Page 30 of Drive Me Wilde

"I doubt that." There I am, back on defense. What is it about this man that makes every inch of me react with emotion?

"Not in the same way of course." He moves closer, and I'm mad because he knows damn well it's throwing off my resolve to remain stoic. "Every day, every fucking day, Indi, I wish I'd been anywhere else other than walking down that stupid road. And that's only on days when I'm not wishing that it had been me instead of him."

I flinch at those words. "No, don't say that."

"But it's what you wish," he says.

"How the hell can you say that? What I wish is that my dad had left the house fifteen minutes later or that the stupid sky hadn't opened up with a downpour or that my dad hadn't left the house angry at my mom because it made him drive too fast in that storm." The tears are falling, and I wish they weren't. "As mad as I was at you for being there, for being the person who caused him to swerve off the road and hit that fucking tree, as mad as I was at you for causing his accident, I've never ever wished it had been you instead of him. I never wished that, Jameson." I sob and he pulls me into his arms. I struggle to resist for all of a second, but every ounce of that day, the pain, the anguish is flowing through me. I land against his hard, naked chest, and those same emotions dissipate. For a moment, I allow myself the pleasure of feeling secure for the first time in months. I never felt the same security in Landon's arms. Never. But this is Jameson Wilde, my nemesis. How can it feel so right pressed against his body?

We part, reluctantly. It seems he needed me in that moment as much as I needed him. "Do you need a drink? I've got cold sodas in the fridge," he says.

"I'll take a cold soda. Thanks." He brings back a drink and then goes into the bedroom to grab a shirt. I'm disappointed and relieved all at once.

We sit for a second sipping soda and listening to Rio scream out Taylor Swift songs at the top of her lungs.

"She is so friggin' cute," I say.

"Most of the time," he says with a prideful gleam in his eye.

I turn to him and realize we sat down closer than I expected. I can still smell the soap on his skin. "We've never talked about it. I guess I was never strong enough to hear the details. It wasn't fair to you. I'm sorry."

Jameson puts the soda on the coffee table and rakes his drying hair with his fingers. "You know most of it. I stayed with him. I know rumors started that I saw him go off the road and then I ran, worried I'd be blamed for it. Which I was"—he looks pointedly at me—"Do you really want to hear it?" he asks.

"Do you want to tell it?" I ask.

His face drops "Never got to tell it to anyone." He looks at me, and he's wearing the pain of that day in his expression. I can feel that same haunting pain radiating off him in waves.

I take a deep breath. "I want to hear it."

twelve

. . .

Jameson

Then

"Why'd you call my dad? I'll tell him I'm suspended. He won't care," I add with a shrug.

Mr. Harrington's suit is a size too small, and his hairpiece is a size too big. It's hard not to focus on those things as he scolds me for smoking out on the football bleachers. "It's raining and I can't send you home without speaking to your parent."

A few minutes later, Miss Graham, the school secretary, pops her head into the office. Her eyes are wide. "Uh, Mr. Wilde is here." I can hear the tremble in her voice. Apparently, Harrington forgot to warn her. Dad has that kind of effect on everyone. Even Mr. Harrington, who placed the stern, confident call to my dad minutes before, is looking far less confident and stern. He sinks into his chair, almost as if he hopes it will swallow him up, so he won't have to face Finn Wilde. He pulls at his tie as if it's suddenly choking him.

I recognize my dad's footsteps in the hallway. The sound makes Harrington squirm more. What he doesn't understand isthat Dad won't be mad about the suspension, but he'll be pissed as hell about having to leave the ranch to come to school.

The door swings open wide, and Dad steps through the doorway. He's wearing what I like to call his stone statue expression, hard and serious. Dad is over six foot and carries his weight and physical strength around him like a deadly weapon. He pulls off his black cowboy hat and gives it a good shake, sending rainwater all over the walls and floor. Harrington sits up straight with a scowl but instantly shrinks back down like a prairie dog ducking in its hole.

"Let's go, James." His voice has an edge that reminds me of broken glass.

"Uh, well, Mr. Wilde—" Harrington's voice is suddenly a few octaves higher, and his words sound like squeaks.

My dad stares at him over the big wooden desk.

Harrington discreetly clears his throat. "Your son needs to follow school rules. Do you want to know what he did to earn a suspension?"

Dad is still shooting lasers with his eyes as he stares at the principal. "Did he kill someone? Cuz I can't see any other reason why you'd make me come all the way down here rather than just tell me over the phone."

Harrington's eyes are blinking fast behind his glasses. "Of course he didn't kill anyone." He looks out the side window. Rain falls in rivers on the windowpane. "The weather is bad. I didn't want to send him off on foot."

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