Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(68)
If that’s not healthy, I don’t know what is.
“Yup. It hurts.”
She nods.
“Promise me. Don’t make it weird for him.”
“I promise, Tabby. I promise.”
With that, I give my mom a tight hug and make my departure with a lighthearted, “Have fun!” over my shoulder to ease any lingering tensions from our interaction. Years spent smoothing things over have made me an expert, but it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to see that I’m on edge today.
And so, I indulge in a little retail therapy to quell my nerves. After a quick stop at the antique shop in town, I have a bed frame and two nightstands set for delivery this afternoon. Another stop, and I have fresh bedding and a plush set of new towels. And once I get home, I really get crazy—I pull out my old sewing machine and whip up some curtains from a pretty fabric I bought for a project at the restaurant.
My basement may not have drywall, but goddammit, the next time Rhys is here, he will not sleep on a mattress on the floor in a place I assigned him just because I was angry.
It’s my way of saying I’m sorry for being so combative. Or maybe with Milo gone and two days off looking me dead in the eyes, I’m just fucking lonely. Or maybe, just maybe, I miss Rhys and want to see him smile when he eventually comes back.
Whatever it is, making the “guest room” feel like more than a dank dungeon eats up several hours of my day. It keeps me from being still, because if I’m too still, my mind will wander down paths I’d rather avoid.
At this stage of my life, busy is good. Busy hurts less.
I step back when the sun has set and dinnertime has passed, hands on my hips as I admire my handiwork in the basement. The concrete walls still give it a shabby-chic vibe, but I dug out a rug to cover the matching floor, leaned a tall mirror against the wall, and placed knickknacks and photos on the framing boards. There’s one of Milo, there’s one of Cleo, and there’s even one from our wedding day of us walking down the front steps of the church, looking suspiciously happy.
The space has warmth now, and the mismatched aesthetic adds charm, in my opinion.
It takes me back to the day he said he’s slept in worse conditions, and my heart clenches just thinking about it. I get the sense he’s not used to someone taking care of him, and he’s a grown-ass man, so I know he doesn’t require it. But now that he’s opened up to me, his backstory has the “acts of service” part of me in its grip.
Maybe our marriage wasn’t born from being madly in love, but I don’t think caring about him will hurt anything at this point.
My stomach grumbles, pulling me back to reality. Without Milo here, I’m terrible at remembering to eat, which—for a chef—is hilarious.
Upstairs, I make myself a ham sandwich and toss a couple of mini cucumbers on the side for some color. Very gourmet. Then I take my plate to the living room and waffle on whether I should watch Rhys tonight. The curiosity is killing me, and I’d be a big fat liar if I said watching him in character didn’t do something to me. The confidence, the swagger, the way he commands the emotions of an entire arena full of people—it’s thrilling.
But I also don’t want to watch him kiss another woman.
I click the program on and take an aggressive bite of my cucumber, ready to be entertained…or hurt. Depending on what happens tonight.
The show opens with Rhys’s entrance music. The heavy bass and ominous tones blare through the stadium as the lights go black. A bright white strobe light illuminates the crowd in pulsing flashes. Rhys’s hulking silhouette appears at the top of the ramp, the crowd screams, and butterflies erupt in my stomach.
I scoot closer to the edge of my couch as I watch him take a leisurely stroll down the ramp. Electricity sizzles around him, every step almost lazy in its confidence. His sleeve of swirling black tattoos shine on his tan skin, and his dark hair has a wet look to it where it frames his face.
He trails his fingers over fans’ outstretched hands as they scream and reach for him. Signs in the stands boast his name. Shirts on their chests proudly display his logo.
It chokes me up. I watch in awe, shaking my head with a soft smile on my lips. I wonder if he realizes how loved he is. I wonder if he knows that this might be a part of his family—his roots.
I’m not sure he does. I don’t know if Rhys has the confidence Wild Side possesses. It seems like he might hold the two versions of himself in such different regard that he doesn’t recognize they’re just two parts of one complex, perfectly lovable whole.
With practiced fluidity, he leaps into the ring, sliding under the ropes before popping up with ease. He steps up in the corner, holding a fist in the air as the beat to his music changes. The attendees hold their fists up too, mirroring his pose while singing along to his music so loudly that I almost can’t hear the original. Every corner follows suit.
Goose bumps roam up my arms. It’s magic.
Finally, someone hands him a mic, and the lights brighten as his music wanes.
“Minneapolis!” His voice is all gravel over the speakers. “Welcome to the Wild Siiide.”
The cheers are downright deafening, and the absurdity of the entire thing makes me laugh out loud in the privacy of my own living room.
A fucking professional wrestler.
He chuckles into the mic. His black-and-green mask conceals his face, but I can see his eyes, and the way his tongue pops into his cheek. For me, it’s obvious it’s him. I wonder how no one else sees it. His lips curve seductively, and it sends a zing of awareness down my spine that lands right in my core. I cross my legs and settle in to watch.