Page 2 of California Wild

Three years ago, he’d been blackout drunk in some dive bar off Rosecrans. Riding the high of another successful op, another impossible mission, another excuse to chase down the numb.

Then there was her.

Hayley Fox—small, sharp, impossible to ignore—grabbing his wrist like she owned him already.

“Trust me, cowboy,” she’d said, that voice dipped in smoke and whiskey, eyes bright and reckless. “You’re gonna love this.”

And he had.

But not the band.

Just her.

Because when she stepped onto that makeshift stage in some half-lit garage space with amps stacked on milk crates and cables taped to the floor, when she grabbed the mic and opened her mouth—

Everything inside him shifted.

Her voice didn’t just sound good—it tore through him. It peeled something open, raw and reckless, and made him feel everything he’d spent a decade trying not to. He remembered sitting there, stunned, one boot propped on a folding chair, beer halfway to his lips, and thinking: fuck.

He never stood a chance.

That was the moment she became dangerous.

And now—now he was just another asshole in the back of a packed venue, standing still while a thousand people screamed her name.

He crossed his arms tighter, jaw set.

Beside him, Isaac Rayleigh leaned in with a knowing grin. His black hair was slicked back, tattoos winding down his forearm under a rolled-up plaid sleeve. “This is the part where you pretend you didn’t fall in love with her voice the first time you heard it,” he muttered under the sound of the guitars.

Jesse didn’t move. “Shut up.”

Isaac laughed, low and sharp. “Bro. This is the best shit I’ve heard in months. She’s a star.”

Yeah.

No shit.

Jesse didn’t respond.

Because that ache was already crawling up his spine. That quiet fury in his chest that said she’s right there and she’s not yours anymore.

The stage lights flickered across her face, catching the curve of her jaw, the curl of her lips, the way she moved like she belonged in this chaos.

She always had.

Meanwhile, Jesse stood there like a fucking ghost, watching the one thing he wanted most—and had already lost.

Isaac nudged his elbow again. “You good?”

Jesse forced out a breath. Rolled his shoulders. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t.

Because this wasn’t just a band. Wasn’t just a show.

This was her.

And no matter how many years had passed, no matter how much time or distance or damage sat between them—

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