Page 54 of Wilde's End
The most irritating part of it is that I can’t even be mad at him. Maybe if I at least regretted it, I could argue the point, but I don’t. I loved every second his dick was inside me, and if he showed up for another round, I’d be ready for him.
Hell, I’mhopingfor it.
I’ve been fucked until I’m raw and possibly blew out one of my stitches, but I don’t even care. I want to be back in that fucking bar again.
Every month. He’s there every month.
So even if Wilde tries to pretend like it never happened, I’ll be able to find him there and convince him to do it again.
I’m hopeful I won’t have to wait that long. There’s no wayWilde didn’t leave there feeling as satisfied as I did, and if that’s the case, I give him a few days, max, before he comes looking for it again.
I can wait him out.
Like I told Wilde, I’m having fun with his games.
The demolition of the houses went quickly, and now we’re up to the annoying part: moving walls, rewiring the electrical, shifting and updating the plumbing. This is the part we normally get tradesmen in for, and while the plumbing is something we can do ourselves, none of us are good with electrical, so that, minimum, we’ll need to hire out.
Our problem is that even if we can find someone qualified in Wayward, we’ll be paying them to drive there and back again each day. It’s not like we have somewhere livable that we can offer them for the time it takes to get these houses right.
That’s the worst part about being so fucking remote. Where we can market it in our favor when it comes to selling, getting us to that stage might take longer than I originally planned.
Maybe we can convince one of the electricians we’ve worked with in the past to bunk with us for a few weeks and eat the difference in offering them more money.
I need to trust that we’ll find a solution like we normally do.
We work our asses off for the next few days, and even with my broken fingers, I try not to let it slow me down. I’m stupidly restricted and still can’t do any heavy lifting, but I’m stubborn enough to push through it. The harder I work, the less time there is to think about things … like the reason Wilde hasn’t shown his face once.
We’re still being watched, but it’s never him. I catch sight of someone up on that outlook every morning and afternoon, and because I know they’ll be reporting back to that asshole, I always offer them a friendly wave.
Yes, we see you. No, we don’t give a shit.
Nothing they do or say is going to stop what we’re working on, and every day, I wake up expecting to find some new shit to deal with. It doesn’t come.
I’m not sure why that throws me so much. Has Wilde given up? It would be a good thing if he had, but I doubt he’s the kind of guy who throws the towel in that easily. Which makes me think he’s planning something bigger than stolen hot plates and broken windows.
And how fucked-up is it that I want him to hit us with it already?
Not so I can get whatever it is out of the way, but because I’ll have his attention again. Three days of being ignored have me working my way out of my skin.
It has nothing to do with the sex.
I can get that anywhere.
It’s not important.
But him thinking he can fuck me and then act like I don’t exist after making my life hell for the last few months? Yeah, I’m not letting him get away with that.
“You getting them out today?” Kennedy asks, pointing at his chest. He’s been more reserved since our argument, and I’m trying to ignore the guilt that jabs at me whenever we’re in the same room.
It takes me a second to realize he means the stitches. “Huh. I totally forgot.”
The thought of visiting Booker to have them removed is unsettling, but going back into the forest means getting closer toWilde, and who knows? Maybe the sound of the dirt bike so close will bring him out of hiding.
“It’s been a week.”
I nod at the reminder. “Yeah, I’ll head down when we’re done here.”
“I can’t believe they have an actual doctor out here.”
