Page 1 of Wild for You
PROLOGUE
Gwen
Flailing my arms frantically,I attempt to doggy-paddle my ass out of this hole, but the motion only seems to cause me to sink deeper. I can honestly say that as a child, I had enough real-life problems to worry about, and learning to escape quicksand was never at the top of my list. The sand bubbles up around me, its grip tightening like a boa constrictor.
I desperately search for anything to grab onto … anything except him.
Jack’s eyes meet mine, and I’m shocked to see he’s wearing his signature stupid shit-eating-grin. It’s like he isn’t the slightest bit concerned that I could suffocate in mere minutes. “You bastard!” I scream, attempting to launch myself up to no avail. “You knew this was here, and you didn’t try to stop me!” The sand rises to my throat, and I inhale deeply, savoring my last breath. I should’ve known it would end like this. Before this trip, I was on top of the motherfucking world. Now, thanks to Wombat Willy, or should I say Jack Manning, my career is surely ruined, and I’ll never find work again. I may as well die in this sinkhole where no one will ever find my body.
“Now, don’t be ridiculous, Gwen. How was I supposed to know you’d try to flag down a plane without consulting me first? There’s no one to blame except yourself.” Propping the camera on the tripod, he frames the shot before sauntering over to my hole. He squats next to me so I can see his face and winks. “Now, you know all you have to do is say the magic words …”
I’d rather choke on a mouthful of rotten sand than ask for his help. I set my eyes on the sky above me as the sand touches my lips. I can’t escape the putrid smell. It’s like I’m being sucked into Satan’s asshole. I guess I’m just another casualty of the cruel bitch that is mother nature … Maybe it’s her asshole?
The image of Pantone Brown, my office rival, flashes before me. I’ll be damned if that bitch gets to live my dream of attending red carpet events and award shows while I sink to my death in a shit hole. Spite courses through my veins, and I know that if I want to survive this God-awful assignment, I’ll have to let go of my independence and ask for help.
I swallow my pride—and a little sand, “Fine! Jack, will you please help me? I need you!” I gurgle just as my head sinks below the surface.
CHAPTERONE
Gwen
“And that’show I know Big Foot’s out there, just walking around among us, yet to be discovered. You can mark my words; I’m going to find him if it’s the last thing I do.”
Why are the pretty ones always the weirdos?
This always happens to me—I meet a hot guy, we flirt back and forth, and things seem promising. But the minute I agree to a date, it’s like the switch flips, and they bring out their inner weirdo, which I have to suffer through just to get laid.
I drain my martini and sneak a glance at my phone, conveniently located in my lap underneath the table. I know it’s bad date etiquette, but it’s not as if Preston’s giving me a lot to work with here. Call me crazy, but I’m a bit of a workaholic, so it’s going to take more than a Big Foot story to keep my attention … But if you want to get laid, sometimes you have to pay the price, and tonight, that price is lending an ear to his god-awful story.
I close my email and check the time. Shit, it’s only seven-thirty. I’ve only been listening to Preston’s childhood Big Foot encounter for an hour.
We haven’t even gotten our food yet, and I’m already bored. He’s attractive enough, in a pretty boy, conventional way. Tilting my head, I study his tall frame, letting my eyes roam up his khakis; they’ve been pressedproperlywith a crease down the middle, heavily starched. I crinkle my nose. Starched pants just don’t give me that rugged throw-me-against-the-wall vibe I’m looking for tonight. Letting my gaze wander higher, I see a slight bulge, and I’m pleasantly surprised. Maybe I’ll give him a second chance? Who knows, maybe he took his clothes to a new dry cleaner? Though, he’s wearing his long-sleeve button-up shirt—with crease—tucked in and with the sleeves fully down to his wrists. I’m disappointed by the lack of forearm action, but maybe he’s got a tattoo sleeve and doesn’t want to scare me away?
A girl can dream, right?
“What about you, Gwen. Are you superstitious?” Preston’s question breaks me from my internal assessment of his clothing until he pulls out a rabbit’s foot from his pocket and lays it on the table. “I’ve carried it with me since I was a kid. This was actually my pet rabbit, Buster. When he died, I was so upset that my grandfather cut off his foot and made it into this token to protect me—it’s like he’s always with me everywhere I go.” He pushes the foot closer to me just as the server brings our food.
“Pet him. See how soft he is.”
I close my eyes and take a long, slow inhale, calming myself.It’s not weird to keep your pet rabbit’s foot in your pocket and show it to someone on a first date. Nope, that’s not weird. Just look at his eyes. They’re moody blue, and his eyelashes are long and thick. Plus, he’s tall. You know how much you love tall guys. You can do this, Gwen. You need this.
Okay, so maybe “need” is a bit of an exaggeration, but I could certainly use the distraction of a one-night stand, considering I’ve worked over sixty hours this week alone. I deserve to have a little fun, and why should I not let Preston here blow my back out? I mean, haven’t you ever experienced post-coital clarity? Orgasms offer the best stress relief, plus I need to be on my A-game for tomorrow’s meeting if I want to stand any chance at earning that promotion.
I stifle a yawn and sit up a little straighter with a newfound determination. If I can just get past the small talk and move us toward the dirty talk …
“You know, I don’t really like animals… especially their detached appendages, so I think I’ll pass. To answer your question, I’m not superstitious. I just work hard and trust that good things will follow because I’ve earned them.” I push the foot across the table, making as little contact as possible, and I hate to admit it, but the footissurprisingly soft. “Why don’t you tell me about your job. What is it you said you do again?” I force myself to take a bite of my chicken, though my appetite’s taken a hit after the foot bit.
“Oh, I own a taxidermy shop outside the city. I specialize in deer and elk heads, but every once in a while, I get to work on a bear for a special project. Bears are my favorite.” His eyes widen in excitement, and the chicken forms a lump in my throat as I try to swallow. It’s like he knows my vagina is desperate for a suitor to call on her.
Is this a test from the universe? Either way, it’s not funny.
I grit my teeth and force out a smile. “And what size shoe do you wear?”
“That’s a funny question. Um … a thirteen but sometimes a twelve. It depends on the brand. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” I force down another bite of chicken and order a second martini. It seems like I’m definitely going to need it.
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