Free Something Wild: A Reckless and Real Prequel Novella by Lexi Ryan Page A

is.
    “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I whisper to no one. Why do we call ourselves names when we’re alone? Does confessing the worst about ourselves to the darkness make our flaws easier to bear? Or is it because we fear only the darkness is willing to take us as we are—imperfect, incomplete, and so desperate to be accepted?
    Sam wraps his arms around her shoulders and gestures outside, and when he gives her that smile—not the cocky grin, but the sweet, vulnerable boy smile—I finally find the strength to put the key in the ignition and drive away.
    One night. I promised him I could play by his rules. He worried I’d want more. He was right, and I’ll never let him know.

    I ’m a girly girl and proud of it. I wear heels and makeup and do my hair and nails. I don’t like getting sweaty and I love romantic books and movies and the color pink. When Hanna and I got this house together to live in while we finished at Sinclair, the first thing I did was paint my bedroom a very pale shade of pink. I loved it. It was just pink enough to be girly without looking like it should be a baby girl’s nursery. But when I walked in from going to Sam’s last night, the color made me sick to my stomach. Don’t ask me how the color pink makes me think about having my hands tied behind my back and my mouth on Sam, but it does. I can’t live with it anymore.
    “Are you okay?” Hanna asks from my bedroom doorway. Maybe she’s asking because I’ve been on a tear all morning, and now all the bedroom furniture is pushed to the middle of my room, draped in pink sheets, and the walls are almost completely repainted.
    Beige. It’s a terrible color and a terrible way to feel, but I’ve chosen to surround myself with it. Beige. Stupid beige.
    I force a smile, because Hanna’s sensitive, and I don’t want her worrying about me. “I’m fine. Ever feel like you just need a change?”
    The wrinkle between her brows tells me she’s not buying my fake peppiness, but she knows when not to push it. “Sam’s here and asking for you. What’s that about?”
    My stomach protests at the thought of Sam waiting for me at the front of the house—fear and hurt and hope all take hold of my heart and engage in a three-way game of tug-of-war. Part of me wants to imagine he’s here because he has feelings for me, but it’s more likely that he wants to make sure I don’t tell Miss Little Black Dress about our night together.
    He never struck me as the kind of guy who would cheat.
    I wipe my hands on my pink sheets turned paint rags and climb down the ladder. “Does he need a cup of sugar?”
    She lifts a brow but doesn’t argue with my suggestion. “I’ll be here when you want to talk about it.”
    “Talk about what?” My smile is so plastic you could make Barbies with it. I push past her and find my way to the living room, where Sam is standing, looking out the window with his hands shoved into his pockets.
    He’s in a simple white T-shirt and jeans, but he’s so gorgeous it hurts to look at him. Sometimes it’s nice to want things you can’t have, and sometimes the want is so deep that it’s a flame tearing through your heart.
    “Hey, Sam!” I call, keeping my Barbie smile in place.
    He turns, and I wait for his eyes to skim over me in my too-short cut-offs and tank, but they don’t. In fact, he’s looking at me, but I can tell he’s not seeing me at all. “Can we talk?”
    “Sure! Let me slip on some shoes.” I don’t want to leave with him, but I’m so ashamed of the position I’ve put myself in, the heartbreak I brought on myself, that I don’t want Hanna to witness this conversation either.
    I slip on my flip-flops and grab my hoodie from the hook by the door, then lead him outside. We walk for a bit without talking, just breathing in the cool, late-autumn air and trying to figure out where we fit with each other now. Or at least, that’s what I’m doing.
    “I know we said it was just one night,” he begins.
    I