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  WILD FOR HIM

  An Aftershock Novella

  Jill Sorenson

  Copyright © 2014 by Jill Sorenson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Kindle Edition

  Mitch Stone is a man with a plan. Drive to San Diego, rescue his lady from the earthquake rubble and salvage their long-distance relationship. But instead of playing hero, he gets stuck volunteering at an evacuation center with his girlfriend’s quirky best friend.

  Gwen Tagaloa is a woman on the edge. She’s a tattoo artist do-gooder who would never cross the line with her best friend’s man. Especially not an iceberg of a man like Mitch Stone. She appreciates his help and doesn’t even notice his rock-hard muscles. Much.

  After Mitch gets his heart broken, Gwen discovers that love—like an earthquake—can strike when you least expect it.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Author's Note

  CHAPTER ONE

  GWEN TAGALOA HAD the rudest awakening of her life.

  She was shoved out of bed, thrown across the floor and doused by a full cup of water from her nightstand.

  What the hell?

  Before she could draw breath, she was pelted by multiple objects. Her alarm clock, cell phone and a heavy wooden tiki statue came crashing down on her head.

  She cried out in shock, holding a hand to her wet hair. The room continued to spin and shudder, rocking her bed against the wall like a supernatural phenomenon. She couldn’t make sense of what was happening. There was no one else here. She hadn’t gotten lucky last night. She hadn’t even gotten drunk.

  The bookshelf careened toward her and she snapped out of her stupor. She scrambled to get away, but her legs were tangled in the blankets and the floor was still bouncing. Paperbacks rained down on her, followed by the empty shelves.

  Earthquake.

  It was the Big One. She’d been born in San Diego and she’d never felt anything like this. The area was known for small tremors, which usually didn’t scare her. She knew she was supposed to stand in a doorway or crawl under a desk, but she couldn’t move.

  Gripping the edges of the bookshelf for dear life, she squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the end to come.

  Then, as soon as it began, it was over.

  Not the world. Just the quake.

  The ground stopped moving and the rattling went quiet. Multiple car alarms blared in the distance. Her neighbor’s dog was going nuts, barking up a storm. Gwen pushed aside the bookshelf and disentangled herself from the blankets. Standing, she left the bedroom and ventured into the hallway. Picture frames had fallen from the walls. She skirted around the glass in her bare feet.

  The kitchen was a disaster area. Her coffeemaker, set to automatic, had toppled over, smashing against the tile and spilling fresh brew across the floor. Ignoring the mess, she hurried to the front door and went outside.

  “Oh my God,” she said, clapping a hand over her mouth. The middle of the street was buckled and raised. Vehicles wouldn’t be able to get through her neighborhood. She glanced around in horror, stunned by the damage. She lived on the lower floor of a two-story condo. The upper floor was for sale, and empty. Although the building looked stable, some roof tiles had fallen and the stucco was cracked.

  Her neighbor walked out in his robe, his dog on a straining leash. He was about sixty and newly retired. His hair was sticking up all over the place. Gwen couldn’t remember his name. Walter, maybe.

  “Everything okay?” Gwen asked him.

  “I think so,” he said, gaping at her.

  It dawned on her that she wasn’t dressed. She was wearing a tank top and panties, no bra. Her hair was wet. The tattoos on both arms added to her disreputable appearance. She was inked up from shoulder to elbow and then some. Although she didn’t care what her neighbors thought, she usually drew the line at parading around in her underpants.

  Before she could hurry back inside, the earth starting rumbling again.

  Aftershock.

  Gwen hit the deck. She got down on her belly and covered her head as the ground undulated beneath her. This quake was almost as strong as the first, and it seemed to go on forever. More glass shattered and objects fell from the sky. Roof tiles crashed on the sidewalk right next to her. She got body-slammed against the lawn, her elbows and knees smarting on the slippery grass.

  When the quaking ceased, she rolled over and sat up. Jesus. Now she was grass-stained, tattooed and indecent. But she was alive, and unharmed. She was lucky. She lived in a quiet area a few miles from downtown San Diego. The shantytowns of Tijuana were just across the border. Many people could be trapped and suffering.

  Or dead.

  Gwen’s parents lived in Hawaii, and her brother played football in Seattle. They were all probably safe. Unless there was a tsunami.

  She scrambled to her feet, her pulse pounding. Her neighbor had fallen on the sidewalk, but his wife had come out to help him. He was still ogling Gwen’s bare legs, so he must be okay. Gwen went back inside and searched for her phone in the twisted pile of blankets on the floor. When she found it, she only had one bar.

  “Shit,” she said under her breath.

  Instead of trying to make a call, she sent texts to brother and her mom to let them know she was okay. Then she pulled on a pair of jeans and stuck the phone in her back pocket, glancing around the room. It looked ransacked, as if she’d been robbed. She didn’t have a landline. Her flatscreen was busted, so she couldn’t turn on the news. A quick flick of the light switch indicated there was no electricity.

  Now what?

  The internet.

  She grabbed the laptop from her messenger bag and booted it up. Although the device didn’t appear damaged, her connection was dead.

  Damn.

  She gave up on communication and finished getting dressed. After tying back her long black hair, she put on her sturdiest shoes, a pair of vintage combat boots, and grabbed a checkered flannel shirt to cover her arms.

  People were injured, maybe dying—and she could help. She’d majored in Health and spent two years in the Peace Corps. Now she owned a tattoo parlor called Native Ink. Working as a tattoo artist had given her some medical experience. She had gloves and bandages in her messenger bag. Grabbing it, she headed out into the fray.

  For the next several hours, she went door-to-door, checking for injuries. Most of her neighbors were at work. The earthquake had struck around 8:00, in the middle of the morning commute. Native Ink didn’t open until noon, so Gwen always slept in late. She found two older couples at home and a mom with three small children. They were fine, just shaken up. She assisted an elderly man with a dislocated shoulder and recruited a teenage boy to help her turn off water valves.

  Aftershocks continued to strike without warning. Explosions lit up the sky in the west and clouds of smoke billowed along the coastline.

  By midday, she’d heard the devastating news on multiple radios. The earthquake’s epicenter was in the heavily populated downtown area. San Diego had been declared a state of emergency. First responders were overwhelmed with calls and the entire city was under evacuation. Residents were urged to head east on foot. All major roadways had been compromised and traffic was at a standstill. Drivers had been forced to abandon their cars. Even the injured were encouraged to move out,
rather than wait for rescue. Those who couldn’t evacuate risked secondary disasters like fires and gas leaks.

  Gwen went home and packed a bag, feeling numb. She hoped Native Ink wasn’t totaled, because her insurance didn’t cover earthquake damage. She was also worried about her best friend Helena, a zookeeper at San Diego’s Wildlife Park. Gwen had tried to text Helena earlier, with no response.

  Taking a deep breath, Gwen filled her backpack with necessities. She wanted to bring her keepsakes and tattoo drawings, but it wasn’t practical. On her way out, she picked up one of the smashed frames from the floor in the hallway. It was a picture of Gwen, her mom and her brother at his college graduation. He looked so tall and proud. They were all smiling.

  Gwen removed the photo from the frame and slipped it into the pocket of her backpack, blinking the tears from her eyes. There was no tsunami warning for Hawaii, so her family would be fine. She just missed them.

  The residents from her the neighborhood left as a group. They headed to the closest evacuation center, which was four miles north at the football stadium. It was a grueling trek through midtown, and slow going.

  The roads were riddled with cracks and rubble and raised sections of asphalt. Some of the older buildings were destroyed. There were car accidents and dead bodies, bloodied limbs and dusty faces. It looked like a warzone.

  Gwen couldn’t believe her eyes. She stopped to help often and their group grew steadily. They trudged toward the stadium en masse, forming an exodus. Soon evening fell, bringing cooler temperatures and a comforting darkness. It was better not to see the ravaged scene in harsh sunlight.

  When they arrived at the rescue center, she broke away from the group and sat down on a curb in the parking lot. She liked being around people. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed tattooing so much. Everyone who came into her shop had a story to tell. Offering a friendly ear was part of her service.

  But she was too overwhelmed to start helping just now. She needed a break before she joined the crowd.

  She took her cell phone out of her pocket and turned it on, eager for word from her friends and family. To her dismay, there was only one message, sent hours earlier. It was from Helena’s estranged boyfriend, Mitch.

  Well, maybe estranged wasn’t quite the right word. Mitch had moved to Denver six months ago, and Helena hadn’t gone with him. They were trying out the long-distance thing. As far as Gwen could tell, it wasn’t working.

  Mitch had written a stilted text that fit his rigid personality.

  Hello Gwen,

  I hope you are okay. I haven’t heard from Helena. Please let me know if she has contacted you.

  Best regards,

  Mitch Stone

  Best regards? She was surrounded by wounded people and covered in dust. She imagined him speaking in a robotic monotone, which she often mimicked to make Helena laugh. It wasn’t funny now, of course. Nothing was.

  Gwen responded:

  Hey Mitch: I texted H but I’m not sure it went thru. I’m fine, at evac center.

  She hit send and waited, hoping for an instant reply. Mitch was boring and uptight, but comfortingly familiar. She wanted to connect with someone, anyone. When her phone chimed a few seconds later, she was delighted.

  I’m glad you are safe. Helena is okay also. I just talked to her mom.

  Tears filled Gwen’s eyes at this news. Thank God. Mitch continued:

  I know that cell service in the city has been unreliable. Is there anyone you want me to contact for you?

  Gwen blinked away the tears and typed back her mother’s number in a hurry.

  My mom is in Hawaii. Please tell her I’m fine!

  After hitting send, she stared at the screen with bated breath. It took several minutes for Mitch to respond.

  Done. Your mom was very relieved to hear from me. She says she loves you.

  Gwen let out a strangled sob, overwhelmed with emotion. Her mom must have been worried sick.

  Bless you, she texted back, sniffling.

  Mitch’s answer was a smiley face. Gwen laughed at the unexpected sight, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She was reluctant to end their exchange, but she had to save her batteries so she signed off. Maybe Mitch wasn’t the cyborg she’d always considered him to be. Maybe he was more like an iceberg, with hidden depths.

  She remembered an incident about two years ago, before he’d lost his job and withdrawn even further into his hard shell. Gwen had accompanied Mitch and Helena to the beach on a hot summer afternoon. The good thing about Mitch was that Gwen never felt like a third wheel around him. He reminded her of a bodyguard, hard-muscled and remote.

  On this particular day, they’d all gone swimming. The waves were strong enough to wreak havoc on bikinis. Helena and Gwen had been laughing about almost losing their tops. Even Mitch had smiled at this, proving he was a flesh-and-blood man. The next instant, Gwen got stung by a jellyfish. She wasn’t a wimp about pain—she was a tattoo artist, after all—but it burned like hell. She’d hobbled back to her towel with Helena, whimpering.

  “I’ll help you,” Mitch had said.

  “Are you going to pee on me?”

  He frowned in disapproval. “No, I’m going to carry you to the lifeguard station.”

  Although Gwen was a curvy woman and no lightweight, Mitch had lifted her easily. He’d delivered her to the lifeguard station without breaking a sweat. It was awkward, but sweet. She’d appreciated the gesture.

  Bolstered by the pleasant memory, she rose to her feet and tucked the phone into her pocket. Then she squared her shoulders and walked towards the stadium, rolling up her sleeves. Ready to work.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MITCH STARTED DRIVING as soon as he heard.

  He watched the news in the office for a couple of minutes, gathering information. Major earthquake, 8.5 on the Richter scale. Widespread destruction. Huge chemical spill and massive fires at the coast. That was all he needed to know.

  His boss had granted him permission to leave, but Mitch would’ve gone regardless. He got behind the wheel and drove for eighteen hours straight.

  The only person from San Diego he’d been able to communicate with was Gwen Tagaloa, Helena’s best friend. He’d tried to call and text Helena repeatedly, to no avail. He’d spoken to Helena’s mother, who lived in Oregon, around noon. Helena had texted her mom with the news that she was okay. Although Mitch was glad to hear it, his tension wouldn’t ease until he saw her in person. He knew how dedicated she was to her job as an elephant keeper. She’d risk her life to protect those animals.

  He’d spent most of the drive with his hands clenched around the wheel in a tight grip.

  He shouldn’t have left her.

  It was obvious now. He’d made a mistake in coming to Denver. He’d been brought so low by the long months of unemployment, the seemingly endless stretch of feeling like a failure. He’d jumped at the chance for a new start, even if that meant testing the bonds of their already-strained relationship.

  He wasn’t sure what else he could’ve done. They hadn’t been happy together before he left San Diego, either. Since he’d been gone, she’d become increasingly distant. He’d been working around the clock to impress his new boss. Their phone conversations had been stilted. He could feel her slipping away.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. He’d been with Helena for six years. She was the only woman he’d ever lived with, the only one he’d ever loved. He didn’t want to lose her.

  He didn’t like losing.

  He reached the outskirts of the city in the wee hours of the morning. There was a roadblock with National Guard troops denying access to vehicles. He turned around and tried another route, but he couldn’t get through anywhere. The troops were letting in emergency service personnel only.

  Luckily, Mitch was familiar with the area. He parked at Mission Trails Park, home to his favorite jogging path. He had a pair of worn-out tennis shoes in his workout bag in the trunk. Putting them on,
he locked up and took off running.

  He ran eight miles straight. When he arrived at the football stadium, he was winded, muscles burning, soaked in sweat. He’d sent a text to Gwen earlier. He took his phone out of his pocket to check for her response.

  I’m at station 12

  The stadium was packed with people of all ages and ethnicities. Dirty-faced children and stark-eyed adults. Families huddled together, praying for lost souls. Critically injured patients stretched out in bloody rows.

  Christ.

  Mitch wasn’t a religious man, but this looked like the second coming.

  Gwen wasn’t at station 12. He tried to text her again, but his cell phone had lost service. The entire city was a dead zone. After wandering around for a few minutes, he climbed into the stands and searched the chaos from above. He spotted a curvy young woman at station 14 with a sleek black ponytail and tattooed arms.

  Gwen Tagaloa always stood out from the crowd.

  She was beautiful in an unusual way, and friendly with everyone. She chatted with strangers and had a face like “ask me anything.”

  He didn’t get it.

  Helena and Gwen, though best friends, were polar opposites. Helena was quiet and contained, with a cool reserve that Mitch had always admired. Gwen was more social. She had a confident attitude and a bold, sexy style. Today she was wearing black jeans with a red tank top. The clothes fit her body well, and she had the kind of curves that attracted male attention. He forced his gaze above her shoulders.

  She was talking to an older woman on a stretcher, holding her hand. A male nurse or EMT was tending the woman’s wounds. Her expression was tense with pain. Gwen leaned forward and said something to the injured woman that eased the lines in her forehead. Then the EMT finished his work, and Gwen released her hand, smiling.