The Perfect Wrong, page 6
Her face tightens, exposing lines worn by years of self-inflicted pain and abuse, but she doesn’t speak.
She just turns and leads me back into the hall.
If she’s willing to tread lightly and avoid any explosive shit-fights, all the better.
Downstairs, I follow her down a long corridor, where I can see orange evening light streaming in through massive skylights and huge glass windows that take up entire walls.
I see sugar daddy first, slouched in a leather chair with his nose to his phone.
He’s a tall, slender man with owlish spectacles. Greying at the temples.
Definitely not built or edgy or even scowling like the usual shallow dickheads I’m used to Ma dating. Compared to her last two husbands, this guy has class and he looks as soft as a kitten.
“Hi, Christopher. I’m Bruce Burr, and it’s an honor to finally have you here.” He smiles, revealing a picture-perfect set of polished white teeth as he grips my hand.
I squeeze back harder than I should, wondering how many jobs this bastard axed with these fingers, typing on his bullshit, no matter how nice he seems.
He’s an airline chief, apparently.
I have some idea how ugly that industry can be.
I went through BUD/S training listening to a couple guys talking about how their mechanic and flight attendant parents were always scrambling through layoffs every time some new crisis or consolidation blew up their careers.
“Good to meet you,” I lie. “How’s dinner coming?”
He throws his head back and laughs—way too cheery and placating for my liking.
“You live up to your reputation, sir. Evie said you were born with three stomachs. Yes, I believe it should all be laid out for us soon. But first, I’d love for you to meet my daughter.” He turns to the hall, toward a small reading room off it, cupping his hands over his mouth as he calls, “Cordelia! He’s here. Don’t be shy.”
The name stops me dead in my tracks.
Cordelia?
Delia?
As in “Delia’s Gone?”
No fucking way.
Soft footsteps padding on the floor behind me come to a sudden stop.
For the first time I can remember, I’m afraid.
Scared out of my damn wits to turn around and look at her.
My knees feel like lead.
Bruce stares at me awkwardly like I’ve lost my mind and I can’t blame him. Forcing my legs to work, I do a slow pivot, my jaw pinched so tight it would horrify my dentist.
The second I see her, I don’t know whether to laugh or scream or just charge the nearest wall headfirst and knock myself out cold.
Thank fuck for Navy discipline.
It’s the only thing that stops me from making all three bad decisions.
Somehow, I walk toward her, grinning defiantly through the shock like I’m not looking at a laughing curse from this twisted joke of a universe.
“Delia. Hot damn, you’re cuter than I expected. I’ve heard a lot.” I extend a hand.
She has one foot in the room, staring like a deer in headlights.
Yeah, baby. The feeling’s mutual.
For a second, I wonder if she’s going to fall over. I widen my stance to lunge and catch her just in case.
Her father clears his throat, though, reminding her to greet her new stepbrother like a civilized human.
Fucking hell.
If only he knew how uncivilized we’ve already been.
If only he had any inkling I’ve kissed her, swallowed her moans, and made her come in her panties so hard they may have melted.
A handshake or a hug should be nothing after what we did on the beach.
When she shakily takes my hand, it’s pure devastation.
Hot and clammy and sick with surprise.
Worst of all, my body doesn’t want to vibe with the nightmare realization in my brain. My blood runs molten as I close my fingers around hers, my first brush with known forbidden fruit.
“It’s really, um...it’s...it’s great to meet you, too!”
Goddamn.
That faint tremor in her voice just has to remind me of how she sounded on the beach, doesn’t it?
My dick mutinies, throbbing as I throw one arm around her back, pulling her in close.
From behind, I know it looks like a friendly hug to our parents.
Up close and personal, it’s too familiar.
Too much like the way I threw her against the wall and shoved my hands between her legs.
Shit.
If I move one more inch, she’ll feel I’m hard enough to drive nails, a sin I can’t take back.
The world might’ve just dealt us a shit hand, but it didn’t kill my need to have her under me.
When I feel the heat of her skin and inhale her, that breezy perfume mingling with her pheromones, my balls are doused in fire.
“You hungry, sis?” I pull back and look at her, my hand behind her back still roaming, dangerously close to her ass.
I should mean dinner, but I’m not asking about food.
“Starving! Yeah, let’s eat.” She sounds better as she beams like the sun, but when I look into those sunny brown eyes, the only thing I see is a nervous, what the fuck?
I let go of her and turn around.
Bruce gives us an approving nod. Ma has her skinny hand tucked in his, smiling like I’ve just handed her the damn moon.
Great.
Another good reason to get dry heaves—as if the devastating loss only Delia knows we’ve just experienced wasn’t enough.
“Aw, Christopher,” she purrs, smiling like she hasn’t for years before clapping her hands together. “Okay! Let’s go get to know each other better over good food and wine. Just wait until you taste Irving’s carrot risotto! Bruce’s chef is just splendid and—oh, I can’t ruin it, you’ll see!”
Christ.
She’s practically levitating, humming to herself.
I, for one, do not feel fucking good.
It feels like crossing an entire museum’s wing before we reach the dining room.
Like everything else here, it’s huge, housing old-school furniture that looks more like an English manor from the last century than anything modern.
A massive fireplace behind the table burns brightly, its gas flames imposing enough for any mafia kingpin.
I wonder if Bruce is flexing what he lacks in muscle with his sense of style.
I take the seat right next to Delia, while they sit across from us, making goo-goo eyes at each other.
My stomach flips over.
If it wasn’t for the shock and awe sitting next to me, I think I would’ve already yacked a couple times.
Less than a minute later, a sharp-dressed man strides into the room. He plates up our food and pours wine.
I’m grateful for having food to focus on, even if what should be a delicious spread is bound to tastes rancid after this shot to the face.
Everybody tucks into their salad and drinks—except for poor Delia, who picks at her grub like a bird with a bellyache.
“You’re a busy lady, aren’t you, Delia? Journalism, is it?” I ask, recalling the one thing I’ve heard about her. “You really should eat. Keep up your strength.”
She gives me that wide-eyed look of pain and disbelief again.
“Journalism. Right,” she answers softly, her voice so strained. “I’m on a summer diet. Too many bad influences around campus.”
“I figured. You don’t look like the type who’d get carried away doing things you shouldn’t,” I growl, stabbing my fork through a tomato.
She smiles down at her plate.
She won’t even look at me.
For some unholy reason, that pisses me off, even knowing it’s not her fault.
The only one I have to blame for this insane cosmic joke is God.
Before I think too hard, I reach under the table, catching her thigh with my fingers. I squeeze her firmly.
“Lighten up. I’m just dicking around,” I say, ignoring the wary look Ma shoots across the table. “Sure hope you have something going to help blow off steam. Doing one paper after the next must get stressful. Don’t you have a boyfriend?”
My mother coughs.
I look at her while Delia shoots one hand down, trying to shove my hand away without alerting our parents.
Yes, I’m a jackass.
I just don’t care.
It’s too fun getting her hot and bothered. Emphasis on bothered.
As fucked up as this is, I’d still like nothing better than to slide between these silk thighs.
A warped part of me says do it because it’s spitting in the face of whatever evil spirit worked its black magic to keep us apart.
“Not my Cordelia. I’m afraid my girl has always been rather shy with the boys,” Bruce says carefully, scooping up his risotto the instant it’s laid in front of him by another servant.
“Dad!” she chirps loudly. “Can we not talk about this?”
Interesting.
Looks like Delia does one hell of a tomato impression.
Now she’s hot, bothered, and pissed off.
One more pinch of her skin from yours truly ratchets up the pressure before I tear my hand away, lifting it over the table to grab some bread.
I try not to laugh while I ignore her offended death-glare.
“She’ll catch on soon,” I say, giving Bruce a wink. “Or some dude will catch her, I’m sure. Can’t believe she’s not engaged to some college kid with a triple major yet. She seems like such a nice girl.”
Daddy dearest chuckles like the ignoramus he is. “Oh, there’s plenty of time for that. She’s just a very focused student—and a mighty fine painter, too, if you ask her about that. Though she’s almost as modest with her art as she is with dating.”
I look at my red-faced stepsister.
She doesn’t breathe a word while she pretends to pick at her food.
I’m actually interested, but forcing another secret out of her at this point would just be cruel.
“Her last semester’s coming up in the fall, and she’s been picking away at her thesis all summer,” Bruce tells me.
“Thesis, huh? What subject?”
“I haven’t decided,” she snaps, taking an angry sip of wine. “Something exciting, hopefully. It takes a lot to impress my professor, but I’ll manage. He’s the kind of guy who loves tragic stories, whatever tugs on the heartstrings.”
I can’t help it.
I roll my eyes.
Ma gives me a horrified look.
“Not even graduated yet and you already talk like a reporter. Choose your sob stories carefully, lady. It’s not always fun being on the receiving end of some gangly, embedded media jackoff who doesn’t think twice about tweeting sensitive info or posting it on that clock app.”
“Chris!” Mom’s silverware crashes against the china plate. “I apologize for my son’s mouth, Cordelia. He’s lived his adult life in the military, and he gets a little bent out of shape about these issues...”
Bent out of shape?
Right.
I guess that’s what you’d call it when Iranian mercenaries rip your friend’s leg off with an unlucky shot in a dark Syrian village.
Never mind the devious shit that’s been going on Stateside in my newer missions.
Still, I hold my tongue.
Delia flips her long black hair over one shoulder. “It’s okay, Evie. Really. It’s actually enlightening to hear from someone on the other side. I took a whole class last semester about story sensitivity.”
I snort at how cold she sounds.
Her pretty face curdles.
But the fire I can’t temper in my eyes, lapping at her skin, must get her attention. She looks at me, cocks her head, and polishes off another delicate sip of wine before speaking.
“So, what are you? Submarine sailor? A marine?”
“He was a Navy SEAL,” Ma answers for me. “He hates me for saying it, but we’re all family now. There’s no sense in secrets. I don’t even know if it’s classified or whatever now that he’s out.”
I glare, but she carries on undaunted.
“My son’s very shy when it comes to his work. Or the government just keeps his lips sewn shut or something. That little company he works for now is just as bad.” She wrinkles her nose.
Or something.
Goddamn, I’d love to show her why classified information exists.
The only thing worse than the media jackals I dealt with overseas are Ma’s loose lips. My commanding officer wrung my neck not long after I joined the SEAL team when she drunkenly squawked to a tabloid.
Thankfully, the tabloid asshole dropped the story before it went live, but only after she shelled out some serious money.
If my mother thinks her new sugar daddy gives her a license to blab about my business, she can think the fuck again.
“A SEAL?” Delia sounds sincerely impressed when she looks at me again. “Wow. You must be awfully good at what you do to have had the honor...”
“I’m good at everything I do,” I throw back, locking eyes until she looks away. My confidence scares her, and I fucking love it. “I’ve got my duties and I take them seriously. That’s all anybody at this table needs to know.”
I drag my fork across the appetizer plate of stuffed mushrooms, puncturing the awkward silence that follows.
“So, Bruce, while we’re sharing secrets, why don’t you tell us about the big merger coming up?” Ma’s face is a mask of nerves as she looks at him intently.
I’ve got a feeling Daddy Warbucks has a narcissistic streak as well. And I’m right when his face lights up, and he launches into a long-winded story that spares no detail or legalese.
It’s not hard to miss the main point—if and when this merger with a rival airline gets wrapped up sometime this century, it’s guaranteed to make him even richer.
What else is new with the world?
After glazing over for five minutes while I pick at my risotto, the main dish arrives. I huff out a grateful breath.
Seared steak and lobster with this citrus-glazed asparagus pairs well with the beer I have brought out.
It’s almost enough to forget about the hot piece I won’t be bedding tonight while I down my tall glass in one swallow. Mom gives me the stink eye the entire time.
Hilarious.
It’s like she doesn’t know I’m doing her a favor by taking the edge off.
A mild buzz is the lesser evil versus letting my hands have their way.
If they get half a chance, they’ll be under the table again, and this time they won’t stop at Delia’s supple thigh.
I ask for another beer—some imported Japanese brew Bruce recommends—the instant the waiter reappears.
I need it to stop imagining sliding my fingers into his daughter, dragging them to my lips, and tasting a sweetness far more decadent than a hundred of these high-class dinners.
It doesn’t help that I have to count in my head, ticking off every precious second I pry my eyes off her.
One.
She won’t even look at me.
I see her in my peripheral vision, quietly stabbing at her food. She only lifts her head to glance at our parents and nod along with whatever mundane thing they’re blabbing about.
Pretty sure it’s that honeymoon to Fiji.
Two.
Her foot scrapes mine and sweeps back into her space like she’s hit an electric current.
Fuck, that hurts.
I’m not insane—I know she has her reasons—but am I really so repulsive when she was sucking my tongue last night? All because of this clownish technicality making us 'family?'
My hand drifts under the table.
I brush her hip, softly at first, then more insistently because I still won’t let myself look at her.
Three.
She jolts up, nearly knocking her chair out behind her.
“Excuse me,” she mutters as her dad stops talking. “Bathroom break. I’ll be right back.”
I pretend to scratch my chin, hiding my predatory smirk, but I think she sees it anyway before she stalks away.
She looks like she could stab me right between the eyes—and I wonder what my malfunction is when that turns me on so much.
Maybe it’s just the thought of being awkwardly ignored by a woman I was guaranteed to sink my dick into only hours ago.
Fuck everything about this.
I’m hate-chewing my lobster, not even caring about flecks of shell in my teeth, when she returns and sits down next to me five minutes later without a second glance.
“Say, Christopher, since you’re working security now, you could translate that experience into something that’d let you have a life.” My mother throws an expectant look across the table.
“I could,” I say, pretending to consider it.
Awesome. Here we fucking go.
“Why don’t you see what Bruce’s company has open after the merger?” Ma stares at me intently. She’s not really asking and it’s definitely not for my own good. I don’t even know what turn this conversation is taking after thinking about all the ways I’d enjoy ripping off Delia’s panties and fucking her right on this table. “You know how much I worry. Especially after the last incident—that disgusting man was all over the news—and people got shot?”
“Nobody died,” I say coldly. “That’s the most important part.”
I stare at my food, trying like hell not to dwell on how close death came.
“Still, they keep sending you off to dangerous places, doing God only knows what... When you took the job, you told me you’d be protecting people.”
“And I do,” I clip. “Unless you think I shouldn’t have helped bring down a fuck who was so deep in trading twelve year olds, he makes Epstein look like a petty shoplifter.”
Bruce and Delia’s mouths drop.
Ma clears her throat loudly, her eyes wide with mock-concern. Her red-faced embarrassment has more to do with me shitting up her perfect dinner than any real care for those girls.
“Chris, you—Jesus. Evie said you’ve handled some rough cases, but I had no idea.” Bruce takes her hand, giving me a warm, sympathetic look.
It’s hard not to roll my eyes.
Hero worship comes easy with guys who think a morning jog outside their gated community is a dangerous adventure.
