I roll my eyes so hard it hurts.
Just because I prefer reading to not doing anything, doesn't mean that this is what I'd rather be reading. Wild Child's collection of books are so same-same that it could've been just one book where they searched and replaced the names and some key terms to make them fantasy, or science fiction, or pirates, or whatever, and then just released them as if they were new books.
As long as there are plenty of wasp-waisted, big-boobed women and oversized heroes with oversized weapons—not that they're compensating for anything, obviously—striking down monsters, then you're set with dude lit. Easy peasy formula.
Then I consider some of the books on my shelves and shrug. There are a lot of oversized heroes with oversized… weapons there too, I guess. Maybe we're not that different. But at least romance novels throw in some emotions and feelings and stuff, so we've got that going for us.
But yeah. Lots of oversized weapons.
Still, I dig for another, now that this one's done. The guys are easier going around me after I helped treat Quickshot, who luckily seems to be recovering fine now that Doc got the bullet out and worked some of his magic, but it doesn't mean I get to roam freely either. After all, I was in the middle of escaping at the time.
But what's this? As I put aside a pulp novel that features a pirate on the cover, clutching a barely dressed damsel in one arm and a gigantic curved sword in the other, I find a journal. The leather cover is rough and worn, held together with an elastic. It looks very personal. I probably shouldn't look at it.
After a brief glance over my shoulder to make sure Wild Child is deeply engaged in his phone, however, I obviously do. This is the most interesting thing I've found since I got here.
I work the elastic off and drop it to the side, then grab the pirate book to hold open around the journal, so unless someone looks closely, it should look like I'm reading that one instead.
The handwriting is rough, all over the place, as if the writer didn't care at all what it looked like. The letters are jagged and inconsistent, but written densely. The pages bulge like the whole journal's been filled out. It has to be Wild Child's. He writes, too?
I start to read, expecting daily entries and childish humor, but finding stories instead. Sometimes with a short poem between them. Nothing like the pulp novels, these are raw and gritty. Short interludes about gang beatings, shootings, street fights, chases over rooftops and through dark alleys. And sex, so much sex, and they're so graphic you'd think he'd get suspicious of what I'm up to just from how my face must be glowing.
Wow.
But it's not just the graphic description of the action that draws me in. The raw emotions of the unnamed protagonist virtually bleed through the pages. The pain at the loss of a friend, the fury while beating someone down, the excitement of the chase, the high of a dirty, dirty sexual encounter—they've been poured onto the page in a way only someone who's truly experienced them could. I'm sucked in, unable to stop reading.
There's a red thread strung through the stories, I realize eventually. Of running away, of trying to escape demons that are somehow always there. Every punch, every shot, every stab is a fruitless attempt to defeat whatever hounds the writer, but even when he comes out on top, the emotional wounds only grow deeper and deeper. There's a desperation there that refuses to go away. Is that why Wild Child's always moving? Is he still running from something?
But God, the sex scenes… I catch myself rubbing my thighs together, and even surreptitiously slipping my fingers under the elastic in the boxer shorts. At home, with my own wing of the house, it's never been a problem to relieve a little pent up pressure. I hadn't realized how much it had built up.
The gray zones are getting grayer. There's so much more to the guys than what's on the surface. King's hidden pain. Hero's need to protect those he cares about. And while Wild Child seems like just a crazy flirt, he's obviously much more than that.
“Where the fuck did you get that?”
My head snaps up to find him glaring down at me, his features totally devoid of his usual irreverent grin. My hand slips out of my boxers faster than a mouse at a cat convention.
“It… it was with the other books. I'm sorry, I—”
“Gimme.” He grabs both the journal and the pirate book out of my hands, then tosses the pirate book back on my bed. “How much did you read?”
God, he's furious, and he's the wild one. I can't help that my gaze flits to the knife on his belt, but he doesn't make a move to pull it. His glare is like green lasers trying to evaporate me where I sit, though.