Page 2 of Wild

"Perfect, so you can talk," Brooke cuts her off.

Erin exhales and feels a quiet ache settle in her chest as she nods, the same disappointment that always comes when she talks to her sister. Because when Brooke saysyou can talk, what she actually means is that Erin can listen. Brooke is the one who's going to do the talking, and when she's done explaining or asking for whatever she needs, she'll hang up—without asking how Erin's day went, without asking if she needs anything, without asking how she's doing.

"What's going on?" Erin asks, resigned.

"My landlord raised my rent again," Brooke says. "Apparently some friend of his has a place about the same size as mine and charges twenty bucks more a week."

"He can't raise your rent, Brooke. You have a signed lease."

"With a clause that lets him break it if he wants."

"Maybe you should look for something smaller somewhere else. That place is too big for just you—you could find something way more affordable if you—"

"I like this apartment, Erin," Brooke snaps. "It's right next to work and the park where I run. And Senna lives close by."

Erin clenches her jaw. She runs a hand through her loose hair and winds a strand around her fingers, pulling tighter and tighter until the sting at her scalp turns sharp enough to cut through. That's how she releases pressure when she can't say what she actually thinks—when she's frustrated or wound up. Because right now she wants to tell her sister that, given what Brooke earns—barely enough to cover her own expenses—she should be looking in a cheaper neighborhood, or finding a better job. New York is huge, and bartending jobs aren't hard to come by. But she already knows how that goes: Brooke will get angry, tell Erin she's selfish for not understanding that her hourly gig at that dive bar, where she pours drinks for a bunch of drunk college kids alongside her best friend Senna, makes her happy, and if she changes it she won't be. Same with the apartment. It's an argument that never goes anywhere, because Brooke doesn't reason—she just gravitates toward whatever's most comfortable.

"How much do you need?" the doctor asks, because that's the only reason for this call and they both know it.

"I'm not sure. Maybe two hundred would cover me this time. Can I come by in an hour? I'm meeting Senna to work out right now."

"I just got home from a long shift, Brooke. I want to sleep. Come now, or come this afternoon."

"I can't this afternoon, Erin. I work. Can't you just wait a little longer?"

Erin pulls the phone from her ear and considers hanging up. She doesn't. She just exhales hard and puts it back.

"Fine. One hour."

She ends the call and sets the phone down beside her, face-down. She picks up the book and rests it on her legs without opening it, because suddenly she's back with something her mother used to say, in those last months before she died.

"You have to learn to say no to your sister. I love you both so much, but I can't stand watching how she treats you. Stand up for yourself, sweetheart."

Erin's throat tightens until swallowing hurts. She reaches for her hair again, winds a handful around her fingers, and pulls until the pain makes her gasp—and with that gasp, something loosens.

Her phone buzzes beside her. A message this time, from MediSupport, the private service she does medical coverage for at large events alongside her colleague Barry.

Dr. Dooley, we're confirming your assignment for medical coverage at the Mia Wilder concert at Madison Square Garden this Friday. Arrival at 4:00 PM, estimated duration through end of event plus one hour. Full team details and protocols have been sent to your email.

Thank you for your availability.

Erin raises her eyebrows, then lets a slow smile pull at the left corner of her mouth—just a little wicked. She knows who Mia Wilder is: a breakout artist who's been taking the country by storm. She's heard a few songs and thinks they're decent, even if the pop-rock thing isn't really her style—she leans more toward straight-up rock. But what makes her smile is that her sister Brooke is one of those hundreds of thousands of fans, and obviously has tickets to the show, because Erin bought them for her birthday. If Brooke ever found out Erin was going to have actual access to the artist—standing in the wings, a few feet from the stage—she'd lose her mind with jealousy. Erin decides she won't say a word. Telling her would just give Brooke another thing to ask for—like sneaking her backstage to meet the artist—and Erin still hasn't figured out how to say no. But she doesn't have to, if Brooke never finds out she'll be there.

Chapter 2

"Miami, are you alive?!" Mia Wilder shouts into the mic, her crooked smile dissolving into the shadow of the spotlight hitting her face.

The nearly twenty thousand people packed into the stadium answer with a roar so powerful it travels up from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair, shaking her completely. Her music career is still relatively young, but by now she's heard dozens of surges like that one, and they still hit her like the first time.

She's been on stage for forty minutes with about an hour and fifteen left to go, but Mia is already drenched in sweat. Her hair—which she's wearing somewhere between platinum blond and lavender for this tour—is plastered to her forehead and neck, and the off-white crop top that leaves a good stretch of her stomach exposed is soaked through, clinging to her skin like it's been glued on. Below her ribs, parts of the many tattoos decorating her body peek through, especially on her arms.

"Are you alive?" she repeats, dipping her head and stretching the mic forward.

The wall of sound doubles. She straightens up and pulls in a long breath as it rips through her, flooding her body with adrenaline.

"This song," she says, dropping her voice, "I wrote it thinking about someone who didn't deserve any of it, and yet moving on was still hard. Has that ever happened to you?"

The crowd screams back a mix of yeses, nos, and things she can't make out. Mia tilts her mouth to one side, nods, and launches straight into the song. She did write it with someone inmind—that much is true—but that person didn't hurt her nearly as badly as she implied, and it didn't take her months to get over her. The truth is that Mia struggles to connect with the women she dates because she's guarded by nature, and not because fame has made her cynical about people's motives—she just carries, somewhere deep in her brain, the belief that no one is going to stay. Her father didn't, and she doesn't even know who he is; and her mother was physically present but completely absent in every way that mattered.