Wild Love (Rose Hill Book 1)
Wild Love: Chapter 42

Guilt has been my constant companion the entire flight into Vancouver. Rosie’s take on everything I have—my power, my privilege—hit me like a freight train.

The ultimate wake-up call. Because I don’t think a single other person in my life has ever laid it out like that. Willa is swayed by the ease of our upbringing, whether or not she realizes it. Our struggles are not the same as other people’s.

Struggles, yes. Because we all struggle. But it’s so much more nuanced than that.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize my dad was trying to teach me this exact lesson by not handing me the money for that ticket all those years ago. He could have afforded it. He could lose that hundred bucks in the wash and not notice it was missing.

But he wanted me to learn to notice it.

Instead, I found a workaround and carried on with my life. My education. My last name. I know I haven’t abused them or used them poorly, but I am guilty of being oblivious to the power they wield. The way they’ve set me up in life, even when it didn’t feel that way.

On the drive to the police station, the reality of Rosie’s words sinks in. I decide that I’m very comfortable with what I have and that I will use every tool at my disposal to make this right for West.

And I realize I owe him an apology. Because I do know better than to send him into this situation.

If West sees a cliff, he’s gonna jump off it. If he finds a horse no one can stay on, West is gonna ride it. And if he runs into someone who needs punching, West is gonna punch them.

That’s just him. And I unknowingly steered him into this.

I tug the glass doors to the station open and shake my head when I round the corner and see him having coffee with a cop at his desk. West’s hands are gesturing and he’s grinning as he tells the potbellied middle-aged man what appears to be a hilarious story.

The cop has one hand on his stomach, the other wrapped around a mug, and a wide grin spread under his gray mustache.

This is also very… West.

The man could charm the pants off anyone.

“Weston,” I say as I approach, tilting my head when I see the way his knuckles are split.

When my friend of twenty years turns and hits me with his most mischievous grin, I know he’s not seeing this the way Rosie is. Or maybe he is, and he doesn’t care.

I tap a finger against my knuckles, a silent question about his bloodied ones.

He chuckles and gives me a wink. One I’ve seen him use to get himself out of trouble—or into it—for years now. “Nah, dude. You should see the other guy.”

The cop shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m assuming you’re Mr. Grant?”

I swipe my tongue over my teeth as I reach a hand toward the cop. If identifying myself helps West get out of this, I’ll do it. So, it’s with a wince that I correct him. “Ford Grant Junior. Pleasure to meet you…” I glance at his name tag. “Constable Rollins.”

The man takes my hand firmly, his shrewd eyes narrowing. “Ford Grant as in…”

West laughs. “Oh, right. I forgot to mention he’s a nepo baby, as his daughter would say.”

My eyes roll, but I don’t respond.

Recognize it. Own it.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. Big fan of your father.”

I smile and say thank you. This doesn’t surprise me at all. Pretty much any middle-aged man is a fan of my dad and his band.

“You can take your friend here.”

My eyebrows pop up. “That’s it?”

West slaps my shoulder as he stands from his chair. “Yeah, just been hanging out and chatting here. First thing I did when they gave me my phone back was order a big box of donuts for these fellas for being so great to me.”

My eyebrows scrunch. “You ordered cops donuts?”

West fires a finger gun at the man across from him and grins. “Funny, right? They loved them, though, so the stereotype’s not wrong. The science is all here to back it up.”

I stand staring, slack-jawed. Only West Belmont would get arrested and turn it into a jolly good time where he makes new friends by testing out an age-old stereotype.

Constable Rollins laughs softly, shoulders rising and falling as he stares at his donut—laid out on a napkin on his desk. “Please, I’ll never get any work done with this clown hanging around. Take him. He’s yours.” The man waves a hand, shooing us away.

“That’s it? No charges?”

He nudges his chin in West’s direction. “Your friend here can show you the footage we just got maybe an hour ago. No charges.”

I sigh in relief. But then the man pipes up again, “Well, except the ones he’s pressing.”

I arch a brow at West, and he just starts walking through the open station, boots clunking on the thinly carpeted floor as he makes his way toward the front door.

He smiles and gives another finger gun to the disheveled guy sitting on a bench by the front door.

The man sneers back at West. And that’s when I recognize him.

Stan Cumberland.

I’ve researched him enough online to recognize him anywhere. Even beneath the purple eye that’s swollen shut.

It appears that his wife is talking to the woman at the front desk. She turns to look at me, her face drawn and tired. From head to toe, her attire screams wealth and luxury, and I have no doubt she never saw her Saturday morning playing out this way.

I feel bad for her, but not bad enough to stop me from walking right up to Stan, kicking the toe of his dress shoe with my “stupid expensive boots” as Rosie called them, and towering over him. “You touched the woman I love without her permission. That was a very. Poor. Choice.” I bite the words out and don’t bother lowering my voice.

His wife gasps from behind me, but Stan just scowls.

I turn to walk away but then stop to face him again as I lean against the push bar of the door. “The next time you consider laying your greasy hands on someone without consent, remember my face. Because I can afford to keep fucking with you for the rest of my life. And I’m just petty enough to do it.”

And with that, I turn on my heel and leave the building before they can arrest me for uttering threats.

We’re seated in the back seat of the town car I booked when I finally turn to my best friend, eyes fixed on his split knuckles. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” West asks, confusion lacing his voice.

I flop back against the black leather. “For sending you out to do this shit.”

From my periphery, I see West nodding. It’s several seconds before he responds.

“I know you fancy yourself really smart—but, Ford, I don’t work for you, and you didn’t send me to do shit.”

“I told you something I shouldn’t have and was well aware of how you’d react. I wanted a partner in crime, and I knew you wouldn’t turn me down. You never do.”

He laughs dryly, stubble rasping beneath his fingers. “That’s because we’re friends, not because I’m stupid. If you asked me to do something I wasn’t prepared to do, I wouldn’t have done it. And I think you might be underestimating how much I’ve grown since I was twenty. I didn’t attack that weasel-faced motherfucker. He attacked me.”

I glance over at West. “What?”

He hands me his phone as a black-and-white security video fills the screen. “That’s what your fancy-ass lawyer found after talking to me. Turns out when you own the building, getting security footage is a breeze.”

I hit play and watch West stride into the building’s front lobby, wearing a plaid collared shirt, tattoos on display, hair slicked back. This is his version of dressed up. He’s speaking to the woman at the front desk when Stan appears at the corner of the screen.

Stan’s hands shoot up and flail frantically—he appears to be visibly agitated.

In response, West holds his own hands up, stepping away. Of course, I can see the shit-eating grin on his face, which didn’t help diffuse the situation. Within moments, Stan has leaped at West.

He tackles him to the ground only because he takes West by surprise. He can’t land a punch. West turns and shifts, and Stan punches the carpeted floor, looking like a petulant child throwing a tantrum.

Then he knees West between the legs, and I watch my friend double over on the screen.

“Oh fuck.” I reach down and protectively cup my dick.

“Yeah. It’s all right. I don’t need to get a vasectomy now.”

All I can do is shake my head as I watch West recover before hitting Stan once.

He knocks him out with one hit and leaves him lying flat on the ground.

“See? I was a good boy.”

I chuckle. He’s right. That’s just self-defense. “Rosie would kill me for saying this, but… that was kind of awesome.”

My best friend beams back at me. “We still got it.”

“But you shouldn’t have been there in the first place.” I tip my head back against the rest. “We can’t pull this shit anymore, West. It was funny when we were kids. The two of us against the world. But we’re not kids anymore. The dynamic has changed. This…” My hand waves around the car. “There are too many real-life consequences. Bowling once a week needs to be the only dumb shit we do now.”

“Wow, that sounds an awful lot like something Rosie would say.”

I grunt and nod once.

“I know you think I’m dumb⁠—”

“I don’t think—” I try to cut in.

“I’m razzing you. Chill out. What I’m reading between the lines here is that it’s you and her against the world now.”

I roll my head along the headrest to look at my friend. “This is a weird conversation.”

He blinks twice. “Are you… are you breaking up with me?”

I bark out a laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

West punches my shoulder playfully and then hisses between his teeth. “No, you are. I was married once, remember? Ask me why it didn’t work.”

“Why didn’t it work?”

“Because neither of us especially wanted to be on the same team.”

I see the wisdom in what he’s saying.

“I like Mia as a person. She’s a great mom. A good human. But, man, oh man, the way I would do anything but spend time with her. That’s actually why I started bowling. Just grasping for a reason to get outta the house.”

“Shit. That really is desperate.”

He chuckles. “Get fucked, Junior. Bowling is the best.”

We fall into a companionable silence, the tires humming along the road, and I get lost thinking about the people I want on my team. The ones who love me enough to tell it like it is. The ones who know me as more than just my name or my connections.

People like that are hard to come by.

A person you want to spend your free time with. A person you never tire of. A person who can be brutally honest with you because they want the best for you—not because they’re trying to wound you, but because they feel safe enough to lay it all out.

That takes a special kind of trust, one that—the more I think about it—Rosie and I have always had. Where we can call each other on our shit, but never with any malice.

It hits me that no one has ever understood me the way Rosie does. It hits me that our trust is more than just surface level. It’s forged in friendship. Bound in respect. Sprinkled with animosity, which I’m starting to think is really just longing for more. It always has been. Except now, it’s our special brand of foreplay.

Nausea hits me as I think back on all the moments she’s been vulnerable around me. The little moments in our friendship she’s entrusted to me—the ones I’ve never told a soul about. Her diary. That key. That she called me to come get her that night.

I feel sick that I told West a secret that never belonged to me.

“So, she figured it all out?” West finally asks.

“I told her, but yeah. She’s smart—she definitely figured it out.”

“Are you… are you guys alright?”

I sigh heavily. “I believe I have royally pissed her off.”

West doesn’t say anything.

“I shouldn’t have told you what happened. That was an overstep.”

He nods. “Probably. But she’ll forgive you.”

“I hope so.”

“She will.”

“I was trying to handle it for her, not to embarrass her or make any waves.”

West snorts and slaps his knee. “Way to make no waves, Ford. Expertly done, you awkward fuck.”

My head drops back again, and I stare at the ceiling of the town car, having no idea how to make this right. Rosie is angry, and she has every right to be.

And Cora will be too when she finds out. I’ll be a mass polluter and a juvenile, lying dumbass for risking what I have with Rosie.

That sounds like something she would accuse me of.

So I make a few calls on the way home.