Page 1 of Wild Eyes
CHAPTER ONE
WEST
The sun is shining,the lake is sparkling, and there’s another fucking tourist on the side of the road trying to get a selfie with a bear.
Not just any bear either. Agrizzly.
“You have to be kidding me,” I mutter as I press gently on the brakes of my pickup truck and shake my head. I don’t have a clear shot of the woman, but I see skin-tight jeans, a crop top, and a waterfall of loose bronze waves spilling down her back in shiny ripples.
While the bear forages in the ditch behind her, she lifts one hand, gesturing to it wildly as she talks at the phone held up in front of her.
I pull over in front of her Tesla. Because of course she drives a Tesla. And she has to be a good thirty feet away from it, like she’s slowly edged herself closer to the animal.
When I finally roll to a stop, I watch in pure, dumbfounded shock for a moment. During the summer months in Rose Hill, you see this city-folk stupidity, and it never fails to blow my mind. It’s like people go from having “see a bear” on their bucket list to “get killed by a bear” on their bucket list.
I press the button to lower my window because I don’t want to startle the animal, and I also don’t particularly want to get out of my truck. I enjoy living, and my days of testing those limits are—mostly—behind me.
So using the calmest voice I can muster, I say, “Ma’am.”
But she continues talking to the camera, clearly recording herself without a care in the world. “It was just a casual drive down a scenic backroad when—bam!—the most beautiful bear saunters down into this ditch behind me.”
“Ma’am!” I lean against my door and wave my arm to catch her eye. Maybe my unwelcome voice in her video will snap her out of it.
And it does. She spins on me with furrowed brows, fiery eyes, and a face I’d know anywhere.
A face most of the world would know anywhere.
Yes, country music superstar Skylar Stone is mean-mugging me for interrupting her video. For a moment, I’m starstruck. At a loss for words. I suspect I know what brings her to town, but I don’t bother with small talk at a time like this. I don’t want to be known as the guy who stood by while a hungry grizzly devoured a beloved starlet.
“What?” she asks, arms held wide, like she’s not standing with her back to an unpredictable apex predator. “I’m going to have to rerecord this for my socials now.”
“That’s a goddamn grizzly bear. You need to get back in your car,” I hiss, hiking a thumb over my shoulder toward her car.
She shakes her head and continues glaring. “You know what I’m fucking sick of?”
“Is it living?” I bite out as instinct takes over and I step out of my truck. As much as I’d like to slam the door, I leave it open to avoid making more noise. “Because that’s what it looks like right now.”
She scoffs. “No. But I am fucking sick of people telling me what to do.”
Her piercing gaze rakes down my faded black jeans, the ones caught on the ridge of my scuffed charcoal Blundstones, before perusing back up to my plain white T-shirt. Her eyes hover over the hole near the neckline and a small wrinkle crops up on her dainty nose, as though she’s found proof that I’m not worthy of giving her advice.
I approach with caution, craning my neck to glance down the slope, where the telltale brown grizzly hump peeks out above the shrubs. I can hear its deep, satisfied grunts as it forages, likely ripping berries off a bush as an appetizer before it comes up and tears the limbs off our bodies for the main course.
“I relate. I really do. But this may not be the hill to die on right now. Literally and figuratively. If we survive this, I will drive you to a zoo and film your social media content for you. And I hate social media, but I don’t break promises.”
She follows my gaze and then lifts her chin to face me head-on. Plush, heart-shaped lips purse tightly and hazel eyes narrow at me like missiles ready to launch. She hides her phone by crossing her tan arms.
Pure sass.
She reminds me of my six-year-old daughter, Emmy. Something that’s only emphasized when she stomps one foot. The difference is, I’d have picked Emmy up like a football under one arm and gotten the hell outta here a solid sixty seconds ago.
“It’s eating. It doesn’t even know I’m here. And I’ve never seen a bear in person.” She whines the last part, like I’m the bad guy ruining all her fun.
My jaw drops as I look this woman over. She’s got diamond studs the size of ripe blueberries in her ears. They’re so big that if she were anyone else, I’d think they were fake. “Listen, I getit. There aren’t bears in the city. It’s an experience. But that”—I point at the bear—“is not Winnie the Pooh.”
Her expression is strained as she glances longingly back at the ditch. It’s as though she sees my logic but so badly wishes she didn’t.
I keep going because it seems like the children’s fiction reference really hit home. “Eeyore isn’t trapped in a well. Piglet isn’t off finding him a pot of honey. Just…pretend I’m Owl, and I’m giving you really wise advice right now.”
