Page 14 of Wild Flower

Live the bachelor life.

Don’t pay rent.

There’s no way I could own a multi-million dollar home with views like this otherwise. Rich people go all out on their island houses, hiding them in the mountains behind Waikiki like a secret, only to stay in them a measly three weeks out of the year. But those other 49 weeks, they need a house sitter—a house sitter theypayto live in their house. That’s the only way I scored this airy mid-century modern Don-Draper-Mad-Men-ode-to-retro with its 50s furniture and twilight teal wallpaper. Does that make me smarter than the businessman and his family who pay for this house’s expensive mortgage? Fuck yes. I’m not throwing my life away for some corporate gig. If the corporate robot wants to pay me to look after his fancy house that he’s abandoned, I’m happy to do it.

I wrap my fingers around the gold medallion that hangs against my chest. If there’s anything I know, it’s that you get a very short time to be on this planet. Safety is an illusion, and every day you play Russian roulette. You don’t know when that car is going to swerve around a corner too fast, or the undertow is going to grab you.

Which is why I love standing here in the mornings—naked in the living room—staring out at a view that reminds me just how big and wild nature is, and how I’m nothing more than a spectator for a small moment of it.

It’s humbling.

It also makes me want to grab my dick and stroke one out in homage to the sheer gorgeousness of being alive. Grab life by the cock and live it.

I close my eyes and open my arms wide, accepting the morning’s baptism. My long, damp hair sticks to my back, and the balmy dawn traces my flanks. I just took a soak in the clawfoot tub, and read three chapters of the latest Stephen King novel to distract myself from the silver-haired Wild Flower that haunts my naked hours.

You get one life and I choose to live it wild. There isn’t time to play it safe. I’d rather run head-on into traffic and play chicken with the cars than wait for one to hit me. I grab my cock and stroke, fisting myself at the thought of Becca’s legs wrapped around me as I pin her against that window.

I open my legs to a power stance, planting my feet wide against the wooden floor, taking a sip of my espresso as I increase my pace. I imagine all of the tattoos on Becca’s porcelain skin, contrasting in the morning darkness as she submits, her silver hair sticking to the glass with static electricity.

Becca was a Venus fly trap last night, and denying us a second round has me imagining her arched against this glass like a butterfly pinned inside a frame—submitting to my every command.

I try to decide if I want to let myself come, or if the delicious pain of waiting for Becca to show up again will be rewarded when that Wild Flower unleashes herself on me and Finn.

My phone buzzes, sitting on the posh side table only a few feet away. I close my eyes to ignore its buzzing, savoring the long hot strokes of my self-pleasure. But the buzzing doesn’t stop, and when I look over, it’s my sister Valeria calling.

I throw back my espresso and exchange it for my phone, lifting it to my ear as I answer the call. “This isn’t a good time, Val,” I grunt, still fisting my cock with my other hand.

“Archer?”

“Mmmmm?” I stroke myself harder, panting hard into the phone.

“Are youwith someoneright now?” My sister squawks at my unsavory noises.

“No,” I confirm. “It’s just me and my fist and the fucking amazing view that—that—”

“You answered the phone while masturbating!”

“You’ve left me half a dozen messages, Val. Maybe it’s important,” I spar.

“You’re disgusting! Call me back when you’re done. And listen to my damn messages!” Valeria hangs up, and I smile. Well, that’s one way to get my sister off my back.

I’m definitely not going to listen to those messages. In fact, I click open my voicemail and delete them for good measure. The last thing I give a shit about is going to see the doctor she’s found. I pick up the medallion on my chest and kiss it. Our parents passed away just after I turned nineteen, and Val—who’s only a year older than me—has been playing mom ever since. Thank goodness she lives on the mainland, and I live in Hawaii, because the micromanaging is annoying.

At least now, I have the perfect way to get her to hang up on me when she calls.

9

BECCA

Iwalk into my greenhouse as the muggy morning light peeks through the window panes. I check the humidity and temperature gauges, doing a sweep of my flowers by sticking my fingers into the plant soil to check for moisture. The humidity this morning threatens to lull me into a coma of dirty dreams. It turns out a hot shower and a good night’s sleep hasn’t softened the wildness in my brain. I’m starting to wonder if regret tastes like a cotton-candy gag in my throat—thin enough that I can still breathe, but thick enough to know something’s caught, leaving my throat sugary and raw.

“Becca?”

There’s a rap on the glass. I turn to see my mother waving at me outside the greenhouse entrance, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun on her head. She holds up a cup of tea in offering, but I know it’s a ruse to talk about the guy she met at the country club.

“I’m working,” I say, opening the greenhouse door and nodding to my hands covered in dirt, an excuse to avoid her honey-scented bribe.

“You can garden while I talk,” she says, standing in the open door and letting the heat out. I know she’ll complain about her hair frizzing or her make-up melting off if I say anything about the door, so I ignore it. Yes, my mother is already polished in her Sunday best before dawn. “The young man I met is named Carl. Carl Donohue.”

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