Page 2 of Walk on the Wilde Side
The seawater-soaked work boots stomp down the steps, steps that are far too narrow for the size of the feet. Palpitations flutter through my chest. I recognize the work boots, the soaked jeans and most of all the face. It's the same face that has pierced through so many of my dreams, both asleep and awake. Whenever I allow my mind to wander off to better things, it finds him, the man who's always been the one, the elusive one.
"Zander." His name rolls lazily off my bottom lip. It's followed by a sigh, one I can't interpret, but it falls somewhere between adoration and fear. He's alone, and the crew, as rotten and ridiculous as they are, still outnumber him by seven. Six if I don't count the passed out Gargon. Eight if the beast pops out of his drug and booze induced stupor.
"What the hell, Wilde? No one gave you permission to board." Chug looks far less confident and less lethal with Zander filling up half the space in the squalid little cabin.
"Gave myself permission," Zander says without taking his eyes off me.
Footsteps pound the steps again. It's the other three kidnappers. Still no sign of Gargon. I'm convinced the boat will rock back and forth wildly, alerting us if he does regain consciousness. The other three are a mix that land somewhere between Baby Soft and Chug, a motley crew of jerks who decided the easiest way to fortune was through crime.
"Who's this, Chug?" the guy with an eyepatch asks. Pirate Pete, as I call him in my head, was holding me in the van. I left a mark with my teeth, but it has nothing to do with the eye patch.
"Don't you recognize Finnegan Wilde's eldest?" Chug asks. More spittle is flying. The man seriously needs a dentist visit.
Pirate Pete looks at Zander, and I'm not imagining it when he loses a shade of color. "What are you doing here?" he asks with far less confidence than seconds earlier. The Wilde boys and, more importantly, their dad, Finnegan, have a dangerous reputation, but I worry it's not enough to get Zander and me out of here alive.
Zander walks toward me.
Chug stiffens. "You're not taking her."
"The hell I'm not." Seawater drips off Zander, leaving puddles on the warped wooden floor. His hair is slicked back off his breathtaking face, and his jaw is set tight like a steel trap. He's Poseidon, big and fierce and godlike. The king of the sea just emerged from his castle below the waves.
The men fill in a half circle to block the cabin steps. They cross arms but look less than sure of themselves. Zander was an unstoppable torpedo on the football field in high school. Bad grades and lots of suspensions never let him reach his potential on the gridiron, but I still wouldn't bet against him when it came to taking out the circle of men.
The click of a gun doesn't stop Zander from taking gentle hold of my chin. I can feel the warmth of his touch and the intensity of his gaze all the way through to my soul. The memory of last night's intimacy triggers a warm blush through my body. His finger lightly touches the cut on my cheek. I flinch.
"Who did this to you, Nevvie?" His deep, all-too-familiar voice brings tears to my eyes. Damn him for coming in and fraying my nerves more and damn me for reacting so quickly and profoundly to his presence. I shake my head because my throat is too tight for words.
Chug lifts the gun higher. "Think you should leave, Wilde. This isn't your fight. We're waiting for Hoffman. Just want our ransom and then we're picking up anchor. Unless you brought a hundred grand with you?" he asks hopefully.
"Who did this to her?" Zander can be as stubborn as a bent nail when he wants. He ignores the gun barrel that's pointing directly at him and surveys the group of misfits. He zeroes in on Pirate Pete.
Pirate Pete's lone eye blinks nervously as Zander stomps toward him. He points to the red bite mark on Pete's arm. It's small, but I left a deep imprint. "You do this, Nev?" Zander asks with an impressed smile.
I nod. It seems I no longer have a voice. It wasn't a problem telling the crew to fuck off and go to hell, but Zander Wilde steps on board and I'm a simpering imbecile. Why do I let that happen? So fucking aggravating.
Zander turns back to Pete. Pete's face looks ashen, but, at the same time, he's straightened his slumpy posture to try and match Zander in height and width. He doesn't come close, and his attempt is comical.
"I'm going to assume that since she left teeth marks on you, you're the one who left that cut on her cheek."
Pete shakes his head frantically. "Wasn't me. I promise."
"You know what? Doesn't matter. I'm done here, and I'm going to start with you. Sorry about, well, you know, the one eye thing." Zander's fist flies through the air so fast, none of us, Pete included, realize what's happening until impact. Pete shoots backward, groaning and holding his good eye. He lands hard on the edge of the galley counter and crumples to the floor in a heap.
Chug steps forward, gun pointed.
"Zander!" I cry out.
Zander's long leg shoots out. The gun flies out of Chug's hand. Chug lunges at him. Zander plows his fist into Chug's stomach. The rest of the crew jump into action. Taze launches himself onto Zander's back. Blood is flying. Most of it belongs to the crew, but Zander has taken a few good hits, too.
I work my hands harder now, desperate to break free and grab the fallen gun. My hands are wet with blood, but my wrists and hands are mostly numb, so the pain is easy to ignore.
Baby Soft comes out of nowhere holding a steak knife.
"Zander, he's got a knife!" I cry out. I groan in frustration that I'm still not free.
Zander pulls his head out from a headlock and throws his fist at Baby Soft. Baby Soft has better fighting skills than I gave him credit for. He dodges Zander's fist and manages to slice through Zander's forearm. Blood sprays from the cut as Zander throws his fist again. This time he makes contact, and Baby Soft stumbles back, the knife still clutched in his hand.
Chug has recovered from a blow. His face is red with rage. "Hold him, fucking hold him."
