Wicked Grind (Stark World #1)

“I’m sorry. Truly. I never thought that me not calling would hurt you. I was too wrapped up in me. And later, when I did think about you, I was too ashamed to call.”

His thumb brushes the back of my hand, the gentle sensation soothing me. “You thought about me?” he asks, and though there is a teasing lilt to his voice, I think I hear a whisper of hope.

“Yes,” I admit, my mouth going dry as I meet his eyes. “All the time.”

I see a flare of heat in the pale gold of his eyes and wonder what I’ve ignited. But I’m proud of myself too. It’s not exactly wild and crazy, but as far as cutting loose goes, that revelation might count as among my personal best.

“Me, too,” he says, and I feel a nice little squeeze around my heart. “And you should know, I did try to find you. I even called your school, but you were gone.”

“You did?”

He shrugs as if it was no big deal, when to me it’s huge. “You said that first day that I didn’t come after you. I guess I just wanted you to know that I tried.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

For a moment, we just sit like that. Then he clears his throat and asks, “So how did you find out? About the fire, I mean.”

“My dad. He found the address to the party. I’d left it in the pocket of my jeans. He walked in while you were getting me a soda. He called me a—a whore. He told me what happened.”

“That lousy son-of-a-bitch.” The anger in his voice is as sharp as a blade.

“And he said it was my fault. That I was bad, just like my mother had been, and because of that my brother almost died.”

“Oh, baby.” He takes my shoulders and turns me so that I’m facing him. “It wasn’t your fault. You have to know that. And you weren’t bad. You were a teenager. You went out. You disobeyed your parents, yeah. But Griffin was old enough to stay on his own. You coming to the party isn’t the cause. And that’s true even if we had a crystal ball and could prove he’d have been fine if you’d stayed with him.”

I nod, sniffling. “I know all that. I do. Really. It’s just—”

I shrug, then tell him what I so often tell myself. “Knowing it and believing it are two different things.”

He makes a scoffing sound. “Your dad did one hell of a number on you.”

I try to smile, but don’t quite manage. “He had a lot of time to perfect the skill.”

“I knew he was strict in Santa Barbara, but I didn’t know—”

“It’s because of my mom. My real mom, not Tessa. She had an affair. And I guess she and the guy were driving somewhere. And there was an accident when I was two. They both died, and the driver of the other car was also killed.”

“And as you grew up, your dad told you that the accident happened and all those people died because your mom was bad. That she was a whore.”

I conjure an ironic smile. “It’s like you were sitting right next to me.”

“All the more reason for you to come be my model.”

I stretch my legs out in front of me and lean back, propped up by my arms. “How do you figure?”

“You say you get it. That you know your dad was full of it. You just don’t believe it.”

“So?”

“So let me help you believe it. You work for me and you’ll be cutting loose by definition. I mean, it may be art, but you’re still going to take your clothes off.”

I laugh. “Gee. You’re so convincing.”

“And you get to dance. And you get the money. All that’s good, right?”

I nod, then frown as something else occurs to me. “You really didn’t know why we left town? You didn’t hear about the fire?”

“Not a thing. I left for Boston soon after, but I’m not sure I would have heard even if I stayed. The house didn’t burn, right?”

“No. Griffin bore it all.”

“That’s part of it, then. It probably made the news, but I didn’t bother reading the papers. And that wasn’t a neighborhood that would have been on my radar.”

“Nobody mentioned it at the club?”

“Not that I heard, but I mostly kept to myself. And I only went back a couple of times after you dropped off the planet.”

“I really am so sorry.”

He stands, then reaches a hand down. I take it, then laugh when he pulls me up so quickly I end up pressed against him, his arm around my waist.

“How sorry are you?” he asks, his voice rumbling through me.

“Wyatt . . .” His name is a protest. It’s also the only sound I can manage. Because I’m desperately fighting the urge to lean into him and let him close his arms around me and simply hold me tight.

“I’m just saying that if you think you owe me, you can always offer compensation by way of doing my show.”

Immediately, I relax. And when I tilt my head up to look at him, I see him looking back with equal amusement.

“It’s true that I tend to be highly motivated by guilt,” I admit. “But I’m also working hard to fight that impulse.”

“Don’t fight it,” he says as he takes a step back. “Listen to your brother. He seems like a smart guy. Go a little wild, Ms. Draper. Cut loose. Take a risk.”

“Is that what you are? A risk?”

“Risk, reward. I’m pretty sure the two are tied together.”

I grimace, but mostly because I don’t have a snappy comeback.

“Seriously,” he says. “You’re just going to ignore your little brother’s advice? Your poor brother Griffin?”

Now, I laugh. “You’re terrible. You know that, right?”

“Terrible, but also brilliant. Give me your purse.”

“What? No.”

“Fine. Then just give me your keys.”

“Wyatt . . .”

He holds his hand out, palm up. “Come on. Hand them over.”

“Why?”

“I think you know why.” He wiggles his fingers. “Come on, Kelsey. Snails move faster than this. Just give me the keys.”

I do. I have no idea why, but I do.

“All right,” he says, dangling them from his fingers as he grabs my hand with his free one. “Let’s go.”





22


It’s about a forty-five minute drive from Valencia over the winding San Francisquito Canyon Road to the Antelope Valley, but I’m pretty sure that with Wyatt behind the wheel, we’re going to make it there in under half an hour.

Blue’s top is down, and the wind on my face is invigorating. We’re on a two-lane road that winds like a ribbon through brown hills dotted green with scrubby native plants. We’re heading into the western portion of the Mojave Desert, and the world outside the car has a raw, sparse beauty.

“Nobody but me and Griff has ever driven Blue,” I point out as he takes a curve marked forty at over fifty-five.

“And yet here I am behind the wheel. I wonder why that is?”

Since that’s not a question I want to examine too closely, I change the subject. “Where are we going?”

“Isn’t the drive enough for you?”

He’s teasing me, but I consider the question seriously. “You know what? It is.” And I mean it. I haven’t gotten in Blue and hit the road in a long time—actually, not ever. I’m a destination kind of girl. I like to know where I’m going and how I’m getting there, because otherwise I feel twitchy and out of sorts.