The Perfect Wrong, page 5
For him, I want to sing.
I want to break.
And I want to leave us both in smoldering ruins.
4
Yellow Gold (Chris)
My last night in Syria wasn’t half as frustrating as this.
I stop halfway up the cliff, watching Princess Sweetass scouring the area around the bar for more miscellaneous beer bottles. I should have stayed and helped her longer, but then my dick never would’ve let me leave.
She’s a tiny silhouette in the low light, this night pixie.
How can a woman so small make my cock hammer like a jet engine?
Goddamn, I need to fuck this girl.
I need her so bad the next twenty-four hours until we meet again is guaranteed torture.
It’s barely been ten minutes and my brain won’t shut up, fixated on all the ways I’ll be in her soon, fisting those long, dark locks while I drink my fill of her lips.
I’m not a patient man, or generous, or even good when it comes to her.
My greedy ass wants it all.
Delia under me, up on all fours, sucking me off, riding me for dear life while I urge her on with harsh slaps on the ass.
I want her pulling lightning from my balls seven ways from Sunday.
Fuck.
It’s so vivid I can taste it.
I swear I didn’t show up on this beach shopping for fresh meat.
If I was that hellbent on getting pussy tonight, I could’ve just walked toward the fires and had my pick of the flirty college girls.
That’s not a brag. I just know my charms.
Women drop their panties in a heartbeat when you’re confident, built like a bull, and you know how to crack a joke.
And I’d have Delia’s lace panties stowed in my pocket already—or hell, stuffed in her mouth—if it hadn’t been for the goddamned phone.
Annoying.
Still, she’s worth a day’s torture.
I don’t want a random slut.
I want her.
Something about that sassy, too innocent mouth turns my crank infinitely harder than the random pretty young beach girl.
Maybe I’m just sick in the head like that.
Hard for the good girl begging for the right man to pull the sin right out of her.
Or maybe it’s just Delia’s perfect palm-sized tits, the way her hot little pussy came undone on my hand.
Remembering how hard I brought her off makes me kick sand as I walk, pissed that I’ve got a whole sleepless night ahead of me before I get to find out what she’s like when she comes for the third time in an hour.
The way she tried to keep up dancing and her awkward little laughs weren’t bad either.
I’m not sure what to make of her, and that’s part of the fun.
She didn’t kiss like a rich, pretentious little girl enjoying her latest hookup.
At first, I thought she was giving me a story about her sexless streak. She had to be exaggerating about that ’dry spell’ after a few drinks.
Then my mouth claimed hers, and I almost stumbled away with scorch marks.
No mistaking what I tasted. That’s a woman who’s been deprived, her passion telling a thousand truths.
Chemistry?
Fuck, we had an entire lab.
And I know I’m boned when I finally toss my diving gear in the back of my truck and I’m still obsessing over every naughty, nervous, and delectable smile hanging off her face.
I head back to my rental, this cozy new townhouse unit graciously funded by the company. Working for a premier firm like Enguard Security on their new mobile tactical team has its benefits, and not having to pay California housing costs is one of them.
I’ve kept the place deliberately spartan, even if I only started living there a couple months ago. Old habits from my SEAL days die hard.
Still, tonight the walls feel tighter, more claustrophobic after I arrive home. Even the default grey-and-white décor feels like it’s too much, especially this painting of an old church shaped like a castle overlooking an island sunset.
I snap my eyes away from it, drawing a harsh breath as I rake a hand through my hair. I can’t let something so mundane bring me back there.
If only my brain gave a shit what I want.
That raid last month in the Virgins punches me in the soul.
The mansion bathed in shadows.
The exploding gunfire.
The panicked screams.
The children.
Goddamn, just thinking about that sadistic rich fuck we pulled out of his panic room with a bleeding hole in his leg makes me want to beat holes in the nice slate-grey wall with my fists. Jordan Warzach stumbled around like he was drunk and sleepy, as if keeping girls in cages is as normal as owning a damn dog kennel.
I should have fucking killed him.
If I weren’t under orders and attached to the rest of the team, executing a glorified bounty hunter mission, I would have.
And that other man from the cartel with the dark, soulless eyes with the snakes on his boots. He was smiling and staring me dead in the eye when he sunk his knife into that girl’s throat, forcing me to choose.
I picked saving her life over pursuing that kingpin puke, pulling her into my arms and keeping pressure on her wound until the medics arrived.
It worked. She’s alive and recovered.
Unfortunately, so is Eladio Joaquin, one more Satan free to walk this Earth.
But Commander Sexton is a hardass for rules—and that’s what wins him everyone’s respect, including mine.
When the order came down from Landon Strauss, our big boss and CEO, to capture any swamp rats alive, our hard as nails pit boss wasn’t going to fuck that up.
Or let me fuck it up for him.
Snarling, I sigh, stomping over to the fridge and praying I still have a few cold beers.
The soft white light beads off the glass inside.
I grab a local pale ale and press the coldness to my head until it makes me shudder.
“Delia, fuck. I need your distraction. You don’t even know,” I mutter to myself.
A low chuckle rips out of me as I think about her name and that old Johnny Cash song.
“Delia’s Gone” is actually pretty damn tragic when you dwell on the words.
We barely know each other.
I’m damn sure not planning to wife her up, much less do any shooting. Though I’d be lying if I said that princess wasn’t already haunting me in the worst way.
I just want to haul her into bed.
Help her help me forget.
Before that can happen, I have another distraction that’s a hell of a lot less thrilling than the thought of having Delia under me.
I bust off the bottle cap with a groan and down half the beer in three gulps.
Yeah. Tomorrow’s gonna be rough.
I’m still trying to figure out why I even agreed to an evening of bullshit with Ma’s rich new sugar daddy and his spoiled brat.
Call it obligation.
A need to check in on her and make sure she’s not detonating anyone else’s life while her own goes down in shambles for the hundredth time.
She called me around noon to screech about coming to dinner, all but insisting I get my ass over to his beachside mansion two hours early to meet her new 'family.'
The guy’s house is probably in the same zip code as the palace party I crashed tonight.
Apparently, his daughter’s a bland rich girl in journalism or some shit. It’s painfully hilarious that Ma acts like we’ll have a lot in common.
My lip curls around the bottle as I chug beer I can barely taste.
Shit.
It’s not just the bad raid and sick memories I’m trying to bury.
Blowing off some steam between the sheets helps me forget about what a gaping hole my life is in my off-hours. Especially the endless crap my shell of a mother slings in all directions.
I’ve been through it before. I’ll definitely be there again.
There’s always another rotten chapter waiting when you’re left guessing when your mother’s next mental and drug crisis will erupt.
That’s not Delia’s problem, though.
That’s mine.
I can’t get too attached.
So I head for the shower, letting the hissing cool water ground my mind.
I shouldn’t bait that sweet girl into thinking we’re dating or whatever.
All I want her for is skin therapy.
She’s just another fuck, after all, even if she’s the first one I’ve been excited about in over a year.
I shower off quickly before heading to bed, careful to charge my phone for tomorrow.
I resist the urge to jerk my dick off in the shower, thinking about that little sound she made when I sent her to heaven.
No, better to save it for tomorrow.
The poor woman talks like she’s never had a real man before, and I’m aiming to leave her with enough big dick energy to remember.
Sometimes I feel bad about my fuck-and-release policy, but it’s for everyone’s benefit.
I don’t do relationships.
Not since Uncle Sam owned my balls twenty-four seven after I enlisted at eighteen. Or after I signed them away again to Enguard.
No time for that shit, and no heart to spare.
For me, there’s only time to rock Delia’s universe and hope I don’t leave her totally wrecked for the lucky bastard who finally gives Cinderella the fairy tale she deserves.
* * *
My gut churns and I’m shaking my head constantly as I pull up to the place.
The mansion could rival the showiest billionaire’s compound with its tall iron gate and a winding driveway that curls on forever.
Sure, I knew the latest rich dick Mom hooked up with was loaded, but it’s hard for me to believe just how rich this prick really is.
There’s a guardhouse and everything manning the entrance. The slim, perma-frowning older man inside looks like he wants to search my truck for burglary tools.
I flash my badge with a sigh.
What fucking guard wears a suit and tie for perimeter duty outside a formal event, anyway? He looks more like a hotel clerk than an imposing professional.
The kind Bruce Burr employs, apparently.
Jeeves looks closely at my ID before giving me a reluctant nod and waving me through.
Stuck-up prick.
All of them.
Worse, I know it’s just a matter of time before Ma flames out and lands herself in rehab again, sending Mr. Executive running off to his next trophy wife.
For now, he probably thinks he hit the jackpot with a fallen starlet. Her looks are the only thing that haven’t faded yet with the ocean of alcohol she’s thrown at her liver.
I’m sure her husband sees her as something special. The eyes of a newlywed are always blind to flapping red flags.
Whatever.
He’ll find out what he’s gotten himself into soon enough.
I pass the keys to a waiting valet when I pull up to the curb.
When I get out and look around, I have to grudgingly admit it’s a beautiful slice of virgin California real estate.
The house is perched near high cliffs marching into the ocean, boasting what must be at least a fifty-million-dollar view of Pacific paradise.
A weird familiarity whacks me between the eyes.
Do I know this place?
I squint at the beach behind the house as the wind hits me in the face. No trace of any recent events or sand kicked up by crowds walking through it.
My gaze goes higher. Everything looks different at night, but I think I climbed a few of these cliffs in the distance. Maybe I saw this place from a different angle.
Then it dawns on me.
Oh, shit.
This must be a few miles down the road from the party I crashed last night, and the princess I’m aching to ruin.
A fierce smile pulls at my lips.
Fate has a wicked sense of humor. Maybe I’ll be getting laid sooner this evening if Delia lives a few houses down.
I walk through the double door entrance and stop when I see the huge crystal chandelier and sprawling staircases.
It’s like walking onto one of Mother’s fancy sets when I was a boy and she still had a career. Or maybe one of those historic homes she used to drag me to for charity grandstanding before her career slipped away with her sanity.
My new stepdad has impeccable taste. I’ll give the jackass that.
“Christopher!” A loud squeal gives me less than a second to turn and brace before she hits me. “Oh my God, I thought you’d never come home, darling. Let me show you to your room.”
“You don’t need to put me up overnight. The company’s paying for—”
“Christopher, please. You’re home.” Ma still has the same high-strung, insecure tone she’s used with me since I was sixteen.
Since I stopped obeying her like a trained poodle.
And even after all her battles, she still wields that damnably puppy-eyed mom look like a lethal weapon. Her green eyes bore through me, only a shade duller than mine.
“Whatever,” I growl, peeling away after a quick squeeze. “Let’s get this dinner over with first. You know I have plans after dinner?”
“As long as you’ll stay a while and catch up with us, darling. It’s been too long—and that’s tragic when you’re closer than ever since you left the service and signed on with that company. Aren’t you right here in town?”
I don’t bother answering.
I already know how she feels about my career and life choices.
Deep down, she’s still pissed I passed on a college degree that would’ve been a ticket to a safe, easy, snooze-worthy life in banking or whatever the fuck.
“This is your home now, Chris, and we’re happy to have you as long as you’d like,” she says cheerfully, as if I don’t already know. “At least try the bed out? It’s the latest memory foam. I haven’t slept so deep on mine for years! Truly, every night off those nasty little cots does wonders for your posture. Your spine will thank you when you’re forty.”
“I’ll worry about that in about fifteen years.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I follow her upstairs.
“I’ve got a regular apartment, Ma. That’s a big step up from the Navy. Hell, anywhere that’s not a hole in the ground feels pretty damned good.”
Her lips thin with disapproval.
I’m sure she’s already scared shitless my mouth will get me in trouble with her new sugar daddy.
Incredible, seeing that worry from her, the woman who practically invented the modern bitch on the silver screen.
Evangeline Triton, everybody’s favorite sharp-tongued television witch, lost her magic touch the night she stole her boyfriend’s car and plowed it into a damn pond. And that was only her second big cocaine binge.
Is she already fighting with the latest billionaire boy toy? I wonder.
“Here’s your stepsister’s room,” Ma says, gesturing to the door furthest down the hall. “She’s downstairs with her father right now, waiting for us. Huge private bathroom attached, just like your room.”
A flowery scent wafts out and makes my nostrils tingle.
It’s breezy and...familiar?
My dick inexplicably throbs.
Maybe it’s the same fragrance I smelled when I had Delia against the wall—one rude coincidence I don’t need.
It’s probably just a popular summer perfume or some shit.
I hope Delia wears it again tonight. It’ll be a nice opener before I shove my face between her legs, owning what should’ve been mine last night, all the sweetness mingled with her scent that’s guaranteed to drive me insane.
My mother clears her throat loudly.
Guess it’s obvious my mind is somewhere better than this family circus.
I shrug.
“And this...well, it’s not much yet, but I know how you love to keep things simple,” she says.
I shake my head as Ma opens the bedroom door next to the rich girl’s room.
Hating that I humor her, I poke my head inside.
I’m annoyed she put my room right next to my stepsister’s, even if I’ll barely use it.
What the fuck are we, high school kids?
Sometimes, I wonder if half a dozen bad drug benders and rehab stays scrambled her brain permanently.
The woman has lost her sense of time.
It’s like she sees me frozen in time, still the same punk-ass fifteen-year-old kid who fixed his own dinners every night and mouthed off when she was lucid enough to talk to me at all.
Not a grown man who’s been to war in an elite unit and come out the other side alive.
A man who’s killed, bled, and suffered for his causes, and who’s had too many staring contests with pure evil.
I don’t ask for much.
But you’d think that might have earned me a goddamned room with a smidge of privacy.
Ignoring her impatient smile, I walk inside and take a look around.
Again, the style isn’t half-bad.
The dark-cherry wood furniture is simple enough. There’s a matching dresser, chair, and a small desk.
The best part is the bed, hands down, and not because I give two shits about any rich people’s mattress that tickles your spine while you sleep.
It’s a Victorian wet dream, almost part ship with tall posts reaching toward the ceiling.
I can’t help thinking about the things a man could do with a woman in a bed like this.
My dick is definitely too drunk on Delia to keep my brain out of the gutter with its dignity intact.
“Well? Pretty comfy, isn’t it? Imagine the dreams you could have sleeping on that thing, Chris.” I don’t even have to turn around before I see the disappointment in her eyes.
“It’s fine. A little stuffy and over the top, but it does look comfortable.” That’s me being polite.
Old Chris would’ve told her exactly how fucking overdone this is, but I’m mature enough not to rock the boat over something so meaningless.
Whatever gets me out of here and into Delia’s pants sooner.
“Are we heading down to meet the others or what? I can’t stick around all evening,” I say.
