River Wild Read online

  Garden fork at the ready, I creep toward the door.

  A floorboard creaks loudly in the silence, under my weight, and I freeze, holding my breath, listening for any sound or movement.

  Nothing.

  I inch forward, stepping lightly, not wanting to make any more noise.

  I reach the open door. It’s only open halfway, so I can’t see fully into the room.

  I can only see the open window.

  An agonized moan comes from inside the room.

  Fork poised and ready, lifting my foot, I carefully push the door open wider, using my big toe.

  I see the end of the bed.

  I step inside the room, the bed coming into view. And I see River in bed, his body strained and twisted, trapped deep inside of a nightmare.

  I almost sigh in relief that he’s not being murdered or beaten to death. Or worse.

  Is there worse?

  Yes, there is. I’ve lived it.

  His legs kick restlessly at the sheet covering his lower half. Short gasps of breath hiss out from between his clenched teeth.

  It feels wrong that I’m here. Witnessing this.

  But, now that I’m here, I can’t just leave him alone. Even if I did technically break into his house.

  That he has nightmares doesn’t surprise me. I saw the haunted look in his eyes that day.

  I have nightmares sometimes, too.

  I dream that Neil finds me. Takes me home. Hurts the baby …

  I don’t know what haunts River’s dreams, but I know I can’t leave him like this.

  Lowering the fork, I step closer to the bed, standing at the end of it.

  “River,” I firmly say his name. “You’re having a nightmare. You need to wake up.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “River.” I reach out and touch his sheet-covered foot.

  Big mistake.

  His eyes flick open, and he jolts out of bed.

  His sudden movement startles me, and I step backward, somehow tripping over my own feet and landing on my ass.

  And I quickly learn another thing about River.

  He sleeps naked.

  Carrie

  “What the fuck are you doing in my bedroom?”

  “Penis—River! Fudging heck!” I quickly clamber to my feet. “Sorry. I-I … I heard you yelling from outside. The door was unlocked—”

  “And you thought that was an invitation to come straight on in?”

  “I-I … thought you were being murdered or something. You were yelling. I was worried. I wanted to help.”

  I’m flustered. And the color of a tomato.

  He’s still naked. And just standing there.

  Naked.

  He hasn’t seemed to register that he is naked. Or that his penis is totally erect right now.

  That, or he doesn’t care.

  But I’m registering it.

  And I’m trying to look away. I swear, I am.

  But it’s hard.

  His penis. And my ability to look away.

  Before now, I’d seen two men naked in my whole life.

  But never one who looks like River does.

  Compared to River, Neil would look pudgy. And Neil wasn’t fat by any means of the word.

  But River is ripped. Abs. And taut muscles covering his body and arms and legs. He’s huge. Everywhere.

  I don’t have a lot of experience with penises. I’d only seen one other before Neil, and that was when I was sixteen and lost my virginity to a sixteen-year-old guy from school, who had no clue what he was doing. Except for the fact that he’d bet his friends he could get me to sleep with him. Clearly, he won that bet. Neil always hated the fact that I’d slept with someone before him. It was a reason he would use to start an argument when he had no other.

  Neil’s penis was about the same size as the first ass of a guy that I slept with, so I wasn’t sure if they were normal-sized or big or what.

  Compared to River’s, they were definitely average-sized.

  Maybe undersized.

  Why am I still thinking about penises?

  Because you’re standing, staring at one.

  I flick my eyes up to River’s face. For once, he doesn’t look angry.

  His brows are lifted. A smug expression on his face.

  He knows I’ve been looking at his penis.

  Of course he knows. I was staring straight at it for ages.

  When I meet his eyes, they are a stark contrast to the amusement on his face. They’re burning with something I’m not willing to name right now.

  My stomach dips.

  I swallow roughly.

  “What’s that?” He lifts his chin in the direction of the gardening fork that’s on the floor from when I fell on my ass.

  “Oh.” I pick it up. “It’s my gardening fork.”

  “Well, that explains why it’s on my floor.”

  “I dropped it when you startled me, and I fell.”

  “I startled you?” One of those humorless laughs of his. “Riiight.” He drags the word out. He lifts his tattooed arms from his sides and folds them over his chest.

  Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

  I force my eyes to stay on his face. I fidget on my feet. “I brought it with me. As a weapon. You know, in case I needed one.”

  His eyes go to the fork in my hand and then back up to my face. “What were you going to do, dig me to death?”

  “Not you. Whoever was hurting you. And very funny.” I roll my eyes.

  “No, it’s fucking not. You’re pregnant, and you came in here, not knowing what you were walking into, with a shitty gardening fork as a weapon.”

  When he puts it like that, it does sound reckless.

  “Okay, so I didn’t exactly think it through.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. You’re a fucking idiot, Red.”

  “Hey! That’s … not nice! I came here to save your ass, you ass.”

  “And landed on your own.”

  He turns, picks up a pair of jeans slung across a chair, and pulls them on. I see a big tattoo framing his back, but I don’t get to see what it is because he covers it up by pulling on a T-shirt.

  Then, he flicks on the lamp on his nightstand and turns to face me.

  I blink against the light. My eyes adjusting from the darkness.

  “Nice pajamas. And do you mean that literally?”

  “What?”

  I look down.

  Christ almighty.

  Seriously, God?

  Seriously?

  You couldn’t cut me a break just this once?

  I’m wearing my new pajama set. I got them for a couple of dollars on sale. I bought a couple of sizes up, so they’re baggy at the moment but not for long with my growing waistline. They’re that soft, brushed cotton fabric. Comfort over fashion, right? And it’s not like I ever expected anyone to see me in them.

  But it’s not the large size of them that he’s referring to.

  Oh no.

  It’s what’s written on the top that has him smirking.

  I Like Your Balls is written on the pajama top, and two Christmas baubles hang beneath the words.

  Shoot me now.

  It amused me at the time. It was one of the reasons I bought them.

  I’m not feeling so amused right now though.

  “You’re hilarious,” I mutter. “And, now, I’m going.” I turn on my heel, walking quickly to the door.

  “Aw, don’t be embarrassed, Red. It’s okay to like my balls.” His laughter catches me as I pass through the door, leaving his room.

  I can’t even register the fact that it’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh or that it’s a nice, deep, husky sound.

  Because I’m too embarrassed.

  No, not embarrassed. Mortified.

  I broke into his house with a garden fork in my hand. Scared the bejesus out of him and myself. Then, stared at his penis for a longer period of time than considered acceptable. Actually, I don’t think it’s acceptable
to stare at anyone’s penis. And, to top it all off, I’m wearing the most ridiculous pajamas ever. Pajamas that gave him the opportunity to ridicule me even more.

  I’m such an idiot.

  I practically run down the stairs and race back through the house the way I came in, weaving around his furniture, heading for the still-open back door.

  “Mother-fudging nuts!” I yell, catching my foot on the same table I walked into earlier, stubbing my little toe. “That hurts!” I drop the fork and grab my foot with both hands. Tears sting my eyes.

  Sweet Jesus, that really flipping hurts.

  Light floods the room.

  “Are you okay?”

  Ugh, River. The mocker of all mockers.

  I didn’t even hear him coming. He’s probably here to give me even more of a hard time.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  I let go of my foot and lower it to the floor.

  I hold in a hiss of pain at the contact. My toe is throbbing.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “What?” I look down, and sure enough, there’s blood coming from my little toe. Blood is on my hands, too.

  Fear clamps down over my chest.

  “You always make a mess! Such a fucking mess! You useless fucking bitch!”

  “Red?”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to get blood on your floor. I’ll clean it. I’ll clean it now.” My heart is pounding. I immediately lift my foot from the floor to prevent a further mess, and I turn my head, looking for the way to the kitchen to get something to clean it up with.

  “Red, it’s fine.” His voice is softer. Like the way you’d talk to a spooked animal.

  I stare at him.

  An expression I don’t like flickers in his eyes.

  Pity.

  I don’t know exactly what’s on my face that’s making him look at me that way, but I can hazard a guess. I school my features to normal. That I can do. I’m well trained in it.

  Calm down. He’s not Neil. You’re safe.

  He walks closer to me. His movements slow, measured. “It’s just a little blood, Red. Don’t worry about it. Sit down. Let me take a look at your foot.”

  “I’m fine. Honestly. I’ll just go.” I really want to just get out of here.

  I make to move, but his words stop me.

  “Red, sit.” His voice is firm but not harsh. More … concerned.

  So, I give in. I hobble over to the sofa and sit down.

  River follows and kneels at my feet. He lifts my foot with his hand, looking at my toe. “Just a little cut. I’ll clean it up and put a Band-Aid on it, and you’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  His dark eyes meet with mine. “I know. But I’m still going to.”

  He gets to his feet. I watch him disappear out the door, into what I guess is the kitchen.

  He’s so confusing. One minute, he’s being a jerk to me. Then, in a click of fingers, he’s being nice.

  I’m starting to think he might actually have split-personality disorder.

  I can hear him rattling around. Cabinet doors opening and closing.

  Then, he reappears with a first aid kit in hand.

  He kneels back at my feet and opens the kit up. He takes my foot and rests it on his thigh. He takes an antiseptic wipe out of the kit. How do I know it’s an antiseptic wipe, you ask? Well, I’m very familiar with the inside of first aid kits. The regular beatings and not being able to go to the hospital meant that I had to be.

  “This will sting a bit,” he says.

  “I can handle pain.”

  He briefly glances up at me. The look in his eyes unreadable.

  Then, eyes back down, he presses the wipe to my toe and gently cleans it up.

  When he’s done, he tosses the wipe back into the kit and gets a Band-Aid. He rips it open. But he doesn’t put it on straightaway.

  He takes hold of my foot and lifts it up. Then, he leans his face down and softly blows on my toe, drying the wet from the wipe.

  Sweet Jesus.

  I know I’m not supposed to feel anything. But I do.

  Parts of me I didn’t know existed start to sing.

  I’m getting turned on from him blowing on my foot.

  It confuses and surprises me.

  Pregnancy hormones and seeing him naked have fuddled my brain.

  “There, all done.” He’s lowering my foot to the floor.

  I didn’t even know he’d put the Band-Aid on; I was so distracted by what I was feeling. Or what I shouldn’t be feeling.

  I shoot to my feet. His dark eyes follow me up.

  “Thanks,” I blurt, a slight shake to my voice. “For fixing me up.”

  Thanks for fixing me up?

  Christ on a cracker.

  I sidestep him. “Well, bye then.” I make a beeline for the still-open door that I came in through earlier.

  “Where are you going?”

  His deep voice catches my back, stopping me. I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing now.

  “Home.”

  “Your feet are bare.”

  I thought that was obvious. You know, since he was literally just blowing on my bare foot.

  Don’t think about it.

  “Where are your shoes?”

  I turn fully to face him. “I didn’t come in with any. I was in a rush.”

  “Wear a pair of mine to go back in.”

  I glance down at his bare feet. They’re huge. Just like his—

  Annnd I’m bright red again.

  “That’s not necessary, and they wouldn’t fit me anyway.”

  But, clearly, he’s not listening to me because he’s turning away and walking back into the kitchen, where he apparently keeps everything, and then he returns moments later with not one, but two pairs of shoes in his hands. Boots and sneakers.

  He puts the sneakers by my feet. “Put them on.”

  Christ, he’s bossy.

  Ignoring his order—because I no longer take orders from men—I watch as he pulls the boots on his own feet, leaving the laces unfastened.

  “Why do you need shoes?” I ask him.

  Dark eyes lift to mine. “Because I don’t walk the streets barefoot.”

  Huh.

  “Put the sneakers on, Red.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t want to.”

  “You want to cut your foot open again? You’re lucky you didn’t on your way over here.”

  How would I cut my feet in our gardens? Unless he has broken glass scattered around his. Wouldn’t surprise me.

  “Fine.” I sigh. Then, I slip my feet in his sneakers. They’re massive, as expected. “I look like a clown.”

  “You do look ridiculous.”

  I scowl. “I never said I looked ridiculous. I said, I look like a clown.”

  “Same thing.”

  I don’t even bother arguing.

  “Well, thanks for the loan of the sneakers.” Although I didn’t actually want them.

  I turn back to the door when his voice once again stops me.

  “You have something against front doors? Or just my front door?”

  I eye him over my shoulder. “Just going back the way I came.”

  “Ah, yeah. The gap in the fence. Never did get around to fixing that.”

  Why? I want to ask. But, of course, I don’t.

  He wouldn’t tell me anyway.

  I head through the door, grabbing the handle to close it behind me. But he’s there, right behind me, in the doorway.

  Letting go of the door, I step aside. “Are you going somewhere?” I ask.

  His brow goes up, revealing his dark eye. “I’m walking you home.”

  “I live right there.” I point at my house.

  “And?”

  “And I think I can make it there just fine.”

  “You think bad things don’t happen to people, even in the shortest of distances?”

  “No, I don’t
think that.” I know for a fact they do. I wasn’t safe in my own home for seven long years. But I also don’t need a man looking out for me. I can take care of myself. “But I got over here just fine. So, I can make it back just as easy.”

  “Oh, yeah? With your trusty garden fork for protection?”

  I realize then that I don’t have the fork with me. It’s still on the floor where I dropped it when I stubbed my toe. But I really don’t want to go back in his house to get it. So, it can stay there.

  “You’re a real jerk sometimes,” I tell him.

  “I know. And yet, I’m still walking you home.”

  I sigh. “Suit yourself.”

  I stomp through his garden. It isn’t easy, walking in shoes that are about five sizes too big for me.

  “What size shoe do you wear?” I ask him.

  “Thirteen.” His voice comes behind me in the darkness.

  Correction: seven sizes too big.

  “I wear a size six.”

  “Thanks for that riveting piece of information. I’ll sleep better tonight, knowing that.” His tone is droll.

  I want to point out that the reason I was in his house in the first place was because he wasn’t sleeping well.

  I push my way through the gap in the fence. Takes me longer than usual because his big, stupid shoes get in the way.

  As I’m shoving my way through, the fence starts to shake.

  When I make it back into my garden, I look up to see River climbing over the fence.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him.

  He stops midway and looks at me like I’m as dumb as bricks. “Climbing. The. Fence,” he slowly says the words, like reciting them to a moron.

  “I got that. I meant, why?”

  He jumps down from the fence, landing easily on his feet. Way too graceful for a man of his size. As he stands before me, his dark eyes glitter down at me in the darkness.

  “Because there was no way I’d fit through the gap.”

  “Oh.”

  “And, since someone doesn’t like front doors or gates, it was my only option.”

  Hilarious.

  I roll my eyes and then march across my grass, heading for the steps leading up to my back deck.

  I stop at the bottom.

  I slip my feet out of his sneakers, pick them up, and hold them out to him. He takes them from me.

  “All the way to the back door,” he tells me and then gestures for me to walk up the steps.

  I sigh but don’t bother arguing.