Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“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.
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.