Page 31 of The Perfect Wrong
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.
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’mafraid.