Kristen Ashley - Wild Man

“We’ll talk later, Tess. Yeah?” he somewhat repeated and I blinked.

“Yeah,” I repeated too.

“Promise me, babe.”

I stared at him not sure why he needed that. I didn’t play games with him, not at all, not even when Martha told me I should, repeatedly. Test the waters. Test him. Don’t be too available. Don’t let on how much I liked him.

But I was too old for that shit and I’d never had a man like Jake. There was no way I was going to fuck it up with games.

So now I didn’t get where he was going with his need for a promise.

But still, he asked and I’d give him anything he asked. Anything. Even from the very beginning.

“Promise,” I whispered.

He nodded.

Then he asked, “You sleep naked?”

A shiver I couldn’t quite read slithered over my skin. It wasn’t bad but it also wasn’t good.

“No,” I answered.

“Don’t start tonight,” he ordered, I stared at him and while doing it saw his eyes move over my face.

Then he leaned in, his hand not in the bed coming to cup the back of my head, he pulled me to him and kissed me hard and wet.

His mouth released mine but he only allowed me to pull back an inch before his hand still at the back of my head put pressure on to stop my retreat and his eyes locked with mine.

“We’ll talk later,” he whispered.

Then his hand disappeared because he disappeared.

Gone.

I listened to my front door close.

Then I collapsed back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

One could not say that Jake Knox was not a complicated man, he was. And although I knew him, I had no freaking clue.

But that whole scene was wild.

Then again, Jake – with his motorcycle boots, his bike, his beat up pickup, his old t-shirts that fit way too well, his faded jeans that fit better, his dark brown, longish, unruly hair, his silvery gray eyes that told a million stories without giving away a thing, his capacity to drink beer, down shots, eat hearty, howl at the moon and kiss so hard it was like he knew it was the last moment for every being on earth and he was going to make the most of it – was wild.

Being with Jake was like the ride I once took on a mechanical bull. You could not even begin to guess which way that thing would buck. All you could do was hold on as tight as you could and enjoy the ride for as long as you had it.

So I needed to cool it.

It would all be okay.

It would be okay.

I got up, put on underwear and a nightie, went to bed and turned off the light.

It took awhile for me to find sleep even after having a very, very sweet orgasm, one given to me by Jake, one I’d waited a long, long time to have and after him leaving after kissing me like it was the last moment on earth and him telling me there was more to us because we were going to talk.

But after I fell asleep, I woke when my front door was busted open, a large cadre of bulletproof vest wearing men surged into my house and minutes later, I was hauled to the Police Station for questioning.

The door to the interrogation room opened and a man wearing slacks, shirt, tie and ill-fitting sports jacket strolled in, eyes glued to me, manila folder in his hand.

He dropped the folder on the table I was sitting at and sat across from me.

I kept my eyes on him and, like I’d been doing since I’d been led in that room what felt like hours ago (and what I didn’t know actually was ), I kept them away from the mirror where I’d seen enough cop shows on TV to know recording equipment and possibly police officers were watching.

“Mrs. Heller,” he said and I felt my heart skip at hearing that name.

“Ms. O’Hara,” I replied and his gaze didn’t leave mine.

“Sorry, ma’am?” he asked but he wasn’t sorry, I knew he wasn’t sorry.

“Ms. O’Hara, my name,” I answered and he nodded, still not releasing my eyes and I didn’t tear mine from his.

“You were Mrs. Heller,” he stated. “Do I have that right?”

“Yes,” I told him. “You have that right.”

“For ten years,” he went on.

I didn’t reply, just lifted my chin a little wondering what the hell was going on.

“Married to Damian Heller, is that correct?”

Uh-oh.

I wasn’t sure this was good.

“Yes, I was married to Damian Heller,” I agreed then enquired, “What’s this about?”

“Funny,” he said quietly.

I wasn’t thinking anything was funny including him weirdly saying the word “funny”.

“Funny?” I prompted.

“Funny you didn’t ask that first,” he observed. “Usually folks wanna know right off why they’re sittin’ in a room like this.”

I stared at him. Then I returned, “Well, seeing as you opened with the knowledge you didn’t even know my name, I thought it important to get that straight before we got started with whatever is going on here.”

I watched his eyes flare with annoyance as his mouth got tight.

Jerk.

“So,” I pushed, “would you mind telling me why I’m here?”

“There’s a few things we need to know.”

I lifted my brows. “And those would be?”

“Can you tell me if you’ve been in contact with your husband recently?” he asked.

Damn it all to hell. Damian. God!

My ex-husband. A pain in my ass. Would I never get rid of that man?

“Yes, I can tell you that I’ve been in contact with my ex- husband recently,” I answered.

“And what did you discuss?” he went on.

“We didn’t discuss anything except me asking him repeatedly to stop contacting me,” I replied.

He studied me. Then he asked, “So was this on the phone or did you meet?”

“On the phone,” I told him.

“You didn’t meet?” he pushed.

“No.”

He flipped open the folder in front of him and my eyes dropped to it. Then he flipped some papers over then finally he pulled out some black and white eight by tens, turned them and slid them across the table to me.

In them were photos of me and Damian having lunch.

Okay. This was not good. Why were people taking photos of me and Damian having lunch?

And secondly, this was not good because I really had to consider never wearing that top again. It didn’t do me any favors even in black and white.

“Would you like to amend your last answer?” he offered and my eyes went to him.

“No,” I replied, his brows went up but his head turned slightly to the side toward the mirror.

Yep. People were watching.

Damn.

“Mrs. Heller –” he started but I interrupted him.

“My name, sir, is Ms. O’Hara. Actually, it’s Tess because no one calls me Ms. O’Hara.

And I’ll explain those photos and my answer,” I stated then went on before he could speak.

“You asked if I had been in contact with my ex-husband recently. I have on several occasions as he calls me frequently. Sometimes I pick up and tell him to stop calling me. Sometimes I don’t. It is rare when I don’t. I was married to Damian for ten years, he dislikes being ignored and he’s not skilled with catching hints. He responds better to direct communication although this endeavor unfortunately takes time because he doesn’t respond very quickly if that communication happens to be something he doesn’t want to hear. My hope was, if I told him enough, he’d eventually leave me alone. Those photos,” I lifted a hand out of my lap and gestured to the photos on the table before dropping it back to my lap, “were taken of me having lunch with Damian what I believe was at least six months ago. That is not, in my definition, recent. If your definition of recent is different, I apologize for I didn’t give you the answer you expected but, even so, I still gave you one which was honest.”