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Bye, Felicia, pops into my head. But no, that’s not exactly how I break up with her. I promise.
Really.
Okay, maybe it is.
Kylie’s gone for a second, and already I’m an incurable dick again.
Chapter 8
Wild Ones Tip #659
Grizzlies will rip your face off, even though they look cute and cuddly.
Wild Ones are the same way.
LIAM
One year later…
So now you know how I ended up in Tomahawk, surrounded by crazy on a level I didn’t know existed. Every time Cooter—a fucking coonhound with a hard-on for my five-hundred dollar pillows—runs into my house the second I open the door, I try not to kill the damn beast.
Because he belongs to the Vincents. Who are one corner of crazy.
Oh, and I’ve been here for less than two months.
On day one, a nice lady named Penny tried to set me up with her niece, Lilah Vincent, who happens to be a Wild One—because that’s a real fucking thing. I only went in hopes of running into Kylie.
Lilah, fortunately, wasn’t any more interested in me than I was in her, and we actually became friends…of sorts.
In this short time, I’ve seen an entire town of men shave, or mostly shave, their beards after a nine-year beard challenge ended with Lilah cutting her brothers’ beards. Their punishment was swimming naked across the lake. And the single men in Tomahawk started getting laid again.
To be clear, the beards apparently never hindered the married men from getting laid. This was told to me numerous times by numerous married men, who for some reason felt I needed to know.
I’ve had random girls running their hands on my “beardless” face while I tried to get away, because this town has zero respect for personal boundaries.
I’ve witnessed fireworks shooting at people because a dog chased a squirrel—longer story than I care to tell.
I recently signed up to be on the challenge committee that instated this nine-year-long beard challenge—because that’s also a real thing. How could I resist?
I’ve seen the Wild Ones in action.
Know they’re real.
And I’ve only been in one corner for the action.
I’ve seen fish float to the surface of the water after pipe bombs went off in a war with the guy across the lake. The guy who owns a water cannon. The guy who fought off two Vincent boys to make it to the girl he loved—Lilah.
It was all rather dramatic and exceptionally entertaining.
They did a fish fry that night.
That was about two weeks ago.
One week ago? Benson was made an honorary Vincent with the promise he’d be an actual Vincent when he eventually married Lilah. Or so I’ve heard. I somehow managed to miss that show.
Confused?
So am I, most days.
I’ve learned to roll with it, because really, how can you not get sucked into the crazy? You’d rather be a part of it than watch it. Sometimes. I’d rather watch when explosives are involved, if I’m being completely honest.
I’ve integrated myself into this corner of crazy, and settled in better than I thought I would. Already, I’ve met more genuine people in my short stint here than I’ve met in my entire life.
And here I am, still waiting to see Kylie.
I’ve seen just how crazy the Vincent triplets are. They’re part of the Wild Ones.
And since I’ve moved here, I’ve learned something very important.
Kylie is on a different corner of crazy because she’s also a Wild One.
She wasn’t just saying that.
I knew she was perfect.
But, unfortunately, she’s likely told her entire family why she left LA. Which means I may or may not have been making allies with some other Wild Ones while I wait to randomly bump into her and tell her I bought a home in Tomahawk for her.
So I could see her.
So I could be with her.
Because that’s not insane or creepy at all.
I’m a whole other level of crazy, and not the kind she takes in stride.
So yeah. I’m stalling. Fuck off.
It’s not easy to walk up to a girl who left you, didn’t try to contact you ever again, and say, “Hey, after knowing you for three weeks, I’m a total stalker. I even bought a house in your home town so I could stalk you better, since you don’t have social media for me to do it virtually. But don’t worry, I’m not watching you through your windows. Yet.”
“So the Malones are around the bend, right? Do they ever come out here for your aunt’s parties?” I ask, serving the two bottomless pits—also known as the Vincent brothers—some steak.
They dig in, and I lean back.
“Yeah. But only if it’s a big party. They don’t come to the small ones,” Hale says, gnawing the steak instead of cutting it. “And only if another family of Wild Ones aren’t in attendance. Obviously. No more than two families at a time allowed.”
Don’t even get me started on this town’s weird rules.
