The Perfect Wrong, page 9
Let him push and tease all he wants. I’ll never break.
I’ll just show my god of green-eyed lightning that he’s not the only one who knows how to weather a storm.
6
Grey Waters (Chris)
Every time I turn around, there’s another fucking landmine.
I head for the office at the crack of dawn, shrugging off the hangover as I grab my crap and hoist it into my truck. I fight the urge to flip off Jeeves in the guard shack when he opens the gate, giving me another one of those looks that says, good riddance.
Yeah, shithead, same to you.
The Enguard headquarters is my fortress.
It’s sleek and spartan, all neutral colors with high-tech meeting and work rooms lurking behind the walls. The place is easily fancier than anything I’ve lived with under the government for the last seven years.
And compared to all the bullshit drama at home?
Working around the clock here sounds like a dream come true.
Ma showed her true colors for about the thousandth time.
Marriage to her latest toy hasn’t changed a single shade. And I’ll be damned if I’m crashing in that godforsaken house while she beats me up over my career with her marshmallow of a sugar daddy joining the fun.
Delia made her feelings crystal clear, too.
Honestly, I’m glad.
I know I was buzzed and I came at her too hard—I can admit when I’ve fucked up—but she sent her message loud and clear.
The way she tore herself away from me last night like I was a plague rat after I shoved my lips on hers makes a gunshot to the face feel subtle.
Today, without the whiskey in my veins and more common sense, I can’t blame her for running me out of her room.
I almost fucked up royally.
Like it or not, she’s my stepsister, courtesy of this fuckery, and she’s got a point.
Getting freaky comes with radioactive consequences.
I’m allergic to drama—especially with women.
It’s been my policy ever since my balls dropped and I learned to love a bedroom moan.
Love? Romance? Feelings?
Give me a damn break.
Casual, worry-free fucking has served me well. There are also a million chicks in this city who’ll be happy to suck my dick without any risk of stepping in a family bear trap.
I’m planning to hit the bar tonight after I work out, read the latest reports, and get home.
When I get to the fitness wing of this massive building, I’m ready to blow off some steam.
I work through my usual routine—going extra hard on the rowing machine because why the hell not—and hating that none of it helps.
No matter how much I beat my muscles into grits, I can’t stop thinking about Delia under me. Preferably in her own bed, defiling her right under our oblivious parents’ noses.
Demented?
Yeah.
Or maybe I just can’t get over my horseshit luck.
Something needs to go right after that raid on Warzach, doesn’t it?
The universe fucking owes me.
If there’s a God, he knows I’m due for good karma after pulling those kids out of the devil’s clutches.
He owes me big for watching two good men nearly slaughtered too. I wore their blood for hours while we were pinned down, trying like hell to prevent my buddy Bao from bleeding out.
I close my eyes for a second and flatten my back against the wall.
I still see it, hear it, smell it like it was only yesterday.
The screams, the explosions, the poor girls chained up in that storage closet of a room when Warzach had an entire fucking palace. To him, they were lower than dogs.
And that other monstrous fuck with the dead eyes, the soulless purveyor of flesh who escaped...
Goddamn.
I wish we weren’t under orders to capture either of those freaks alive. If Mr. Strauss said differently, I wouldn’t have batted an eye at putting hot lead through their skulls.
I certainly would have made sure Joaquin never slithered back to whatever hole he’s gone back to.
“Look alive, Triton,” a gravelly voice says, clapping my shoulder.
“Sex? Didn’t know you were here today. I thought you had the whole week in Utah with your granddaughter.”
If Sexton Jones ever rolled his eyes, he would the minute I call him that stupid nickname we all use for our tactical lead.
He’s greying and grizzled, a former SEAL just like me, only he was in for twenty years. He’s been through two wars in the Persian Gulf and more classified ops than anyone I’ve met.
Aside from that wicked scar that curls up his neck to his temple like a snake, his experience got him a job as Enguard’s mobile tactical boss and the respect of damn near everyone who meets him.
“Party’s been cut short. I promised Callie I’d be back as soon as possible for a week on the AVTs.”
I swear, the only time this man ever smiles is when he mentions his grand-munchkin.
“Yeah? Mr. Strauss got you doing overtime again?”
“Nah. Strauss is trying to save my ass this time—and yours.”
My eyebrows dart up.
If the big boss is this personally involved, some devious fuckery is up for sure.
“Don’t tell me. They finished translating those black books we found in the penthouse?” I try not to grit my teeth at the memory, remembering the stacks of thick black leather notebooks stuffed in a compartment under Satan’s bed.
A compartment that doubled as a cage too small for any grown woman.
The books were written in symbols nobody had ever seen, so off to FBI forensics they went.
“Not just translated. Decrypted. Turns out, Warzach had a heap of friends in high places with off-the-radar accounts. Plus, his own shipping fleet was under a shell company. The Feds were halfway through sorting it when the rest was destroyed.”
“Destroyed?” I huff out a breath. “What? You’re telling me somebody shredded the evidence in Federal custody?”
I can’t believe it.
Those places are guarded as tight as the Pentagon.
“Inside job,” he clips. “And is it any surprise? Warzach had congressmen and CEOs on his client list.”
I shake my head, this sickly feeling sweeping over me.
“Anyhow, you’re damn lucky you showed up when you did. If you hadn’t, I’d have paid you a visit myself. Word came down from Skylar this morning in operations. I already caught up with the rest of the team, and you were the odd man out. Told the guys with families to take the day off and hoof it, whatever works best with their families.”
“Sex, what’s going on?” I ask, my dread compounding.
His face is set like a stone when he says, “While our evidence was being incinerated at a Federal safe site overnight, Gering had a break-in at his place. Happened right as he was coming out of the shower—two sneaky bastards, armed and waiting for him. He was grazed by a bullet in the left thigh before he put them out of commission. His family was unharmed, thank Christ, and Gering himself should be back up and running in a few days.”
“Fuck!” I snarl.
Besides having a wife and kids who were caught in the middle, Brad Gering barely survived his last brush with death during the raid.
He needed a few pints of blood and bed rest for weeks after taking a slug in the shoulder.
“Sex, who?” I demand.
“Both men were identified by their tattoos. A local street group, low on the chain, but probably on the cartel’s payroll. No doubts about it. Looks like the boys from Baja Sur were in thick with Warzach, working security and securing him new girls—and they are pissed as a goddamned diamondback missing its rattler.”
“Shit. Sex, we can’t just sit on our hands.”
“That’s exactly what you’re gonna do, Triton,” he growls. “Orders are orders. You know we can’t just go throwing punches into Mexico without some major red tape on both sides of the border. Strauss says he wants everybody on our team to lay low—and since they tried to whack Gering where he sleeps, that means you’re sure as shit not going home.”
I want to protest.
Scream obscenities.
Tell Sex he’s off his rocker, and so is anybody else who thinks I’d ever let some fuckwit two-bit thug get the jump on me.
Too bad orders are orders.
That never changes when you’re in this line of work, even when you’re not answering to Uncle Sam under military contract anymore.
“Another hotel then? Whatever, I guess if I have to pay out of pocket—”
“Nope.” He cuts me off. “You’ve said plenty about that fancy new place in the family now, and I hope you found it comfortable when you dropped by yesterday.”
Inwardly, I’m groaning.
“The house has a gate, security, and damn near belongs to its own zip code. You’ll be safer there than you will be at any hotel or Airbnb. And you’ll be the first to know when Mr. Strauss decides the coast is clear. Understood?”
I grit my teeth and force a nod.
I’m still slumped against the wall when Sex nods smartly, pivots, and walks away.
This is what I get for asking for a little goddamned karma, one little peck from Lady Luck.
Instead, I get house arrests—death by blue balls that would make Papa Smurf jealous.
Looks like I get to stay cooped up with Miss Unfuckable in the world’s saddest remake of The Brady Bunch.
* * *
A few hours later, I’m running along the docks, watching lazy yachts and sailboats casting long shadows in the slowly setting sun.
I lingered for a couple hours after taking in the news, pretending to clean my gear and guns until Sex found me again. He chased me off with a double scolding from James Nobel, an ice-cold robot of a senior officer heading up the company’s intelligence side.
My boots pound cement, faster and harder than usual after a full-blown workout. Like I’m still trying to outrun the vicious fate ahead of me.
Fuck, I’m not playing games.
If I have my way—and I will—Miss Delia won’t be riling me up again.
Even if I’m supposed to head home, orders were made to be bent, but not broken.
That’s why I stop off for a burger and hit the bar next door first.
It’s nothing fancy, just the perfect grease pit to find a girl to sneak in later. A stranger to take the edge off the obsession in my temporary home.
Obviously, it’s not the first time I’ve used sex as brain bleach. It’s a lot more fun than whiskey hangovers.
Just this once, I’ll let the night swallow everything.
Damascus.
St. John.
The girls I barely saved.
The cartel hit men who want me dead.
Ma and her drugs and her shiny new billionaire boy toy.
My tease of a princess with the peach-perfect ass.
Sooner or later, we’ll bust through the red tape and win ourselves some action. I’ll be jetting off with my team to be the world’s most vulnerable, highly paid garbage man.
Tonight, after busting as much ass as I do, I’ll play the only way I like.
Hard.
* * *
The loud, half-smashed blond chick keeps falling off my lap in a corner booth, giggling every time I pull away from her with poorly concealed disgust.
What is my malfunction tonight?
I’m not sure why I don’t have my hand up her skirt yet.
I’m even more baffled why I can’t get hard.
She’s a beach girl—Laura or Layna or something—young and bubbly and entirely forgettable, but that’s never stopped me before. She likes her martinis double strength and her men rock hard.
The average red-blooded man would call her dressed to kill.
Too short, glaringly bright sundress, bleached highlights in her hair, fake tits, and a laugh that sounds like a strangled hyena.
She’s supposed to be the perfect hookup.
But with every passing second, my interest wanes. There’s another woman glued to my brain.
Delia, goddammit it.
The contrast between them is brutal.
Having this bubbly skank coiled around my neck reminds me how rare it is to find a girl in this town who’s not just trolling for tonight’s dick or her trophy husband.
“Baby, what’sa matter?” she slurs, stopping to push a desperate kiss into my throat. “You act like you got a major case of jet lag! I thought you said you’ve been here for a while? Talk to me!”
I force a thin, fake smile, running my fingers up her arm.
They feel numb, even when I sense her goosebumps, moving up to her neck and grabbing a fistful of her hair with a firm tug.
“You’re not my shrink. You want another drink or what?”
I’m trying so fucking hard to make this work.
The fact that I have to try makes this feel like the dating equivalent of yanking a stubborn mower that won’t start.
Miss Whatever gives me a moony stare, knowing I’m asking if she wants to blow out of here.
Her skin feels warm and dry, almost leathery, probably from too much sun.
Fuck this.
My mind wanders again.
Soon, my dick jerks—only because I’m remembering Delia’s soft thighs, the sound she made when she exploded, her sweet pussy going off on my hands.
Laura or Layna or whatever the fuck tries to kiss me.
For someone so bright, her lips feel like ash.
What evil spirit did I piss off to make a perfectly good-looking chick taste like cyanide?
The moan she spills against my mouth says she’s already in seventh heaven.
Meanwhile, I’m still in a beach dive bar that smells like cheap piss beer and surfer hair that could rival wet dog.
I don’t mean to push her away so harshly when I do, but that little minx in my head won’t shut up. It’s frustrating as hell.
Laura-Layna slides down my leg, too drunk to catch herself, sending her half-full margarita glass flying off the table.
Shit.
Even I’m embarrassed by all the eyes on us after the tremendous crash.
I pull my hands back and she scurries off me, wide-eyed and apologetic.
A waitress rushes up to deal with the mess, and I realize I’ve gotten splashed too. This sugary crap feels sticky, dripping all the way up my arm.
“Baby, no! Damn, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it! I’m such a klutz. Let me help clean you up.” She smiles, pulls out a napkin, and starts patting me down.
Wrinkling my nose, I push her away before standing. “Gotta hit the men’s room anyway. Give me a minute.”
I head into the bathroom and wash my arm, then throw cool water on my face.
My stubble feels like rough grit sandpaper today, like my whole damn body’s on edge. The same intensity I always get before a mission.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Why is it so hard to settle down and do what I’ve always done best—give one lucky woman the night of her life?
I want to punch my own worn reflection, hating the distant, hollowed-out look in my eyes.
This is not the face of a man who ought to be having fun.
This is the ugly goddamned mug of an idiot fixated on his own stepsis.
And there’s no denying Delia’s hot little ass has me screwed up bad and I can’t figure out why.
At a glance, she’s nothing special.
Just another young, hot, responsive spitfire with a fresh college face who just so happens to be brutally off-limits. And yet, she’s gunning to be the end of me without even trying.
I groan, raking a cold hand over my face.
My phone dings.
I rip it out of my pocket, finger-punching the screen.
Speak of the devil—or is it the succubus?
Delia: Hi, are you busy? I’d like to talk about last night...
Adrenaline darts through my blood.
The same superhuman focus I get with my rifle in hand strums my system, except there’s no life or death on the line here.
Only bruised egos.
Talk about what? I text back.
I exit the bathroom and lean against the wall outside, waiting with breath so tense you could cut it.
My phone buzzes again a few seconds later.
Bad blood. If we can clear the air, I’d like to try, Chris. I’m worried we got off on the wrong foot. You had a right to be upset.
Wrong foot? I snort.
More like wrong boner.
I keep reading as another message appears.
Also, Evie and Dad left for the weekend. They took the boat down to San Diego.
Meaning I’ll be alone with her in that huge house then.
Fuck, is she serious or just yanking my dick?
She wants to have a heart-to-heart with nobody else around?
I inhale so sharply my lungs burn.
Delia Burr is either sinfully naive or far more batshit crazy than I guessed.
It takes a few seconds to ignore the fire throbbing in my balls to type back.
I’ll think about it. I decided to come back there tonight, but after the day I’ve had, I may just crash, I lie. Don’t wait up for me.
With a devilish smile, I add, I don’t need to hear you rubbing one out, either. If your vibrator keeps me awake tonight through that wall, we will have problems.
I smile, watching the dots spin, stop, and spin again as she struggles to type.
Nothing ever comes back.
At least that shuts her up and gives me time to screw my head on, never mind the hard-on I’m now sporting that Laura-Layna could never pull out of me.
I’m disappointed she’s still waiting for me at the table, wet and drunk as ever.
I walk up behind her and clear my throat.
She turns, smiling up at me with her thick glossy lips, casting the same look I know she’d have before straining to take every inch of me down her throat.
“I need to run. Something came up. Family business,” I lie.
“Oh, no! You’re serious?” Her smile vanishes. She leaps up and grabs my arm, and I hear her breath catch. “...did I do something wrong? Don’t tell me it was the spill.”
