The Perfect Wrong Read Online Nicole Snow

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Sports, Suspense Tags Authors: Nicole Snow Advertisement1

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I snap my eyes away from it, drawing a harsh breath as I rake a hand through my hair. I can’t let something so mundane bring me back there.

If only my brain gave a shit what I want.

That raid last month in the Virgins punches me in the soul.

The mansion bathed in shadows.

The exploding gunfire.

The panicked screams.

The children.

Goddamn, just thinking about that sadistic rich fuck we pulled out of his panic room with a bleeding hole in his leg makes me want to beat holes in the nice slate-grey wall with my fists. Jordan Warzach stumbled around like he was drunk and sleepy, as if keeping girls in cages is as normal as owning a damn dog kennel.

I should have fucking killed him.

If I weren’t under orders and attached to the rest of the team, executing a glorified bounty hunter mission, I would have.

And that other man from the cartel with the dark, soulless eyes with the snakes on his boots. He was smiling and staring me dead in the eye when he sunk his knife into that girl’s throat, forcing me to choose.

I picked saving her life over pursuing that kingpin puke, pulling her into my arms and keeping pressure on her wound until the medics arrived.

It worked. She’s alive and recovered.

Unfortunately, so is Eladio Joaquin, one more Satan free to walk this Earth.

But Commander Sexton is a hardass for rules—and that’s what wins him everyone’s respect, including mine.

When the order came down from Landon Strauss, our big boss and CEO, to capture any swamp rats alive, our hard as nails pit boss wasn’t going to fuck that up.

Or let me fuck it up for him.

Snarling, I sigh, stomping over to the fridge and praying I still have a few cold beers.

The soft white light beads off the glass inside.

I grab a local pale ale and press the coldness to my head until it makes me shudder.

“Delia, fuck. I need your distraction. You don’t even know,” I mutter to myself.

A low chuckle rips out of me as I think about her name and that old Johnny Cash song.

“Delia’s Gone” is actually pretty damn tragic when you dwell on the words.

We barely know each other.

I’m damn sure not planning to wife her up, much less do any shooting. Though I’d be lying if I said that princess wasn’t already haunting me in the worst way.

I just want to haul her into bed.

Help her help me forget.

Before that can happen, I have another distraction that’s a hell of a lot less thrilling than the thought of having Delia under me.

I bust off the bottle cap with a groan and down half the beer in three gulps.

Yeah. Tomorrow’s gonna be rough.

I’m still trying to figure out why I even agreed to an evening of bullshit with Ma’s rich new sugar daddy and his spoiled brat.

Call it obligation.

A need to check in on her and make sure she’s not detonating anyone else’s life while her own goes down in shambles for the hundredth time.

She called me around noon to screech about coming to dinner, all but insisting I get my ass over to his beachside mansion two hours early to meet her new 'family.'

The guy’s house is probably in the same zip code as the palace party I crashed tonight.

Apparently, his daughter’s a bland rich girl in journalism or some shit. It’s painfully hilarious that Ma acts like we’ll have a lot in common.

My lip curls around the bottle as I chug beer I can barely taste.

Shit.

It’s not just the bad raid and sick memories I’m trying to bury.

Blowing off some steam between the sheets helps me forget about what a gaping hole my life is in my off-hours. Especially the endless crap my shell of a mother slings in all directions.

I’ve been through it before. I’ll definitely be there again.

There’s always another rotten chapter waiting when you’re left guessing when your mother’s next mental and drug crisis will erupt.

That’s not Delia’s problem, though.

That’s mine.

I can’t get too attached.

So I head for the shower, letting the hissing cool water ground my mind.

I shouldn’t bait that sweet girl into thinking we’re dating or whatever.

All I want her for is skin therapy.

She’s just another fuck, after all, even if she’s the first one I’ve been excited about in over a year.

I shower off quickly before heading to bed, careful to charge my phone for tomorrow.

I resist the urge to jerk my dick off in the shower, thinking about that little sound she made when I sent her to heaven.

No, better to save it for tomorrow.

The poor woman talks like she’s never had a real man before, and I’m aiming to leave her with enough big dick energy to remember.

Sometimes I feel bad about my fuck-and-release policy, but it’s for everyone’s benefit.

I don’t do relationships.

Not since Uncle Sam owned my balls twenty-four seven after I enlisted at eighteen. Or after I signed them away again to Enguard.


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