Page 20 of Walk on the Wilde Side
"Take that up with his mom," I say as I sidle past her.
Dane always knocks three times. It's just something I noticed, and I'm not entirely sure why but it bothers me. I open the door.
He holds out his arms. "You're not ready?"
I stare down pointedly at my jeans and T-shirt. I realize they're quite out of place next to his crisp black pants, bright blue Polo shirt and expensive white gold watch. I know it's expensive because he's mentioned it multiple times.
I look up at him and can read the disappointment in his face. "I thought you might put on a dress." Right then, my sister with her impeccable timing steps out from the hallway in her party-girl attire. Dane smiles. "See, your sister gets it."
"Gets what?" Kinsley hurries over to join the conversation.
"How to dress for a night of dancing," Dane says.
"You didn't mention dancing," I say, dryly. "You said you wanted to get a feel for our small town, and that's what we're doing. And this"—I wave a hand in front of me—"is Rockhurst vibe. That"—my hand waves toward Kinsley—"is an attempt to go viral on Instagram with her new Modco style. I can always stay home," I suggest with probably more enthusiasm than I should have. That intuition barb keeps poking at me, and it's sharp as ever.
"No, you're right. This is our get to know Rockhurst night, and I'm sure your fashion choice is much more authentic," Dane says. I'm impressed at how much attitude I can throw at him, and he still keeps on ticking, like the Energizer bunny.
Dane's car is so loud it's almost impossible to have a conversation. I think it's something that keeps the relationship from moving forward more. I'm someone who likes to talk and figure out the other person, but his overly dramatic car makes that difficult.
With only a few loud words exchanged between us, I'm relieved to reach the Gold Rush so I can get out of the noisy car. Considering the noise level inside the bar, that says a lot. There's something unnerving about a loud, revving motor, especially when it causes your entire body to vibrate with the sound.
There's already a line curling through the parking lot. "You're sure about this?" I ask as he circles around the car to meet me.
"I don't mind a crowd," he says. "More the merrier."
"And sweatier and stinkier," I mutter to myself.
Dane presses his hand against the small of my back. I pick up my pace and head toward the back of the line. He moves his hand to mine. "We're not waiting in that long line." He leads me toward the front of the line.
"What the hell, Nev?" someone says, and a few more join the chorus.
"I don't think you're understanding the Rockhurst vibe," I say to Dane. "We don't do line cuts here." I look down at the twenty-dollar bill he's pulled from his wallet. "And we especially don't do bribe-filled line cuts." I tug at his hand. "Not going in with you. Go ahead and hand off the twenty, but I'll be waiting at the end of the line."
Clapping follows.
"Fine." Dane shoves the twenty back into his wallet. Something tells me my pretty lover boy might be reaching the end of his nerves with his new girlfriend. I'm trying to decide if that thought upsets me, and I don't think it does.
We walk to the back of the line.
"Sorry about that but these people are my customers," I say. "I don't want them to think badly of me." I'm not sure why I feel the need to explain myself because it is all so blatantly obvious. And that might be exactly why I felt the need to explain, because Dane lives in a different dimension, a dimension of privilege and arrogance, so regular everyday things are not obvious at all. He grew up poor, but he never held onto that specialness, that raw realness that came with being poor. Instead, he acts like a man who was born into a world of expensive cars and bloated trust funds. I wish he'd held onto the poor Dane more. Something tells me I would like him better.
A gray van pulls into the parking lot. It's Nate's band van. Some of the women start calling out to them as they drive through to the back alley where they'll unload their instruments and speakers.
"Guess this singer is a real hotshot," Dane says. "I listened to them online." Dane shrugs. "I think he's mediocre at best. Just wrapped in a package that all the girls like." He says it loud enough to garner a few glares from women in line.
"Nate has a voice that's one-half whiskey and one-half honey, and the package is just a nice bonus," I say. "And he's got a tankful of charisma."
Dane's dark brows flatten with sternness. "So, you know him well? Don't tell me you're one of those crazy chicks who follows the guy's every move on social media and knows about every part of his life."
"Don't need to follow him on social media." I look up at Dane. "Once, when I was ten and Nate must have been seven or something, I held his cracked skull together after he jumped out of the loft in his dad's barn. Everyone else was too grossed out, so I sat there calmly with him and told him I would make sure his brain stayed in his head till the ambulance arrived. He was amazingly calm about the whole thing, although he probably wouldn't have been if he'd seen the deep fissure in his skull."
Dane stares at me a moment, apparently thinking I'm going to end the whole story with a laugh and a "just kiddin'" but I can still remember the whole thing vividly … unfortunately. I did get home that night and break down in sobs from the shock of it, but I kept my cool at the right time. Maybe I really was a guardian angel. It figures that the heavens would put me in charge of the Wilde boys. Guess a girl could really earn her wings with that bunch.
"Well shit, Nev, that's a crazy-ass story. You really are incredible. That's why we belong together." Not entirely sure I follow his logic on that connection. He spots something over my shoulder and frowns. "Damnit, didn't expect to see those guys here tonight."
I turn with an airy look to see who he's talking about and instantly my calm, cool demeanor is wiped clear away. The usual heart jumpstart happens and then slowly calms back down. Zander, Jameson, Indi, and one half of the famous Wilde twins, Ronan, are walking up to the line.
Zander is wearing a dark gray shirt over black jeans and cowboy boots, and I can't help but think he looks like he just walked onto the set of a Hollywood Western. He's definitely the leading man. He spots me in line, and, as usual, our gazes clash and hold and that weird flow of electricity shoots back and forth and then snap, he pulls his gaze away. Now he's focused on Dane.
