There’s Wild, Then There’s You (The Wild Ones #3)(2)
Author: M. Leighton

I give him a friendly nod and start to move around him. “That’s great news! Congratulations! Our group could use someone just like you. We have folks in varying stages of the twelve steps, but few in your position that still attend meetings.”

I feel a surge of panic coming on. I thought a story like that would make me less of a target or spectacle, not opt me into something worse.

In my head, I curse my best friend and her loose-and-free tendencies. I should’ve known she’d never show up tonight. Yet here I am, lying to a room full of sex addicts, making up stories about mastering a sex problem that I don’t have and never expect to.

I am glad, however, that my lie sounded convincing. Probably because it wasn’t really a lie. At least not all of it. Since my ex, Connelly, and I broke up three years ago, I haven’t been with anyone, so basically what I said was true. It’s just the “addict” part that’s a bit of a stretch.

Or a lot of a stretch.

I loved Connelly, but never in a million years could he have turned me into a sex fiend. Our sex life was more of an obligation. Or a gift. A concession—my concession to him. I did it because I knew he liked it, not because I really got much out of it. I’m sure the other people in this room would laugh their butts off if they knew the real me—lukewarm in the sack, with no intentions of heating up.

But they won’t. Mainly because once I leave here—if I can manage to get out—I’m never coming back. Tia can suck it up and come by herself. I did!

“I’d love to,” I say, trying not to stumble over the blatant lie (I would much rather have a root canal), “but I have some place I need to be.”

Lyle frowns at me, but doesn’t question me further. “Oh, okay. Well, I hope we’ll see you again. This crowd could benefit from someone like you. It’s good to see victors. Those who have overcome.” His smile makes me feel even worse about my deception, but I don’t let it sway me.

“Thank you. I, uh, I . . . sorry, I need to go.”

I move around him, refocusing on the door. When I’m within a few inches of it, the tension already beginning to drain from my limbs, someone else steps right between me and freedom.

Again, I stop. But this time I stop not because I can’t move past the obstacle, but because, for just a moment, I don’t want to.

Those eyes . . . I recognize them instantly. I might dream about them later. I might remember them forever. They belong to the guy who was watching me when I stood up. They were disconcerting then, but now . . . seeing them with the rest of him . . . they’re a thousand times worse.

Or maybe a thousand times better.

Tall and striking, he oozes the very sex appeal that makes him fit right in with this type of group. I doubt for a second that he’s even real, that he’s even human. That he’s anything more than a figment of my imagination. Everything about him is an invitation—his eyes, his smile, his posture. From his spiky black hair and dazzling blue eyes to his perfect lips and politely casual smile, he appeals to me like no one has ever appealed to me before. But he reeks of danger and hedonism, two things I avoid like the plague. Two things I’ve never wanted not to avoid.

Until now.

As we stare at each other, I wonder if he’s going to speak to me. And, if so, what he might say. I mean, we are at an SAA meeting. I’m sure picking up the other attendees is at the very least frowned upon. Before I can get too carried away pondering it, though, he smiles courteously and steps aside, stretching out his arm to push open the door for me.

I’m admittedly a little disappointed, which is stupid. I ought to be glad he’s aiding in my escape, not hindering it. And yet, as I return his smile and step forward, I’m not. Not at all. So caught up in my thoughts and my fascination am I, it’s no wonder that I get tangled in my own feet when I pass him, tripping and nearly falling right into him.

Fast as lightning, his hands reach out to catch me, righting me before I can make an even bigger fool of myself.

“Ohmigod, I’m so sorry,” I say, feeling my cheeks burst into blood-red flame. I keep my eyes cast down as I lean back, once again stable on my feet.

“Please don’t apologize,” his deep voice rumbles.

I lick my lips before I raise my eyes to his. Part of me knows I should turn and run, foregoing common courtesies and niceties. Something in me, some deep and rarely used instinct that lives within, knows that once I meet those eyes, I’ll be forever lost. It makes no sense, but I know it like I know my name and my eye color and the way my hair flips out on the ends when it’s rainy outside.

Despite my better judgment, I do it. I look up and up and up until I reach a blue so fathomless I feel like I could dive into it and never reach the bottom. Like I could drown and never even know it.

But I can’t do that. I can’t dive in. Not with a guy like this. I’ve seen what someone like this can do to a person—turn that which was once whole and capable into nothing more than scattered pieces of wreckage and ruin.

“I’m Jet,” he offers softly, his eyes never leaving mine.

Jet. Even his name is sexy, which makes me more uncomfortable.

Ridiculous! my rational, level-headed, slightly bitter side scoffs. It pipes up with its less bedazzled perspective, reminding me that guys like this are nothing more than predators. The love ’em and leave ’em type. And he’s obviously worse than most, as evidenced by his attendance here. Apparently, he’s got a real problem.

I give him a tight smile as I straighten away from him. “Violet. Nice to meet you,” I say, hurrying to continue. “Excuse me please.”

I slip on my familiar, no-nonsense persona like a protective shield, like the armor that has kept me from harm all these years. It has never failed me before; I don’t expect it to now.

My head is high, my spine is rigid, and my imperviousness is firmly in place as I move past the dark and damaged stranger. With every step I take, I determine to put him out of my mind and never think of him again.

Until he speaks once more. His words make dents in my breastplate like armor-piercing rounds.

“It’s short,” he calls from a few steps behind me.

Confused, I turn.

Knowing I shouldn’t, still I turn.

“Pardon?”

“My name. It’s short.”

“Short for what?”

I watch as he moves toward me, narrowing the space I only just created. He stops within inches and bends slightly forward, one side of his mouth pulling up into a self-deprecating grin. “Jethro.”