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)
My brain revolts.
Why do I see myself popping the cork and spraying it all over her?
Licking expensive Dom or whatever it is off her tits, tasting it on her pussy, cooling her sweat-slick skin with champagne before I burn her to cinders.
“Can you grab a couple glasses?” She smiles like an angel, gesturing to the crystal glasses hanging on a rack.
I grab two and follow her down the long deck stairs to the pool area below, overlooking a perfect view of the churning Pacific in the distance.
Yeah, a man could get used to fucking hard and often here.
And sooner or later, I know I’ll try if I’m able to drag her into that pool.
We flop down next to each other in these huge cabana chairs. Her cleavage torments me for the hundredth time after I get the cork off for her, watching as she fills our glasses.
That sparkling fizz sounds too wet for my one-track mind.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask. “Since you broke out the bubbly, I hope you’ve got something to celebrate.”
“More like an apology. I’m sorry last night was so awful,” she says. “I didn’t know Evie and Dad would tag team you. I don’t blame you for handling it like you did. I’d have stormed out too with that treatment.”
“Princess, stop,” I growl, taking a long pull from my glass. It’s sweet and warming. “Before you say too much, I don’t need family therapy. Somehow, I’ve got a feeling that’s not why you wanted to see me, either. Just spill it. Tell me why you called me back.”
She stares into her glass, giving it a little swirl in her hand.
“The night on the beach... I can’t stop thinking about what a disaster it was. We were so close to something so...” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Something unforgivable.”
Unforgivable?
Fuck that, I want to scream. The only thing that’s truly unforgivable is pretending we can’t.
“Whatever. You gonna tell me something I don’t already know?” I throw back my drink, gulping the rest of my glass and reaching for a refill.
She watches me with wide, shining eyes.
Maybe this chick is crazy after all, or just too stuck up to admit she wants a working boy in her bed.
I’ve fucked shy rich girls before.
They always play coy and this feels like the same sad game.
When she doesn’t answer, I lean forward, staring her down.
“Well? Now that you’ve apologized till you’re blue in the face, what else is eating you? Are you trying to work up to asking for some brotherly lovin’?”
Her mouth drops open, flustered as ever.
“Brotherly love, I mean. Secrets you can only share between siblings. Get your mind out of the damn gutter,” I whisper.
“Oh my God, this is too weird,” she rushes out. “I’m an only child, just like you. Mom walked out on us and my parents were divorced years ago. The stress was intense. I guess maybe this family friction just brings those bad memories back... I’m just afraid.”
I look her up and down.
“Afraid?” I echo, waiting for more.
“Afraid for Dad, for Evie, for you, Chris. If we’d messed up more than we did on the beach, do you have any clue how much worse this would be?”
I bite my tongue before I dare to suggest otherwise.
Her eyes are honest, but I’m not joining in the pity party just yet.
As far as I’m concerned, nobody needs to know about my own drama.
Not my old man and his fucked up days with my mom, or the endless mistakes of Evangeline Triton that came after.
I’m definitely not seeking comfort in this dark-haired siren who acts like she’s out for a therapy hug one minute and then the roughest night of her life the next.
“I’m no stranger to family bullshit, Delia. Sorry it upsets you so much. My mother’s always been a mess—I’m sure you’ve done your homework. You’ve read about how her career went down in flames.”
“Yeah. I’m so sorry.” She gives me those puppy dog eyes and nods.
“I’m not,” I snap, sucking an angry sip from my glass. “Most of her bad luck was self-inflicted. The drugs, the men, the mania... I’m as sympathetic to mental illness as anybody you’ll meet, but fuck. At some point, you can only carry a person so far when they don’t want to help themselves. And Ma, she leaned on me for so many years it got stifling. I had to fucking carry her when I was too young to carry myself. Now that I won’t wait on her hand and foot anymore, that’s probably why she had to hook your old man. She’s alone and she wants a golden parachute to break her fall—and falling is all she’s ever done.”
I stop right there, knowing how bitter I sound.
How could I be anything else?
When you’ve lost at least five hundred nights of sleep in hospital rooms or terror at home, wondering if your own mother will stop breathing from her latest binge, bitterness is justified.