Home > There's Wild, Then There's You (The Wild Ones #3)

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

ONE: Violet

One by one, I watch the people in the rows in front of me stand up and introduce themselves.

Oh, sweet Jesus! How do I get myself into these messes?

I don’t know why I even ask. I already know. I help people. It’s not only what I do; it’s who I am.

By day, I’m a social worker, finally able to do what I went to school for four years to do—help people. But by night, I’m a chauffeur, a counselor, a nurse, a guardian, a suicide hotline, and, tonight, an addict.

As the first person in my row stands, my stomach turns a flip and I look around once more for my best friend, Tia. The only reason I’m here is for moral support. Her moral support. And she hasn’t even shown up yet.

That’s what I get for trying to help her when she obviously doesn’t want it.

Tia’s fiancé, Dennis, insisted that before they get married, Tia attend at least ten sessions at an addicts meeting. That might sound ridiculous to some people, but it’s probably not that much to ask, considering that Tia has cheated on him not one, not two, not three, not even four times. But six. Six times in three years, Tia has gotten drunk and slept with someone else. She regrets it immediately. Cries over it, apologizes for it, always confesses it, but it never seems to stop her when she feels a wild hair come on and a hot guy happens to be near. It doesn’t help that she’s gorgeous. With long, blond hair and pale blue eyes, Tia looks just like a Barbie doll. She has insanely big boobs, an enviably tiny waist, and ridiculously long legs. It’s a package that draws the eye of practically every male within a ten-mile radius. And that only worsens Tia’s . . . weakness. She loves first kisses. And butterflies. And excitement. And vodka. That combination lands her in more trouble than I care to comment on. It also lands me in more trouble than I care to comment on.

Like finding myself next in a long line of people standing up to explain who they are and why they’re here. My mind is whirling as I listen to the lady beside me explain that her name is Rhianne and that she’s been an addict for eleven years. People clap (why, I’m not sure), and she smiles before taking her seat again. Then the room falls quiet and every eye turns to me. My stomach drops into my shoes.

My turn.

Slowly, I stand. I give the guy at the head of the room a shaky smile, and he nods me on in encouragement. I clear my throat and wipe my damp palms on my jeans. I glance quickly around at all the attentive faces, wishing silently that this moment was already over.

Just a few more seconds and it will be . . .

It’s when my eyes collide with breathtakingly pale blue ones that I nearly forget where I am and what I’m supposed to be saying. Lucky for me, my speech is short. And exactly 50 percent untrue.

“Hi. My name is Violet, and I’m a sex addict.”

TWO: Jet

The monotony and the hopelessness of the night take an immediate turn for the better when she stands up. I watch the tiny brunette fiddle with her fingers as she looks around. She seems shy, which isn’t a trait I’d associate with people like the ones in this room. But she’s here for a reason, which intrigues the hell out of me.

I sit up a little straighter as I watch her. She’s actually really hot—dark auburn hair pulled back into a twist, creamy skin flushed around her cheeks, straight nose tucked nervously toward her chest, and pearly white teeth biting into her lush lower lip.

Her figure is small but proportionate—round tits, flat stomach, firm ass, long, long legs. Looking at her makes me glad to have found her here. I know for sure she likes one thing. And she likes it a lot. I can sympathize with that.

I watch her wipe her palms nervously on her jeans. She looks around and I wait for her eyes to make their way to me. I feel like I need to see them, like I need to see the rest of the package. What will they look like? What will they say?

When her quick scan reaches me, it pauses. For maybe a hundredth of a second. And I realize that her eyes are exactly what I was hoping they’d be, even though I didn’t know I was really hoping they’d be anything.

They’re a pale, silvery gray. Smoky. Sexy. It’s in them that I can see why she’s here. There’s something wild about those eyes, something that says she’s hiding a little devil inside that hot-yet-innocent librarian exterior, and it’s just dying to make its way out.

“Hi. My name is Violet, and I’m a sex addict.”

I feel like groaning. God, that voice! It’s low and husky, the kind that’s meant to say dirty things in the dark. It goes perfectly with her eyes. I have no doubt there will be a lot of wet dreams featuring that voice tonight.

I’m even more intrigued now. This woman is an unusual and very attractive blend of chaste and fiery, a combination I’ve never before encountered—and that’s saying a lot. I’ve tasted pretty much every type of woman this world has to offer. Or at least I thought I had.

Wouldn’t you know I’d finally find someone who really interests me here, of all places.

My eyes don’t leave her until she disappears back into the crowd that sits between us. Even as other people rise to speak, and even though it’s undoubtedly inadvisable, I know I’ll see Violet, Sex Addict again. Up close and personal. And soon.

THREE: Violet

I can’t get to the door fast enough. I’m irritated, I’m humiliated, and I’m a terrible liar. Trying to keep my head down and my feet moving quickly, I steadily make my way through the crowd.

Someone pushes open the exit, letting in the cool, crisp night air. It ruffles my hair and draws me toward it like a moth to the flame. That’s freedom just up ahead and I’m scrambling for it.

But I’m not scrambling fast enough.

A few feet before I reach my goal, someone steps into my path. I see denim-clad legs right in my way. And they aren’t moving.

I glance up to find the meeting coordinator, Lyle, standing in front of me, smiling. “Don’t run off. At least give me a chance to welcome you to the meeting and explain a little about what we do.” He gestures to a table. It’s surrounded by chatting addicts and laden with cookies, cups, and a big urn of coffee. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I refrain from commenting on his poor choice of phrasing. Ironically, it sounds like a cheesy pick-up line. From the coordinator of a sex addicts meeting. At the meeting.

If that ain’t funny . . .

But rather than commenting on his gall, I smile and dig deep for some courage and a really good story. “Oh, there’s no need. I’ve been to dozens of these,” I say with a casual wave of my hand. “I’ve been . . . uh . . . in control now for three years, so there’s no need for you to waste your time on me when there are so many others here that might need you.”

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