Page 1 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

. . .

Catalina

L osing Control by Odd Mob and OMNOM shakes the walls of the club, as bass pulses through my bones like a second heartbeat. Lights flash overhead, strobing over sweat-slicked skin and bodies that move like they’re trying to outrun their shadows.

In the middle of it all, I see them—my girls.

My ride-or-dies. My besties.

Layla’s in her element, blonde hair sticking to her cheeks as she dances like the entire world was made just for her to exist loudly in it.

One arm thrown in the air, the other wrapped around Amelia’s waist as they dance to the beat like it’s their last night on Earth.

Amelia’s laughing, head tilted back, her long black hair cascades down her back as she spins them both in a messy, chaotic circle.

Her phone’s out, recording Layla like she’s the main character in the best kind of fever dream.

I press a hand to my chest, and fuck. My heart could burst. They’re not just my friends, they’re my soulmates. My sisters in every way that counts.

Okay, bitch focus on the present .

Our favorite DJ is having a sick set in Ibiza, and obviously, we had to fucking go. Life’s short. Flights exist. And my father’s platinum card was practically begging to be swiped.

So, I fucking booked it, front row, VIP, zero fucking regrets.

Not like he gives a fuck about me anyways.

The bass hits low and filthy through the speakers, so strong it rattles the marble floors beneath my heels. I can feel it everywhere—in my ribs, my throat, in the space behind my eyes. It climbs the walls like ivy, wrapping around the lights, and sinks straight into my skin.

God, I fucking lived for this.

The way the strobe lights hit the glitter on our dresses, the way the alcohol burns down my throat with each shot, settling like heat in my stomach.

The insane visuals that DJs create as if they’re painting the sky.

It’s chaotic, loud, messy, and beautiful.

It’s freedom in the purest, most fucked-up form.

After losing my mom, it’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel remotely alive.

This quite literally became my religion.

My release. My escape .

I reach for Amelia and Layla, my fingers curling around their wrists as I tug them toward me with a grin.

“Come on, bitches, dance with me!” I yell, already losing myself in the rhythm, hips swaying like the beat belongs to me.

Layla laughs first, like a hyena, her head thrown back and snorting. Amelia rolls her eyes but moves closer, her smile gentle and knowing.

“I actually can’t believe that your crazy ass booked this flight just to see one DJ perform!” Amelia shouts, amusement curling at the edges of her voice as she pulls me closer to her.

I flash her a grin that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “It’s the least my father can do for treating me like shit, and just throwing money in my face instead of spending time with me like an actual dad should.”

Amelia’s eyes soften as she tightens her fingers around my wrist. It’s the look she gets when she wants me to talk.

I’m not in the fucking mood for soul-baring and tear-streaked breakdowns right now.

I toss my hand in the air. “Let’s have some fun, okay? I’m not trying to spiral about my daddy issues in the middle of the dance floor.”

Before she can respond, I grab both her and Layla by the wrists, tugging them toward the bar.

“Let’s go grab some drinksss.” I sing, dragging the word out like it might fix everything.

Layla squeals like I just offered her a backstage pass to Illenium. She takes off like a gremlin in heels she has no business running in. Amelia and I follow, giggling as we weave through the crush of bodies.

Our heels click against sleek marble floors, echoing beneath the throb of the music.

The bar glows under a low red light, almost too beautiful to be real.

Bottles of top-shelf liquor line the mirrored shelves like art pieces in a gallery curated by someone with a fucking God complex and expensive taste.

The bartender leans in close when I order, his voice dipping into that raspy, just-finished-a-cigarette kind of tone. “Three shots of Clase Azul. Keep ’em coming?”

I nod, winking as I blow him a kiss like the skank I am.

Amelia stares at me with her tattooed arms crossed and her brows furrowed, radiating that concerned big sister energy that makes my skin itch.

“Bitch,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “He’s hot. And it’s good tequila. What’s the problem?” I laugh, nudging her side, expecting her to crack a smile.

Her green eyes meet my gaze. “Cat,” she says softly, “I’m worried about you.”

Just like that, my bubble pops.

She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t accuse. She speaks the truth.

“Your spending. The drinking. These constant trips to run from your grief. It’s starting to scare me.” Her voice breaks a little as she says it. “Your mom–”

The second Amelia mentions my mom, something inside me snaps, anger bubbling in my throat.

“Don’t you dare bring her up.”

Amelia doesn’t argue. She lifts her hands in surrender, the same way she always does when I’m teetering too close to the edge. She takes her shot without another word, hooking her arm through Layla’s. They both wince as the tequila goes down, laughter bubbling between them a moment later.

Meanwhile, I’m fucking spiraling. What’s new?

My fingers fumble inside my clutch until they find what I’m looking for.

The tiny bottle is cool in my palm, familiar like muscle memory.

I twist the cap and tap a single white rectangle into my hand, as I grip the little white pill and pop it onto my tongue.

Grabbing the shot off the bar counter, I throw it back.

The burn of the clear liquor chasing it down my throat is sharp and satisfying, like punishment and comfort in one brutal hit.

My phone starts to buzz, so I choose to ignore it and take another shot.

Shit, this feels so fucking good .

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Oh my god, so fucking annoying. I sigh, pulling it out, squinting against the bright screen until the blur sharpens.

Daddy

Answer your fucking phone, Catalina.

Daddy

Why is there a fucking charge for $278,000 for one night?

Daddy

You better get your ass home right fucking now.

Well, fuck me.

I tuck the phone back in my clutch, pretending the fire crawling up my spine is excitement and not fear. Amelia and Layla are still in their own little universe.

I roll my eyes as I tap their shoulders, and when they turn, their eyes are glassy and red, faces flushed from countless tequila shots.

“You guys,” I start, barely holding in the panic. “We need to fly back to Los Angeles. Like... right fucking now. My dad just texted and lost his shit. Apparently, I spent too much money for one night.”

Layla gasps dramatically, clutching her pearls, or at least the neckline of her dress. Amelia chokes on her laugh. Then they both lose it—bent over the bar, screeching like apes, drawing stares from strangers who probably think we’re crazy.

They have the fucking the audacity to laugh at me right now.

“We told you your reckless spending would catch up eventually.” Amelia cackles, tears in her eyes as she leans on Layla .

I narrow my eyes, lips twitching even though I want to strangle them both with my perfectly manicured hands.

“I fucking hate you guys.”

“Bitch, no you don’t.” Layla sings, grabbing my hand, still giggling. “You’d die without us.”

I sigh, swiping another shot off the bar. “Well, pack your bags, sluts. We’re going back to LA.”