The Perfect Wrong, page 13
“She’s my wife,” Dad throws back. “I’ll do whatever helps her. I’m sorry things have been rocky lately. She’s just worried about her family, and I can hardly blame her for that. Surely, you two getting along so well will help set her at ease.”
I can’t breathe.
My stepbrother just snorts.
“Oh, yeah? Is that the shit sandwich she’s been feeding you? Damned chameleon, that’s what she is. I’m sorry you don’t see it yet, but you will. She’ll say whatever keeps the coin flowing. Money and attention were always her worst binge drugs.”
Yikes.
I shrink back against the wall, feeling the color draining from my face. Lines of confusion creep across Dad’s polite expression.
He rubs his fingers together.
He’s obviously upset, but he’s too diplomatic. Too nice.
The man is rarely confrontational, especially when there’s no way to win.
I shudder, remembering how it took him months to confront my cheating mother, even when the evidence was all over the house. I overheard the staff gossiping about the gifts she’d get and used condoms they never bothered to hide.
Just once, I wish Dad would grow a spine.
Get angry.
Be human.
But he isn’t going to start with Chris—not when he’s trapped in this delicate situation with a woman who’s impossible to please—and I watch him slink toward the stairs with his head down.
“Have a safe flight, kids. Enjoy yourselves while you’re young, before things can get so complicated.” He disappears out of sight, leaving us hanging on his words.
Enjoy yourselves.
Well, complicated is right.
How do we do this without Sin City living up to its name?
I try not to let my brain fixate on night after night of forbidden gravity-defying bed gymnastics with the beast in front of me.
Holy crap.
We’re already alone in the hall, and I can hardly stand it.
Will I really survive an entire week with him?
I fold my arms, biting my tongue before I say, “I can’t lie. I’m pretty surprised you changed your mind—that’s a pretty big about-face. What gives?”
“Vegas, baby. Plain and simple. A date with Lady Luck changes a lot.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, like it’s really that easy. “Listen, Delia, I like you, even if you’re not riding my dick. You’re honest. You’re smart. You’re sensitive. You’re coming up in the world and you could use one less asshole in your life.”
My ears perk and my brows rise.
“Is that one less asshole you?”
Again, he gives me that soul-melting grin.
This. Is. Torture.
And I can’t decide if he’s punking me, if this is some new elaborate prank, or if he’s actually being sweet and sincere.
He steps forward, closing in.
I’m ready to pull away from his grasp before he curls my toes for the millionth time.
“Princess, I told you. I’m your ace. Somebody has to make sure you don’t fall in with dudes you’d never want to meet. And I don’t just mean criminals when Vegas is also crawling with lounge lizards and fuck boys galore.” He reaches out, grabs my wrists, and pulls me into him. “I wasn’t kidding when I said the city has a dark side. It’s not all fun and games. While you were Google stalking me, maybe you saw how that asshole in the Virgins got most of his girls? A good number of ’em were kidnapped right under their parents noses in Las Vegas.”
For a second, I stare at him, my blood running cold.
“But those girls were way younger, as disgusting as it is,” I say, snapping out of it. “Besides, I’m too old for a freaking babysitter, Chris. Knowing who my dad is, I’m a lot more likely to get held for ransom than shipped off for my looks, right?”
“You’d be surprised how many fucked up things can happen to a pretty young lady with her shields down.” He smiles firmly, hardening his grip.
...and did he just call me pretty?
Excitement churns my blood, adrenaline so intoxicating I can barely move.
He’s so unpredictable, Mr. Lawful Chaos incarnate.
I’m not sure what that makes me for wanting him.
Obviously, I still do—even after the insults, the humiliation, the week of radio silence.
For once in my life, I’d like to live it up, and Vegas seems like a better way to do that than another messy college party looking for a suitable hookup with Marnie laughing from the sidelines.
I want to be like her, minus the over-the-top habits.
A functioning woman who gets to enjoy the things a girl in her twenties should, and the badass enigma with his body folded around mine reminds me that I’m not.
“Call me Jiminy goddamned Cricket,” he growls, running his stubble across my cheek.
“Come again?” I whisper.
“I’m your conscience for this trip, Delia. We’ll make this your ride. Your adventure. No bullshit. I’m just along to keep you safe and make sure you don’t get in over your head.”
Just like that, he lets me go.
And just like before, every time we separate, it feels like crashing back to earth so hard it bruises my soul.
I watch him pick up the bag he’s dropped on the floor. He slings it over his shoulder and doesn’t look back as he walks to his room and shuts the door.
I’m left standing there with a sunbeam from the skylight halfway down the middle of my face, splitting me in two, officially wetter and more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.
Truce?
I think I just made a deal with the devil.
Chris Triton is about to show me a whole new level of hell.
* * *
It’s a busy morning flight, just a short hop between here and Harry Reid International.
Even with Dad’s perks landing us cozy, overstuffed seats in first class, it still feels way too close with just how big he is.
Or maybe I just can’t handle touching his skin, so I practically shove myself up against the round airplane window.
We’re surrounded by jabbering businesspeople of every sort, and it does nothing to take the edge off.
“Are you sure you won’t worry about anything at home?” I ask, wondering if he can hear me through his earbuds.
He yanks them off. “Nah. Ma, she isn’t my problem anymore. She shouldn’t be yours or Bruce’s, either.”
I nod, hoping he’s right.
Our parents took off together somewhere this morning before the chauffeur brought us to the airport, and I’m tingling way too much to care.
I want fun.
I want ideas for my paper.
And I definitely want to sort out this crap with my quite possibly drunk stepbrother—I caught him tossing a shot of whiskey into his coffee this morning while we were waiting in the lounge.
I also really want to forget everything that’s been plaguing me like this sadistic, brain-eating crush.
Not long after I’m done making small talk, he’s dozing off.
Or so I think, until we’re past twenty thousand feet.
“Goddamn it, Sex...they’re fortified. Snipers. Heavy arms. Where’s our fucking backup?” His hand brushes mine angrily as he shifts in his seat.
One look at his agonized expression says it’s no ordinary nightmare.
It’s a memory.
Oh, no.
I lean in, holding my breath, careful not to wake him as I gently push my fingers through his.
Then he jerks, grunting with disgust, his curdled face too close to mine.
“Yeah. Yeah. No, I don’t give a shit...where’s that med evac?” he mutters. “Call Woods, Nobel, fucking Mr. Strauss if you have to! Gering’s hit and the girl’s not good. She’s out, barely has a pulse, bleeding all over me. That sick fuck—he had them in cages. Yeah, roger. Cages.”
His eyes pop open.
My heart leaps up my throat and I gasp.
“The fuck?” he whispers, one eye snapping open. His horrified expression fades into amusement as he wakes. “Do you always watch people sleep, stalker girl, or is this flight just that boring?”
Dick.
I want to punch him, but the wheels are turning in my head, wondering if I’ve just seen a glimpse of his trauma.
“You were having a nightmare...” I tell him, picking up my ginger ale and taking a sip. “Does being on this plane remind you of anything? If you’re stressed, you can tell me.”
“Maybe I’ve got a confession to make,” he whispers without looking at me, his face falling.
I sit up, waiting on tenterhooks as he slowly looks at me again.
“I have this terrible habit of fucking around with gullible little brats. Especially brats I can’t actually fuck with.” His look turns devilish. “I was awake the whole time. I faked it because I knew it’d get you wet for that stupid paper.”
No flipping way!
This time, I bang my fist into his granite bicep.
It’s like hitting a thousand-pound bull. The sheer force reverberates back up my arm, leaving me rubbing my hand.
Chris chuckles like it’s nothing.
“You suck,” I hiss. “You sounded so serious, too.”
“Come on, princess. A little fun never hurt anybody. We’ll be landing soon, and then you can get away from me. Do you want to hit the casinos later, or what?”
I roll my eyes.
“Your first mistake is assuming I still want to do anything with you when you’re a total...dick.”
I hesitate on the last word.
Part of me wants to call him a tease, a manwhore, but I don’t because I’m afraid he’ll prove me right. If he picks up some random woman to sleep with while we’re out on the town... I don’t even know how I’ll cope.
Especially when I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still flirting, working me over, setting me up for more embarrassment if my better senses fail and I lean in for another kiss.
But why?
That’s what I can’t figure out.
All I know is when I look into his swirling green eyes, they’re devoid of everything but mischief.
“And the second?” he clips.
“Huh?”
“My second mistake. Usually naming the first implies there’s more,” he grumbles.
“Trusting you,” I say, bitterness dripping from my voice.
His gaze sharpens.
“Bull. I think you can get past one shitty fake out,” he growls, searching my eyes.
I honestly don’t know.
Can I?
Then his hand glides up my arm, peppering my skin with goosebumps. He stops on my shoulder and squeezes before trailing his way up my neck, tracing my jawline, my cheek with his fiery thumb.
“Delia, cut the crap. I’m here to protect you—and I don’t just mean from booze and dirty assholes up to no good. There’s more than a prissy little college brat under that innocent act. You let her out that night on the beach. It isn’t healthy to box her up. Let her out. Let yourself have some fun.” He’s so close, thundering in my ear, reminding me of the night I’ve tried so hard to forget.
My body betrays me as it always does with him.
Everything between my legs pulses.
“Chris...what are you up to?” I whisper. “I’m not in the mood for games.”
“No more games, princess. You want to live it up for once? Then take my hand. Trust me. I’m gonna give you a chance to frolic your pretty little heart out.”
8
Glitter Dream (Chris)
I’ve never changed my mind about a chick before.
I don’t do much second-guessing in general.
In my line of work—and my life—lollygagging too long to sort your shit out could mean life or death.
So I’m not sure why I feel so fucking paralyzed by the time our plane touches down on the tarmac, and Delia shakes herself awake from a catnap.
My cock throbs every time my eyes climb her curves.
Any man would drool at a chance to shake her, front to back, that hair like sweet black licorice wrapped in his hand.
A goddamned virgin? How can she be?
I’m still struggling to believe it.
I also can’t believe I didn’t take the chance to remedy that my way—all thanks to one big unhappy family bound up in a warped marriage mistake.
Why is fate such a rotten bitch?
Once the plane pulls up to the gate and she’s rubbing her eyes, I put my hand on hers, squeezing her small fingers, warming her, offering her...I don’t even know.
If she was anyone else, I’d have already conquered her.
There’d be no mystery left, and my head would be grounded in serious shit—like the need to lay low with ruthless men gunning for every member of Enguard Tactical. I okayed the trip out of town with senior leadership, of course.
If anything, they thought more distance from California sounded wise. A few guys with wives and kids already blew town days ago, heading for remote cabins in Wyoming or up to Canada, places where cartel eyes are scarcer.
Instead, my mind stays glued far closer to home.
Delia is a landmine—and one wrong misstep will blow my world apart, making her collateral damage.
“Rise and shine, princess,” I whisper, squeezing her hand tighter.
She gives me a shy, way-too-fuckable smile.
Christ, those lips.
They’re dangerous competitors with her ass, ripe strawberries begging for teeth.
Every part of her that makes it damnably hard to pick favorites.
She makes me see screaming red sex in broad daylight.
In my daydreams, I’ve got her hair in my fist and her mouth on mine, owning her soft little tongue.
I want to blow her down.
To watch her intently as she feels me detonate inside her.
To caress every last curve, to hear the music I know she makes from the beautiful way she came undone on my fingers. And I can take her apart a hundred more ways.
For now, I’ll just have to content myself with deep breaths and subtle brushes.
As we grab our carry-ons and march off the plane, I try to forget where we are.
Because what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas doesn’t feel like a rule. Not with her.
It’s a hellish invitation I can’t accept.
* * *
Half an hour later, we’ve picked up our rental vehicle and we’re heading down the main strip.
It’s been a couple years since my last time here, but I remember this city like the back of my hand.
It’s always been a natural getaway for rowdy enlisted men looking for a break from bloodshed overseas or just sheer boredom on bases. I used to hit this town whenever I’d come home, knowing it was one fun reason to put more distance between myself and Ma.
I’m not blind to the weird shit Vegas has a bad habit of dredging up, either.
Surprise, surprise—I lied my ass off to Delia when she caught me napping.
There was nothing fake about my little trip down memory lane. I know I’ve had a problem talking in my sleep that’s been getting worse the last couple years, but I didn’t know it was this serious.
Hearing me wounded, vulnerable, whatever the fuck I said about that raid, I’m not having it.
It’s too raw.
She might as well have seen me stark naked—and that would’ve been a lot more fun than showing off my psychological nudity. Especially when I know she’s soaking in everything I say, wanting to crack my head open and look inside for her paper.
If Delia wants a lab rat, she’s not getting shit.
I may not mind helping her with mundane details about what I do, but when it comes to specifics, fuck no.
Brushing that raid on St. John off as a joke was hard enough.
Then again, when you’ve relived a marathon through the devil’s lair too many times to count, making a mockery of it is all you’ve got left.
The mind clings to humor because there are times when truth is fucking death.
“Oh, wow, is that it?” Delia grabs my arm as I drive, staring up in awe at the huge white Tuscan-like hotel towering over the Vegas skyline.
“The one and only,” I tell her.
I can’t help grinning like a fool.
She keeps her hand absentmindedly on my arm as I drive up the long, winding drive to the valet spaces near the entrance with its old-world columns.
I turn the keys over and then load our luggage on a cart and head inside.
Apparently, for growing up rich, the girl has never been inside a swanky casino-hotel.
I have to pull her out of the way several times to prevent her from slamming into people as we head for the check-in line.
Naturally, we’ve got a prime room, courtesy of the black Amex card from her daddy.
When the lady at the front desk smiles and says something about a free upgrade to one of the top suites—if we’ll let that second room go—I don’t even hesitate.
Yes, I tell her, handling all the arrangements except for the card.
“Look at this place!” Delia gushes, doing a slow spin when I return with our room keys. “Please tell me we’ve got an awesome view?”
“Twenty-fourth floor.” I smile and nod, waiting until we’re halfway up the elevator to drop the bomb on her. “You can thank your old man and his killer credit for the digs. Oh, there was one change of plans. That shit about separate rooms? Turns out, we’ll be sharing the same suite.”
Her heart-shaped lips fall open and the color drains from her face.
Goddamn. Does having me for company really suck that much?
“Relax. It’s a huge room, basically its own condo. Separate beds,” I say, hoping to God that’s the case.
The elevator opens and I motion, waving her down the hall.
She trails behind me and hesitates after I unlock the door. I place my hand on the small of her back, ushering her inside, and—
Oh, shit.
I actually groan.
One good look around this place tells me it’s built for every kind of debauched sex ever invented.
