild Side doling out his own special brand of justice for several months. Looks like he’s here to remind them who the boss is around these parts.”
With that, the man who I’m sure is Rhys takes an absurdly graceful leap onto the ledge of the ring before planting one hand on the top rope and vaulting himself into the melee.
At once, the three men set their sights on him, but it’s a feeble attempt.
One goes down with a head butt that makes me wince.
The second meets his match in the form of a booted high kick.
The third lingers back a bit before charging.
“Ohhh, he’s gonna take him over the mountain. I just know it.” The announcer’s gritty voice rings through as Rhys ducks the man’s attack, then spins on him as he launches backward off the ropes like a rock from a slingshot.
Rhys picks the large man up like he’s nothing and spins him around in some sort of eye-crossing flip before body-slamming him onto the mat with alarming speed and strength. I can’t help but flinch.
“Dope, right?” Cora says with a slow nod and hearts in her eyes.
Me? I swallow away the dryness in my throat. “Yeah. Totally dope.”
The camera shows Wild Side giving the injured man from before a hand up and leading him out of the ring as he steps over a body he left behind. The fans are feral. There are men, women, children, people of every age and ethnicity. There are signs that read everything from WILD SIDE IS BACK to WILD SIDE, I’LL HAVE YOUR BABIES! and the frantic announcing only adds to the feeling of pandemonium.