Page 6 of This Wild Heart

When she did, we listened.

And dear Lord, if my giant fucking family gathered en masse for one single thing, I did not want that thing to be my sad, burned-out little life. Being the object of their pity was enough to drive me up the fucking wall. I’d already been the object of their frustration the past couple of years, and the idea that my sisters might get it in their head to fix my life and find me a girlfriend, or my brothers would sit me down for a stern talking-to? No, thank you.

I just needed to show them that progress was being made, even if I was shuffling forward one inch at a time after we lost our dad.

Boom.

Just like that, I felt that uncomfortable twist of grief in the pit of my stomach.

It was the thought of him, something simple, not even a specific memory, and I had to remind myself all over again, just like I did every morning.

He’s gone.

He’s not here anymore.

I leaned my head back against the velvet couch, trying to stem the immediate racing of my heart that always accompanied the cold slap of reality. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.

You should be, a voice whispered at the back of my head.It shouldn’t be this hard for you.

Despite what I told Robertson about being done, I leaned forward and poured a shot of the tequila, then tossed it back, eyes closing at the warmth bleeding through my chest and stomach. The music was so fucking loud as I sat there for another moment, but even that couldn’t cut through the depressing haze of my own mind.

God, I was sick of myself. Sick of my own company, and there was nothing I could do about that, was there?

Just empty, empty, empty.

I stood from the booth and slapped Robertson on the shoulder. He lifted his head from where he was busy making out with Cora. “I’m out, man. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Hell no, you’re not leaving,” he yelled. “It’s like, midnight! InVegas. We have hours left.”

I smiled easily. “I don’t. Sorry. Thought I was in the mood to party, but I’m gonna make my way back to my room.”

Cora pouted but still gave me a hug and a sloppy tequila kiss on the cheek. When she pulled back, she giggled. “Whoops, I left a little lipstick.” She leaned in to try to wipe it off, but I gently took her by the shoulder and pushed her back.

“I got it, Cora. Don’t worry.”

She sighed, all happy and drunk. “You’re the best, Parker. You’re sonice. And you’re so hot. Why aren’t you married yet?”

I gave Robertson a tap of the fist. “Because you’re already taken, sweetheart. That’s why.”

She giggled, and Robertson glared at me over her head.

I winked, then leaned down to snag my Portland Voyagers hat off the table, fitting it on my head before I left. My sister always gave me shit that it was the worst sort of disguise—to wear the hat of my team when I went out somewhere trying not to be recognized—but that was half the fun to me. I didn’t mind being acknowledged because people were usually nice and friendly. At home—a small town in Oregon called Sisters—everyone left me alone, so the hat was more of a habit than anything.

An unobtrusive security guard unhooked the velvet rope to our area, nodding deferentially as I walked through. From my back pocket, I took out a hundred and slipped it in my palm while I shook his hand. “Thanks for your help tonight,” I told him.

He nodded again, pocketing the tip. “Have a great night, Mr. Wilder.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that Mr. Wilder was my dad, but forcing those words out of my throat would require a giant metal hook and chain to yank them up, so I merely smiled and jogged down the steps toward the bar.

Midnight was early by Vegas standards, so the bar Robertson picked wasn’t packed with writhing bodies seeking release just yet. High-top tables glowed from LED lights underneath the glossy surface, and servers dressed in skintight black outfits weaved in and out, carrying trays of shots on their shoulders with deft precision.

One such server paused in front of me, her ample breasts spilling out from the low-cut black top. Her eyes—large and dark—were heavily lashed and full of interest. I was used to that. “Shot?” she asked. “It’s on the house. I’m feeling … generous tonight.”

On a different night, months and months ago, I might have felt a flicker of interest right back. It never worked, though. It was never more than an empty release and that hollowed-out feeling inside me that never disappeared.

I quit doing that, though, searching for it in strangers with hero worship in their eyes. The last time I woke up in a small apartment I didn’t recognize, a few weeks before my dad died, head splitting open from a deathly hangover, and a note from someone I didn’t remember telling me she had to go to work but thanking me for an amazing night, I only made it as far as her bathroom before emptying the contents of my stomach.

“No thanks,” I told her with a slight smile.

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