The Perfect Wrong, page 8
I watch him put a stern finger over his lips, covering a hint of a smile that just incenses me even more.
“Jesus Christ. How long were you standing there watching me?” I demand.
An evil smile pulls at his lips. “Not nearly long enough.”
Yep, he’s going to get me arrested.
I want to murder him for ambushing me like this and peeping in on my room. Never mind risking his literal neck to come over here.
Instead, I stomp over to the door and pull the screen shut, shaking my head.
When I turn to face him again, he’s sitting on the edge of my bed with a look like he belongs there. “I had to talk to you after what happened at dinner tonight. Come have a seat, sis.”
His big hand pats the empty spot next to him.
I pinch my jaw shut, feeling this strange heady rush of heat as that last word replays in my head.
Is sis just supposed to piss me off more? Or remind me there’s something broken in my brain?
Either way, mission accomplished.
I hate the fact that we’re stepsiblings now doesn’t stop me from wanting to climb him like the huge tree of a man he is.
No. That fire in my veins isn’t just anger for him being Mr. Prick incarnate.
It’s for what we lost.
What I thought we had last night.
This bizarre, hypocritical hole in my heart widens. All because I can’t feel this asshat’s mouth smothering mine ever again.
“Delia? You look disturbed,” he points out.
Oh, darling step-dickhead, you have no earthly idea.
This isn’t me and that’s what scares me the most.
I’ve always been the good girl, Miss Levelheaded, the magna cum laude career track girl boss in the making.
Hard muscles, barbed ink, and a world-class ego never did anything for me, but here I am.
Staring at this insanely hot weirdo and trying to convince myself he’s as repulsive as his words.
And here he is, lying in my bed, doing—what, exactly?
I sink down next to him reluctantly, careful to leave an arm’s gap between us.
“What’s there to talk about?” I ask with a sigh that feels like breathing lead. “We can’t change anything, you know. Yeah, we screwed up big-time last night, and I guess it’s just going to be hella awkward from now on. If I’d known you were that Christopher... I’d have told you to pack up your diving gear and go.”
“Ah, fuck.” He sits up straighter, a smirk I can’t decipher on his lips. “If you keep giving me that Christopher shit, it’s going to be more awkward. Call me Chris. Ma just uses the formal shit to make me sound like another accessory.”
“So, is that why you came swinging in, Tarzan? To talk about your mommy issues?”
Oops.
The way his eyes darken and that smirk disappears makes me regret my words instantly.
Then he locks eyes and says, “I’m here as a courtesy, smartass. Mainly because I can’t stop thinking about how sweet your little clit burned last night when you came on my hand.”
“You—” A sharp gasp chokes me off as I process his words.
Holy crap.
Apparently, he’s completely shameless.
But maybe I deserved that after the 'mommy issues' comment.
His green eyes blaze with something like pride as he stares me down. I glance away before my lady bits can spontaneously combust, if my brain doesn’t first.
“...you’d be better off if you forgot about it. Everything, Chris,” I say weakly. “I can’t help you with that and you know it. Are you just staying for the night or heading home after you sober up?” I can smell the strong alcohol on his breath.
I wish I could believe he’s just drunk.
That would make the filthy words and hungry eyes easier to explain.
Only, he seems too lucid, regardless of how much he’s been drinking.
There’s a sharpness in his gaze that says this is him, as real and unfiltered as it gets.
At least the liquor smell helps bury the masculine, cologne-tinged scent I dreamed about. The smell I wanted to inhale from his bare skin so flipping bad.
“You’re shit at playing coy, Delia. You still want me,” he says, ignoring my question. His chest bows out as he slides closer, pushing his arm against my mattress until his bicep bulges. “Hell yeah, you do. I’d know that spark in your eyes anywhere. You really didn’t know last night, did you?”
What?
“Um, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Of course I didn’t know! What, do you think I’m some kind of crazy who’d be thrilled at sleeping with her own stepbrother?”
“Are you?” His deep, growling chuckle vibrates through my bones.
His hand finds the small of my back and skims up my spine before diving down again, smoothing a few wrinkles in my dress.
I inhale harshly, thinking back to what he shouted as he stomped away from the table.
Is that what this is? Feeling me out to see if his mother put me up to messing with his head?
Jesus.
Evie is about ten fries short of a chicken basket, but she can’t be that maliciously crazy...right?
But the only crazy I’m feeling is mine when his fingers brush my hip.
I gasp.
“Goddamn, princess. You’re really clueless what you’ve got in the trunk, huh?” His eyes glow like stars.
“Excuse you?” I stammer.
“This is an ass a man could jerk off to through a whole combat tour. This ass alone would make any dude in the field fight twice as hard to come back in one piece.”
Spinning.
The whole world blurs around me as I try to wrap my head around this conversation.
Nobody ever complimented my butt, and certainly not like this.
Why, oh why, does the only man doing it have to be Mr. Tall, Rude, and Impossible?
My heart stops several times, stuck on memories of a high I wish I didn’t have.
And it’s like Chris knows it, too.
He’s moving closer now, craning his neck, moving his mouth close enough to—
God, it’s undeniable.
His kiss drop-kicks my soul into a universe made of butterflies, crushing and molten and taboo.
I can’t believe this is happening—my own stepbrother!
That does it.
I jerk back, pushing helplessly against his chest, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and pretending I’m far more disgusted than I really am.
He stands up and takes a step away, his eyes angry slits.
“You’re shitting me. I disgust you that much?”
My heart sinks.
I didn’t mean it like that.
It was just a reaction—a reflex—a defense before I let him hijack my senses and lead us into the greatest mistake of our lives.
“Sorry, it’s...it’s not like that at all,” I say softly. “Chris, be serious. You’re upset and you’ve been drinking. You know we shouldn’t do this. We can’t. Maybe in another life, if we’d been at their stupid wedding and objected when they took their vows.”
“Their vows,” he throws back, his voice dripping venom. “You really think this clown show will last? And I don’t mean your old man. Ma will bolt when she gets bored. And when she finally does, what the fuck does it matter for you and me?”
I swallow thickly.
“We need to learn to live together. Like normal human beings, I mean. Whether our parents last or not, I can’t deal with the teasing, the constant urge to—” I bite my tongue.
I can’t say it.
My cheeks betray me, though, blossoming cherry-red.
Adrenaline sweeps through my body, and one look from Chris tells me he can read every last secret in my head before he even speaks.
“Urge to what—ride me, princess? Because that’s what I want every goddamned second I’m standing here, staring all slack-jawed with balls bigger and bluer than Aladdin’s genie. I can’t keep my hands off you, woman. With you, I’m dangerous.”
Whoa.
He sounds ice-cold, but his eyes are all leaping green flames.
Is this what he’s like when he’s upset?
I move toward him lightly, reaching for his shoulder, trying to soothe this tattooed beast.
Yes, he’s a bastard, but everything he says about his dear old mom suggests he’s been damaged. Possibly horribly damaged in ways I can’t begin to imagine.
And maybe I hurt him more than I meant to tonight.
Maybe Evie’s antics struck the vein of something evil inside him, something he’s been wrestling with for ages.
“Chris, this doesn’t have to be weird. We can learn to deal, right? What happened last night was just a big fat mistake—an innocent one! Nobody knows. Nobody ever has to but us.”
I stand in front of him, halfway opening myself to a hug, against my better judgment.
But he shoves past me with a scowl like a scorned tiger.
It’s so fast and sudden it scares me, but before I can say anything, he’s out the door, lunging into the night.
He rips the heavy balcony door open, stopping its momentum like it’s nothing in his strong hand.
“Chris, wait. I just—”
“Shut it, Delia. I didn’t come here begging for your pity, and I sure as shit don’t need advice. You’re right, it doesn’t have to be like this. I’m getting the fuck back where I belong so I don’t have to stare at a chick all summer who’s too afraid to fuck because our folks pulled the dumbest shit of their lives. Don’t need the stress between missions. Peace out.”
Ouch, ouch, ouch.
Every word leaves my ears ringing.
The worst part is, I can’t think of anything else to say.
Not until I realize he’s gone.
Oh, crap, he’s about to—
“Chris!” I rush outside and stumble to the banister.
I’m terrified it’s already too late and if I look down, I’ll see him on the grass below, broken or totally lifeless. But when I stare down in confusion, all I see is dull blackness.
Night.
Silence.
Then there’s a soft groan from his balcony. He’s already jumped, hit the other side, and he hoists himself up over the railing.
I watch his mountain of a body dart up and flop down safely on the balcony like it’s nothing.
Wow. He could shame an Olympic gymnast.
He doesn’t look back before he disappears into his room, completely ignoring me.
Boneless, I drag myself back to my bed, this time locking the door behind me.
I’ve never met a man who makes me want to scream so effortlessly.
I want to pummel my pillow, but I just don’t have the energy.
Plus, the noise would probably bleed through the wall we share. I shudder at the thought of that smug, broody superprick smiling at how bad he’s riled me up.
I hope to God he was serious about leaving.
And somehow, I hope even harder that I’ll never have to see his crazy face again.
* * *
After about an hour of tossing and turning, I’m in that sickly space between rage and sleep and pure exhaustion.
The last day has been a doozy and a half.
My brain won’t stop looping everything he’s said to me.
The horny threats. The arrogance. The teasing. The attraction.
The walking mystery.
Look, I barely know him, even after he’s managed to push buttons I didn’t know I had.
The whole cloud hanging over him complicates my plans to give Evie a fair shake for Dad’s sake, regardless of whether or not I can stand her.
But after that dinner...it’s hard to have any doubt that she’s bad news. I can’t help wondering what it was like actually growing up with her as a mom.
Are Chris’ assholery and sexaholic tendencies just symptoms of the rot she left behind?
I shake my head, hating that I want to push the pieces together and knowing full well I shouldn’t.
Distance is the best thing for me—a cold dark chasm between our lives.
Easier said than done.
Something about watching him blow out of my life like this shocks my heart worse than anything he’s said.
I’m worried for Chris, for myself, for Dad.
If Evie made my new stepbrother the man he is—an ego-grenade who has to risk his life to prove his worth, however noble—what will she do to Dad before this cringe marriage withers on the vine?
A notification on my phone from school silences my questions.
Professor Thosser means business, prodding me about my thesis again.
Heck, he’ll expect an outline in another few weeks, well before my final semester starts, and I’m scraping the bottom for good ideas that could make or break my future.
I remember the last thing Chris said.
Don’t need the stress between missions.
Hm. Just what was he doing in the SEALs?
What does he do now?
Have those hands that melt me with every touch killed people?
Have those eyes like a forest fire watched friends die?
He’s a rare breed, living a life I can’t imagine.
Oh, but I do.
And when I do too much imagining over the next hour, I can’t help bolting out of bed and walking over to my desk. I pull up a chair and open my laptop.
A quick search scouring the web for recent articles about SEALs turns up what I want.
The big raid outside Damascus.
It was all over the news about a year ago. We even talked about it in my international politics class.
US Special Forces went after several terrorist groups, but they’d also gotten in the middle of an Iranian operation brought in to help the Syrian government.
Iranians and Americans traded fire for the first time in decades.
When the dust settled, there were three servicemen killed—all SEALs—plus the wreckage of several high-tech gliders left behind.
It almost caused a broader war. A SEAL unit was definitely involved in the raid in a country the US isn’t technically at war with. The top Pentagon brass kept the details close to their chest, deflecting the media’s attention.
I stare at the words and maps on my screen, pushing a sharp lump down my throat.
Is this it? One more ugly tragedy in Chris’ life?
The timeline certainly fits.
But his mother brought up that other weird raid over dinner, didn’t she? Something that would’ve happened after he left the service.
I do some more Googling. Eventually, I find this blurb from a big arrest on St. John in the Virgin Islands.
Jordan Warzach was extradited to his home state of Virginia to face a battery of human trafficking charges. FBI and special tactical teams turned up connections to the Joaquin cartel that are still being heavily investigated—and not without a cost.
Two members of the prestigious Enguard Security tactical unit were seriously injured in a recovery operation to rescue Warzach’s victims.
All were females under fifteen years old. The girls are currently being held in FBI protective custody while the bureau expedites their care and safe return to their families.
My heart stings, and I reach up, rubbing my eyes.
What kind of sicko enslaves literal children?
And what kind of burden does the hero who saves them carry when he walks away, having seen that kind of horror up close?
My greedy little heart skips another beat.
It’s a question I shouldn’t ask—a question Chris would never talk about—but it’s compelling. Especially for an academic blowhard like Thosser, who’s always looking for his next shock and awe piece, including the stories he’s helped cultivate through his students.
Yikes.
I feel like a creeper for wanting to bring my brave, ridiculous, and scary ex-SEAL stepbrother into my final paper...but what else do you do when the universe drops gold in your lap?
It’s all here.
A real-life psychological thriller guaranteed to blow some hair back.
All I have to do is dig and interpret.
While I’m still trying to decide if I hate myself, I open a fresh page and begin typing furiously, bullet-pointing ideas and outlining frantically.
I chew my lip, still tasting the whisper of his kiss on my skin.
If I’m going to do this, I need to get closer.
I have to feel the weight the hell he’s been through left on his shoulders.
What if I just pretend to like him? Would that be so awful?
But what if he takes advantage of that?
Yeah, this feels crazy on the surface. But it could be exactly what I need to finish my degree with flying honors and every door of opportunity kicked open.
A few minutes later, a paper I never thought I’d write is almost born.
There’s only one thing left to do.
Tomorrow, I’ll apologize to Chris and beg him to stick around.
If I can get him to agree, I know I’ll find a way to pull more out of him.
A high-stakes game of truth or dare.
I’m sure I have nothing on his hard military discipline, but I’m sure I can control myself.
Just smile oh-so-sweetly.
Bite my tongue every time he calls me princess.
Attempt to have a human conversation.
I could even try to be his friend—and not because I’m selfish—but because he seems like he could use a sympathetic ear...
...couldn’t he?
I don’t care how hot he is, or how wet his filthy mouth makes me.
Pushing him away tonight tells me I can handle him at his worst.
So, I’ll just lead him into the friend zone and put up barbed wire around both of us.
Before anything goes too far.
A strange new confidence hums through my veins.
If all goes well, I’m going to unravel Chris and turn his story into something beautiful to share with the world. Even if I have to do it without ever mentioning his name.
Mystery McHottie is mine.
It’s only a few hot summer weeks.
It’s only a pet project.
Only hours of my life with a complicated, sexy young man who I’m starting to think was put here to test my own sanity.
