Page 56 of Wild Side
“Hey,” she says quietly, giving me a soft smile from beneath the heavy black fringe of her bangs.
“Hey,” I flop down on the couch beside her feet like a dead starfish and let my eyes fall shut before making an exaggerated snoring noise.
“How’d it go?”
A tired smile spreads across my face. “It was perfect.” And I’m not lying. It was perfect. The ceremony. The reception. The guests. Aside from the fact that I married a man who shares nothing and mystifies me at every turn—something I try not to fixate on because marrying him was the lesser of two evils—everything was great. “How did it go here? Milo was all right?”
“Yeah. He’s awesome. We played with Cleo, and he introduced me to Erika, which was cool.”
I snort. Only Cora wouldn’t be put off by a plant named after a kid’s dead mom. Rosie calls herlittle storm cloud, and I can see why. “Perfect,” I mumble.
Rhys walks past with a quiet, “Hi, Cora. Thanks again for your help tonight. Your dad and Rosie are waiting outside.”
“No problem,” she replies, an unusual hint of shyness in her voice, as she pulls a pencil case off the table and packs her things.
When I can hear Rhys moving around in the kitchen, Cora leans closer and whispers, “Is getting married as exhausting as it looks?”
I snort and roll my head along the back of the couch to look at the teenager. “Girl. Have you met men? Everything about them is exhausting.”
She smiles down at her sketch pad with an amused shake of her head. “That’s fair.”
It occurs to me that I should act more excited. More… I don’t know… in love? What will she tell Ford and Rosie when she gets in that car?
“I’m just blissed out. A dream of a day.” I’m impressed with how easily I say it. My brain is a twisted fucking place to be, talking about marrying Rhys Dupris like this.
“I mean, yeah. Can’t blame you. Have youseenyour new husband?” Her head tilts as though she could see around the corner and into the kitchen. My lips press together to hold back a chuckle. Then I watch a splotch of red take shape on her cheek as she slowly turns to face me, mortification painting her features as though the words just slipped out. “I’m sorry.”
I smile kindly. A watered-down representation of the way I want to just throw my head back and howl.
“Nah”—I wave her off casually—“don’t even worry about it.” I nod my head toward the television in a desperate attempt to save her from this conversation. “What are we watching?”
She shrugs. “Wrestling. Well, a replay. I’m weeks behind. Had to start from where I left off, so I don’t miss out on the storyline.”
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 soundlouder, 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 looksbig. 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 outWild Side. And then the man begins to walk as fucking fireworks shoot off on either side of him.
