Look how fucking tense I am. Whose idea was this? I should never be at a wedding. Asking me to a wedding is like asking a priest to a strip club. It’s against my religion, if I have one.
But I go, not because Amberly asked me to, okay, maybe a little bit because she asked me to, but mostly to make sure every other guy here kept his hands off my girl. Or girls. It should be plural, shouldn’t it?
“This is a bad idea, isn’t it?” Amberly points out as we’re walking down to the conservatory, sensing my mood is off since meeting Vander. And while we’re at it, what kind of name is Vander?
I don’t say anything, but I do grunt at her and reach for my cigarettes. We walk into the room that looks like the forest threw up in it. I light my cigarette, keeping my eyes locked on Amberly’s grandmother staring at me in horror that I’m smoking in the conservatory.
“I’m Lillian Johnson.” She’s afraid to ask for sure, but I think she wants to be polite when she asks, “Who are you, dear?” Her eyes roam over my tattoos and my lip ring.
Dear? Did she seriously call me dear?
I smile. “I’m your worst nightmare, love.”
“Can I get you something?” Lillian shakes out with a trembled breath. Can you see her pulse raising? I can, even from five feet away. Her carotid artery is seen thumping rapidly, and if that doesn’t give away her discomfort for me, her wide-eyed look of utter disbelief does.
I don’t know why she’s asking. There’s clearly staff here.
But I bite and say, “Vodka and a loaded gun.”
Amberly levels me a glare, then laughs it off. “He’s not serious, Grandma Lillian.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. I breathe and I shake because I can feel it coming. The rage, the need to get lost, the regret and hatred fusing into a perfect fury of destruction. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Grabbing me by my arm, Amberly drags me away about the time River takes off with a little girl to play under the tables lined with obnoxiously white linens. She rips my cigarette out and tosses it in a nearby garbage can. “Don’t make a scene.”
“I’m not,” I snap, reaching for a bottle of vodka I spot at the bar. I want out of this place and I want to get fucked up. Unscrewing the cap with my thumb, I take a long pull from the bottle and then hand it to her. “Want some?”
She pushes the bottle back at me. “No—”
Her words stop short when her father approaches us, with guess who?
Vander.
“Amberly, your sister is looking for you,” Doug tells her, glaring at me.
With my eyes locked on Vander, I drop the bottle in my hand to my side, but I don’t let go of it. No, instead, I wrap my arm around Amberly’s shoulder because I need to claim dominance, right?
It’s then Vander stares back at me, and then recognition hits him. “Hey, aren’t you that FMX rider. . . Sawyer something?”
“No.” That was rude, right? I know it. Let me tell you something. A story if you will. They call me Wild Cat. You know that already, probably, if you’ve been paying attention to any of this. But it didn’t necessarily come from my riding ability. It started with Shade, actually. He had an obsession with panthers growing up. Something about their black fur he found fascinating. Not really sure, but who fucking cares. It’s not the point of this story. What is? Panthers are polygamous. Meaning, if you don’t know, they have more than one mate. Now I’ve done some research on them, as had Shade. Adult panthers live alone most of the time and the male and females only get together to fuck. When the mating is over, the male cat goes his own way. Hints how I got the name, Wild Cat from Shade. He was fifteen and high on Vicodin for the first time, even pissed his pants, but whatever. The name stuck and became associated with my riding too.
But here’s another fun fact for you, and this brings me back to Vander. When a female leopard is in heat, she gives off a scent that attracts the males. Guess what happens when two males find interest in the same female?
They fight. I’m not saying I’m going to fight this Vander guy, but I’m also not saying I won’t. You might be wondering what the point of all that was?
Me too. What were we talking about?
He points at me, waving his finger around. Are you looking at him? He looks like a fucking panda with those dark circles under his eyes. I can’t believe he thinks he has a shot with her. Amberly shifts so she’s in front of me, the heat of her body burning against my chest. “Yes, you are. You’re Teller, right?”
Teller? Jesus, that’s even worse than Vander. Does he think I’m a fuckin bank teller?
“His name is Tiller,” Amberly says, correcting him and then putting her hand up. “Go away, Vander.”
He reaches for her hand. “They want to take photos down by the water.”
I tighten my grip on Amberly. My glare burns through the façade I’d put up that I don’t care. I do care. I’ll be damned if this fucker is going to get his hands on my girl. No fucking way. And to make my point even more known, I let my eyes wander to her father and then kiss the side of Amberly’s neck whispering, “Do you remember my warning?”
She elbows me. Hard. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t go anywhere.”
And then she leaves. With Vander.
Doug smiles, like he’s satisfied. “Just because she brought you, doesn’t mean I will ever acknowledge you as being good enough for her.” And then his eyes drift, lower, to the bottle in my hand. “You’ll always be a fuck up.”
You know, he could be right. I might be, but he has absolutely no right to judge my life. He’s handed me a score most of my professional career and this is one time he can’t control the podium finish and he knows it. That’s why he’s doing this.
I lean in. “I might be a fuck up, Doug, but it’ll never stop me from fucking your daughters,” I whisper and then walk away.
Told you weddings were a bad idea.