Page 54 of The Perfect Wrong

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 eventrying.

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 itthe 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.