Untamed (Untamed #1) (5 page)

T
he wail of sirens startled me awake. My eyes snapped open. Where the hell was I? Flashing red lights shining through an open window on my right were accompanied by honking horns and unintelligible yelling. Not my apartment, obviously. So where exactly? And why?

A few seconds ticked by as my hazy brain tried to make sense of my surroundings. The exposed wooden beams on the ceiling weren’t familiar. Neither was the gray sheet covering my naked body. And—oh, god—there was a warm figure lying next to me. On top of
me, actually. The weight of his muscular arm felt so
right
as it rested across my stomach that I had the urge to close my eyes and stay cuddled under it for the rest of the night.

WHAT?

The fog inside my mind cleared and it all suddenly came flooding back. The club. The tequila. The pills. And…Dare. Dare’s kisses. His hands, touch, voice. His gift for making me forget about everything else in my fucked-up world. At least for a few hours.

But…
fuck
. I fell asleep in his bed.

My body shot up as my heart kicked into overdrive. I didn’t do this. EVER. I wasn’t the type to linger after a one-night stand. And I sure as hell never SLEPT with the guys I hooked up with. The rule was to get out as soon as they…well, got out.

My head throbbed—a familiar hangover, amplified tenfold by the panic pulsing in my chest. I glanced over at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Four forty-five a.m. Thank god. There was still an hour to sunrise. Still time to escape unnoticed and pretend I was never here. And, most importantly, to forget that Dare was the first guy in four years to make me feel something.

Carefully, so as not to rouse him, I lifted his arm off my stomach and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I had to get out and not look back. But before I could will my feet to move, I risked another glance at him. Even in deep sleep with his jaw set and his brow furrowed slightly, he looked so sure of himself. Like his life had direction and purpose.

It was…
beautiful
. He was beautiful.

Moonlight caressed his smooth skin, shining down on a tattoo of a phoenix on his shoulder. As he inhaled and exhaled, his muscles expanded and contracted, causing the bird to look like it was about to take flight. Mesmerized by the art and its lifelike motion, I reached out, wanting nothing more than to trace it with my fingertips. My hand hovered over Dare’s body, his warmth beckoning me. I couldn’t help it, and the instant I touched him, heat shot through my body.

I jumped off the bed like a girl possessed.

Time to go.

I speed-dialed my car service and sprinted through the apartment, gathering my things. Never had I been so desperate to flee the scene. Dress. Check! Clutch? Uhh…shit. Where the hell was it? YES! Good. First shoe. Second. Got it. Underwear? UNDERWEAR?! Damn it! The unfamiliar layout didn’t help. Finally, I just had to give up and go commando.

The idea that I hadn’t made a clean exit should’ve scared the shit out of me. Strangely, though, knowing that I’d left behind a piece of myself for Dare to keep had the opposite effect. It filled me with an unfamiliar, inexplicable warmth.

As I stepped into my car and set off for Fifth Avenue, I realized that my lips were turned up in a small, secret smile. For the second time tonight, it was a truly genuine one.

“Reagan, are you even listening to the words coming out of my mouth?” I was an expert at tuning out my mother’s voice, but it had a way of grating on my nerves enough to break through. “How many times have I told you to dress appropriately for breakfast?”

You’d think we were at the freaking White House, sharing the table with the President, Pope, and Queen of England. Or that maybe I was in my nighty with unbrushed teeth, knots in my hair, and elbows on the table. No. I’d snuck back to my parents’ penthouse apartment just in time to shower, dress, and rush down to the dining room without being missed.

My hair was up in a tight bun, I had on black leggings and a loose, blue cardigan, and—despite my hangover—I was even managing to sit up straight. Anywhere else, I’d be perfectly presentable. In Nathaniel and Olivia McKinley’s house, however, I was breaking countless etiquette rules. And all this before eight a.m.

“I truly wish you would go back upstairs and put on some make-up.” My mother, a lawyer-turned-dutiful-homemaker-slash-photo-op-philanthropist, was on one of her usual tirades. “You look sickly pale, Reagan.”

So glad we were starting off with the easy stuff this morning.

“I feel fine. Maybe it’s the lighting.” I motioned to the row of crystal chandeliers above the oversized table. “When was the last time you got new ones?” She was on a permanent redecorating mission. Every month, another room. When she made it through the entire house, she started all over again.

At the moment, the entire two top floors were glaringly white—walls, furniture, floors. There was so little color in their world—I was grateful I’d be moving back into my Riverside apartment that afternoon. I craved color like I needed air.

“Do not patronize your mother, Reagan.” As Chairman and president of McKinley Enterprises, my father was much too busy to care how many times my mother redid the place. Nor how much money she spent. After all, a quarter of all real estate development across the country relied on his company’s business. And he was about to go global.

“I did not hear you come in last night.” My mother narrowed her ice blue eyes at me. “What time did you return from your date with Archer Chase?”

“Late,” I said. Thanks to Dare.

“Well, at least it is nice to see you smile without me having to remind you, for a change,” she said. “You must have had a lovely time with Archer. We are so delighted you agreed to see him. His mother called to tell me she sent you an exclusive Valentino dress for the occasion. I hope you remembered to wear it.”

“Uh-huh.” I wore it. And then I took it off. Or well, Dare took it off, his hands sliding over my bare skin as the dress slipped to the floor…

“Reagan Allison McKinley. How many times have I told you that your father and I will not tolerate one-word answers? We have not spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on private education to be grunted at.”

“Sorry,” I said. Realizing that was also just one word, I added, “I apologize.” There. TWO words.

It was hard to believe that once upon a time I used to stay up at night hoping one of them would come home from whatever corporate meeting or charity function they were attending to tuck me in and check for monsters under my bed. When I still thought hugs, kisses, and warm smiles were something my parents would figure out how to do—like those families in the movies.

They never did. Hell, they never even tried.

“Write Mallory Chase a proper thank you note today,” my mother said. “It is imperative. We will need the Huntington-Chases’ support on your father’s new venture soon. A very important one.”

I glanced at my father. “What new venture? Your company going international? What would the Chase family have to do with that?”

My father set down his fork. “You will hear about it Friday night when your brother and sister come over for a family meeting.”

“You mean a family dinner?” I muttered. Why did I even bother correcting him? McKinley dinners
were
business transactions.

He pointed a finger at me. “Do not be late.” Then he cleared his throat. “Over the next few months—
years
, hopefully—our family will be setting out on a life-changing path. Your mother and I expect full cooperation from all of you.” There was an emphasis on
you
like he really meant to say
I know we don’t have to worry about Pierce and Quincy, but YOU, Reagan, better behave. Or else.
There was always the threat of
or else
with my father.

Before he could say anything else, his cell phone buzzed. Wiping his mouth with the napkin from his lap, he glanced down at the screen. “I must take this,” he said to my mother, then motioned to the housekeeper. “Isla, I will need to finish breakfast in my study.”

My mother’s lips thinned, but she didn’t say anything. She never did. Instead, she nodded to Isla—which was Mother for
come back with a double dry martini
—and turned her attention back on me.

“What are your plans for today?”

“I thought I’d get Louis to take me over to Riverside so I can move some of my things back in and get ready for school,” I said. The faster I could get out from under my parents’ thumb, the sooner I would be able to breathe again.

She shook her head. “You will have to hire a car or drive yourself. Louis is driving me to the salon.” With a deep sigh, she gazed at my hair. “I really do wish you would agree to join me. If we only trimmed and lightened your hair a bit, it would look so much better.”

“No, Mother. You have Quincy for that.” She and my older sister shared the same bright shade of blonde, and I wanted no part of that madness. Plus, I had plans to spend part of the day at La Période Bleue, my favorite gallery in SoHo. I didn’t bother telling her that, though. She didn’t give a shit about my “little hobbies.”

“After you hear your father’s announcement on Friday, I think you will agree that a makeover is critical. You are such a smart, beautiful girl, but…”

I tuned out her voice and turned my attention to the grapefruit on my plate.

Freedom was so close I could almost taste it.

I lifted a spoonful of bright pink pulp to my lips.

What the hell did freedom taste like?

My mind immediately thought
Dare
.

I almost laughed out loud. That wasn’t going to happen. I never went back for seconds.

Never.

seven

“W
hy do both of these have to be tonight?” I groaned, more to myself than the two girls sitting at my table in Learner Hall lounge. I had an art show brochure in one hand and a political seminar flyer in the other. The first week of classes hadn’t even concluded, and I already had to choose between passion and duty.

When I wasn’t hitting the books, I interned at La Période Bleue Gallery. Being around art gave me hope. It filled my mundane, black-and-white dreams with bright bursts of color. Sabine Rochard, the gallery owner, allowed me to scout for her because I had an eye for talent.

She’d asked me to hit up a show in Queens this evening and find some potential artists for an up-and-coming talent showcase happening at the end of October. And my Intro to International Politics professor had made attendance at a seminar on world trade tactics mandatory for passing his course.

“Summer’s over, Reagan.” My friend Carrie snatched the art show announcement from my hand, crumpled it up, and tossed it into a nearby garbage can. “Time to get back to reality.”

Penelope took a sip of her latte and sighed. “Why does reality have to be so painful?”

I scoffed. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re studying Art History!”

“Exactly,” she said. “It’s hard. And boring. And dry. Have you ever tried writing a paper on the influence of impressionism on Northern Europe?”

“What I wouldn’t give to trade places with you right now,” I said. “I would happily do every single one of those assignments you always complain about. Of course, my parents would have multiple strokes if I told them that I even
entertained
the idea of switching into ‘such a frivolous major.’ Their words, not mine.”

Carrie’s bright green gaze locked onto mine. She searched my eyes like she was trying to determine if I was joking or if I’d actually gone insane. “Say what you want, but your parents are right to push you toward law, business, and politics. You’re wicked smart, Reagan. Studying anything else would be a waste of your time and talent.”

I groaned. “Studying anything else would be heaven.” One look at my Ethics of Political Theory textbook made my head hurt.

“Well, if you need something to help you get through the next few weeks, let me know,” Carrie said. “I have a whole stash of my brother’s Ritalin. I’ve been pill-switching for years—the stupid little shit has been gulping Aspirin tablets without even knowing it. That’s how I passed all my Financial Economics midterms last year.”