Something Wild: A Reckless and Real Prequel Novella (3 page)

Now the rules have changed. She’s not seventeen anymore. And she’s waiting for me in the conference room.

My imagination doesn’t get far before my father is standing in front of me with the governor’s daughter, his politician face firmly in place.

“Samuel, you remember Sabrina.”

“Of course.” Offering my hand, I go through the motions of the introduction and even dance with her, but my mind is on Liz, and I’m counting down the seconds until I can sneak out of here to meet her.

T
here’s
a party of epic proportions rumbling in Sam Bradshaw’s basement.

The room is packed—everyone dancing and talking at once. Everyone drunk. There’s a long wooden bar along the far wall where three girls in short shorts and heels are standing, dirty-dancing and grinding on each other. I’m so out of my depth.

I told my mom I was visiting a prospective college and drove to Notre Dame to see him at the house he rents with friends. This isn’t what I expected. I should’ve dragged Hanna or Maggie along. But I left them at home because I didn’t want them to stop me from what I’d planned—namely, seducing Sam and losing my virginity.

I’ve been searching for Sam in the crowd for half an hour, and with every minute that I don’t find him, the excitement that fueled my drive north leaks out of me. What if he’s back in New Hope for the weekend? Hell, what if he has a girlfriend?

I drain the rest of my drink—my third since I arrived, and whoever’s mixing them is making them strong.

“Hey, beautiful. Come dance.”

The request comes from a tall, dark-haired guy. Not over-the-top gorgeous but okay. Attractive on most scales, though only average to a girl who grew up with the Samuel Bradshaws of the world.

As I nod, the room does a little spin and shifts off-kilter, like an awkward toddler ballerina. Something in my mind warns me to
slow down
, but I ignore it and head to the dance floor with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Average.

The back corner of the basement is cast in shadows and the booming music makes my ears ache, but alcohol buzzes through my blood and dancing feels good.

I relax into my movements, lose myself in the bass and the crowd. Time falls away as I lose more and more of my inhibitions with the help of the alcohol.

The guy works his hands up my shirt, and I don’t even care. Maybe I should. But I came here looking for Sam, and I’m disappointed. I want to prove I’m mature enough to come to a party like this and have a good time, so I let the guy touch my stomach, let him slide his fingers farther north.

Just as his hand closes over my breast, he’s yanked off me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Sam.

As if someone jumped on the accelerator to my heart, my pulse speeds into high gear. I bite back a smile at the aggravation in his voice, stupidly happy he’s jealous.

Too late, I realize his angry words aren’t intended for the guy feeling me up. They’re intended for
me
.

“Is she yours?” my dancing partner asks.

I scowl. “Are you kidding me? I don’t
belong
to anyone.”

“She’s not
mine
,” Sam says. “She’s seventeen.”

The guy’s eyes go wide and he throws up his hands and backs away, muttering something about jailbait.

Sam made me a pariah at this party. Fantastic.

I spin on Sam. “What was
that
?”

He arches a brow. “You smell like a liquor bottle. How much have you had to drink?”

“I didn’t come here looking for a new daddy, so stop trying to protect me.”

“Someone needs to,” he mutters. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

I push past him. The crowd swallows me as I work my way to the other side of the basement, straight to the bar. The girls have vacated the smooth wooden surface, and now it’s as if waiting for me.

“Want some help up?” A blond guy grins at me, as if seeing me dance on the bar would make his night.

“Yes, please.” I give him my hand and flash a look over my shoulder to make sure Sam isn’t here to boss me around and tell everyone I’m a child.

The second I climb on the bar, I’m hyperaware of my short skirt. Guys gather beneath me, no doubt to a great view of my purple silk panties, but I make the best of it and dance to the music, running my hands over my stomach and hips as I find the beat.

There are catcalls, and part of me likes it—the attention, feeling important, even if it was for something as trivial as my body. When you feel stupid all the time, it’s nice to be appreciated for
something.
Anything. It doesn’t take long for another girl to climb up to join me. We dance together, much to the delight of the guys watching.

“Body shots!” one of the guys in the crowd calls. Then others join in to an increasingly insistent chant of, “Bo-dy shots! Bo-dy shots!”

The next thing I know, the girl shoves a shot glass in her cleavage. “Be gentle,” she croons so the guys in the crowd can hear.

I know what they want—what they expect—and before I can think too much, I duck my head and wrap my lips around the glass. The guys howl their approval, and I come up with it slowly, shooting it back without the help of my hands.

“My turn!” the girl says, lifting another shot in the air. She turns to the crowd. “Where should she put it?”

“Between her legs!” someone answers. A chair is hoisted next to me on the bar. It doesn’t quite fit, and I have to balance it on three legs as I position the shot between my thighs.

As quickly as I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into, I remember Sam saying someone needs to watch out for me, and I pull my skirt a little higher.

My partner in crime giggles as she lowers onto her knees. “I’m not really into girls,” she whispers, “but you
are
pretty hot.”

Then she licks my inner thigh, and it shocks me so much that I lose my balance. Both the chair and I fall off the bar and into the crowd. Someone catches me, but I hit several people and drinks on my way down. It seems like there’s beer everywhere, including streaming down my shirt and covering my legs. Gasping at the cold, I pull the wet fabric of my shirt off my skin.

“Shit,” someone says. “Are you hurt?”

Turning toward the voice, I find myself looking into the face of Sam Bradshaw, his eyes on my soaking wet shirt. “I’m okay.”

“You’re covered in beer.” His gaze roams over me one more time before he lifts it to my face. “You really are rowdy, you know that?”

Even though I’m covered in goose bumps, his closeness makes me feel warm. I probably smell worse than I look, but I have Sam’s attention. Finally.

He grabs my hand and pulls me away from the guy who caught me. “Come on, Rowdy. Let’s get you out of here.” His smile’s so gentle, so comforting, I want to curl into it. Then he walks away and I have to think really hard to remember that I’m supposed to be following him.

I let him lead the way up the stairs, my eyes on his back the whole time.

He opens a door on the landing and nods inside. “In here.”

My drunken heart skitters and stumbles at the sound of his voice and the idea of following him into his room. I follow him inside and close the door.

Sam took me to his bedroom.

My stomach’s a mess of nerves—fear, anxiety, and excitement, all wrapped in my crush on him. I pull off my beer-soaked shirt and drop it to the floor as Sam looks in his closet.

My head spins, and some of the happiness that comes from drinking too fast begins to fade, replaced with a faint sense of shame. I was trying to loosen up, to fit in, to find the courage to approach him, and I became another reckless drunk girl.

When he turns back to me, T-shirt in hand, my face is hot with shame. His eyes widen for a moment as he takes me in, then he averts his gaze. “Put this on,” he says, offering the T-shirt.

“Sam,” I whisper. I step forward, lift onto my toes, and press my mouth against his.

He freezes for a minute, then slowly—so flipping slowly—he brings his hands to my hair and kisses me back. This isn’t how I imagined it would happen. He doesn’t deepen the kiss or draw my body against his. He doesn’t push me back on the bed and climb on top of me. He just kisses me back. Softly. Briefly. Then he pulls away and traces my jaw with his thumb. “What was that for?” His voice is low. Husky.

“The usual reasons a girl kisses a boy.”

I want him to talk again. Want to have that voice against my ear. I want to feel the heat of his chest against my body and have his hands all over me.

My eyes are so heavy with intoxication and exhaustion, I let them close. I feel the shirt slide over my head. I don’t want him to be
dressing
me, but the shirt’s soft and warm and smells like Sam, so I push my arms through the sleeves.

When I open my eyes, he’s pulling down the covers on his neatly made bed.

“Climb in,” he says. I obey, too tired to question him, and he draws the blankets over me. I don’t want to sleep, but the next thing I know, he’s waking me up. “Drink this and swallow these.” He hands me a couple of pills and a glass of water.

“What is it?”

He shakes his head. “
Now
you’re going to start showing some sense? Ibuprofen. I’m trying to save you from a killer hangover—no promises, but this should at least keep it manageable.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

Brushing the hair off my face, he presses the softest, sweetest kiss to my forehead. And as I close my eyes and surrender to sleep, I feel the distinct sensation of falling.

When I open my eyes again, it’s dark, save for a thick swath of streetlight cutting across the room from the gap in the curtains. Sam’s asleep in a chair by the door, hands folded in his lap, half his face in the light, half in darkness.

I blink at the clock. Four a.m.

“Sam,” I whisper. Something flutters in my belly at the thought of him sleeping there all night, protecting me while I was too drunk to protect myself. I climb out of bed and walk across the room. “Sam?”

His eyes open and he straightens. “Are you okay?”

I nod. “I’m fine. You don’t have to sleep in the chair.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’d rather you sleep with me.” In an attempt to be bold and sultry, I straddle his lap and press a kiss to his neck. “I really like you.”

He winces.
Cue the mortification.
He isn’t just being a gentleman. He doesn’t
want
to share his bed with me.

“I thought . . .” I bite my bottom lip. “I thought you liked me too.”
Stupid alcohol.

“I do like you, Liz.” He gives me a careful smile—the kind you give a child before you break the news that Santa isn’t real. “But you’re my friend.”

“What better way to lose my virginity?”
Oh my God, why am I still talking?

His breath draws in with a hiss, then he shakes his head. “You’re my friend,” he repeats, ticking the reasons off on his fingers. “You’re drunk.”

“Not anymore,” I promise.

“And you’re a virgin.”

The memory fills me with old mortification. There’s a reason I haven’t pursued Sam in the last four years. I don’t want to be the desperate girl who threw herself at him. I don’t want to remember how his rejection made me feel.

Sneaking into this room seemed like a great idea when I was on the dance floor with him, his hard body pressed into mine, but alone in the quiet conference room, I’m pretty sure this could be the most reckless thing I’ve ever done.

What if someone catches us in here? Hell, what if he doesn’t come? What if he
does
? I’ve thrown myself at Sam before, and it didn’t end well. He has no idea how hard I took his rejection, or the decisions I made after I left his room that night.

I should leave. I should . . .

The door clicks and then Sam steps inside, his eyes raking over me.

“Hey,” I whisper. “You came.”

He closes the door behind himself, turns the lock, then stalks toward me.

Thank you!
the girlie bits shout.
Stupid brain upstairs was about to ruin everything!

“Are you sure you want to do this?” His voice is a low rumble that I swear I can feel right between my legs.

Hell yes, I want to do this.

But I also don’t. Because Sam’s no longer some unrequited crush. He’s a friend. And if this goes to hell, it’ll make my life exponentially more awkward.

“We need rules,” I say quickly.

He takes another step closer. And another. Until I’m looking at his chest, smelling his aftershave. He tilts my chin up with his index finger then traces my lips with his thumb. “Hold that thought?”

I nod, nearly breathless at nothing but the touch of his thumb skimming my lips.

“I need to do this first.” He cups my jaw in his big hand and brushes his lips over mine. My lips part in surprise at the gesture that’s almost . . .
sweet
. He deepens the kiss, slanting his mouth over mine and sliding his tongue inside.

He tastes like beer, and I want to get drunk on this kiss—to overindulge until I can’t see straight, to imbibe until sobriety is a distant memory.

This is how kisses should be. I love the way his hand slides into my hair as he samples my lips, love how his kiss manages to be simultaneously gentle and demanding. It’s the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl, the kind worth remembering in five years when you’re lonely and bored and wondering if kissing had ever been so sweet.

When he pulls back, his eyes are hooded, darker. Sexy as sin. “Now, what were you saying?”

I have no idea.
“Ru . . . rules?” I manage.

“Ah, yes. Well, I’ve never done well with rules, but tell me yours and I’ll see what I can do.”