Wrong Series: Wrong Part 16

As soon as the truck starts moving, I feel myself drifting. I've hit the figurative wall, and I need to pa.s.s out. I lay down across the back seat, and let my eyes close. I can hear the low rumble of Jude's voice as he talks to Rich, and some country music playing through the radio. The last thing I hear before I pa.s.s out is Jude calling my name.

"Tor." I shake her, but she's pa.s.sed out cold.

"You want me to carry her?" Richard asks.

"No!" I'm too quick with that reply, but I don't want him touching her. "No, just go. I've got this." He's a f.u.c.king idiot and would probably come in his pants if her t.i.ts rubbed over his shoulder the right way.

He shrugs and turns around, heading to the house. I drag Tor across the back seat by her ankles. She's like a rag doll. Her limbs sway as I scoop her up and throw her over my shoulder to carry her inside the house.

What in the h.e.l.l am I doing? I take the stairs two at a time until I reach my bedroom. I open the door and throw her unconscious form on the bed.

She groans as her head rolls to the side. "Jude?" she mumbles, her brows pinching together as she squints at me.

I f.u.c.king love the way she says my name. I swallow. I shouldn't have this soft spot for her. I shouldn't be thinking the things I am. "Yeah?" I sigh.

"Where am I?" She presses her palm to her forehead. "Oh, G.o.d, the room is spinning."

"And of course you're gonna vomit, right? Only makes sense." I sit her up, draping her arm over my shoulder as I help her up and cart her dead weight into the bathroom. I flip the light switch and she grumbles. Using her hand, she shields her eyes from the harsh light as I plop her onto the floor in front of the toilet.

"Oh, G.o.d," she moans, resting her forehead against the toilet seat. "Why did you let me drink that much?"

"Let you?" I shake my head, starting to argue with her, but why bother? "f.u.c.k, woman, you were necking tequila like it was a d.a.m.n sport."

"f.u.c.k you," she grumbles.

"If you throw up, then no f.u.c.king thank you." I smile. Jesus, she's a d.a.m.n mess.

"Oh, G.o.d. I feel so ill." Her knuckles grip the edge of the toilet so violently they turn white.

I hear her sniffle. What the...is she crying? I angle my head to look at her. Her face is scrunched up, eyes closed, lip quivering. She's f.u.c.king crying; she hasn't even been sick yet...and she's crying.

"Why the h.e.l.l are you crying?" I try not to laugh, but honestly, this s.h.i.t's funny.

"Shut up. I hate being sick, okay?" Her entire body shakes and her shoulders lurch forward as she heaves.

I lean against the wall and watch her, not exactly sure whether to leave her or stay. After a few moments of retching, she stops, and resumes crying. When she dry heaves again, she dramatically throws herself over the toilet and her hair falls in her face. I roll my eyes, huffing as I step toward her.

"Jesus." I squat down as I pick the sticky, damp hair off her cheek and wrap the rest of her loose hair around my wrist in an attempt to keep it out of the way. "You don't make anything easy, do you?"

"Just-" She heaves again. "Just leave," she pants between deep breaths. She tries to push me away, but her movements are weak. Her face is still practically in the toilet.

"If I leave, you'll probably drown."

"Oh, G.o.d. I think I'm dying!" She wails, tears streaking her face.

I plop down on the floor and stare at her in amus.e.m.e.nt. Is this how all f.u.c.king woman are? Dear G.o.d. They're f.u.c.king insane. "You are not dying. Chill the f.u.c.k out."

"I am f.u.c.king dying!"

I rub my temples. She gets nearly gutted, and this-vomiting from one too many tequila shots-has her in tears and fearing death is imminent? "You're not f.u.c.king dying, not yet, at least," I groan. "What kind of f.u.c.king doctor were you? Jesus. Since when has tequila been a f.u.c.king death sentence?"

Her face doesn't budge from the toilet, but she does wave her middle finger at me. "What would you know?" She spits into the toilet a few times. "You're a c.u.n.t!" Her voice echoes from the bowl.

I laugh. That word on her prissy British lips turns me on every d.a.m.n time.

She sits back on her heels and s.n.a.t.c.hes her hair away from me.

"You done?" I raise a brow at her, tapping my fingers over the floor. She looks like s.h.i.t glaring at me with bloodshot eyes.

"Come on. Up." I pick her up and flush the toilet before walking her to the sink. I turn the water on and point to the basin. She's stumbling around like she's about to fall over. "You gonna wash the puke off your face or what?" I ask.

I open one of the drawers in the vanity and rummage through, grabbing a toothbrush. I run it under the water, slather some toothpaste on it, and hand it to her. "Is this what it's like to have a kid?" I groan. "d.a.m.n. Here. Brush your teeth too."

She takes it from me, swaying back and forth while attempting to flash me a scathing look. It's more of a drunken squint. She holds the toothbrush in her hand and stares at it like she has no clue how to f.u.c.king use it.

I wave my hands at her like a f.u.c.king orchestra conductor trying to teach a bunch of idiots to play Bach. "Aaaand brush..."

"Why are you still here?" she moans. "I can brush my b.l.o.o.d.y teeth. Get out!"

"Just brush your teeth, Tor." I walk to the toilet and pull out my c.o.c.k to take a p.i.s.s. As soon as the p.i.s.s. .h.i.ts the water, she slowly turns her head, blue foam all over her lips.

Her eyes widen and her jaw drops. "What...are you doing?"

I step back farther from the toilet, still aiming the steady stream as I smile at her. "Taking a p.i.s.s. See?" I shake it, then put the seat back down. "My bathroom. I p.i.s.s when I feel like it. I'm going to bed." I grin as I peel my clothes off, making my way to the bed and flopping down.

"You're repulsive, you know that, right? I cannot believe you just got that thing out in front of me."

I crumple the pillow up underneath my head. Will she ever shut the f.u.c.k up? "G.o.d!" I groan.

She stumbles into the room a few minutes later with her top wrapped around her neck and her arms in the air. Is she serious right now? I shouldn't laugh, but f.u.c.k. She's like a d.a.m.n kid when she's drunk. I sigh and get out of bed, yanking the top over her head.

"I had it," she grumbles.

"Uh-huh. Looked like you had it." I pull a t-shirt from my dresser and toss it at her before climbing back into bed. "And don't worry. I'm not watching you." I roll over, facing away from her, and hear her stomping around as she tries to get dressed. She's mumbling to herself. G.o.d only knows what the h.e.l.l she's saying.

A few seconds later, the other side of the bed dips under her weight. I lean over and switch the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness. Within minutes her breathing evens out and becomes heavy and I'm...wide awake.

Every tiny movement she makes is magnified. I'm hyper-aware of her presence, and so is my d.i.c.k. What the actual f.u.c.k have I done? I must be a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic f.u.c.ker to sleep next to the woman that only hours ago had me so hard-up I slammed her against a tree, ready to shove my c.o.c.k in her as she dry-humped me like a two-dollar hooker. She's hot, plain and simple, and my d.i.c.k seems to feel the need to remind me of this fact...often. The longer I think about having her against that tree, the harder I get. This is f.u.c.king ridiculous. My eyes trail over to her. I watch her chest rise and fall in deep swells, and I'll be d.a.m.ned, every time those f.u.c.kers move, her tight little nipples poke through the thin undershirt she's wearing. That sight makes my d.i.c.k twitch like it's going to explode.

I lay in the darkness, just staring at the ceiling. A few minutes ago I was dog tired, but now...now, sleep is the last thing on my mind. I reach down and rearrange my d.i.c.k. Just that brief touch has my c.o.c.k begging for more. f.u.c.k this. I climb out of the bed, my boxers pitching a tent as I stumble toward the bathroom. I leave the door cracked just enough to see her. f.u.c.k it if she wakes up. It's her fault I have this hard-on.

I lean one hand against the wall, peeking out at her as I sneak my hand beneath the elastic of my boxers, fisting my hard c.o.c.k. I imagine her thighs wrapped around my waist as I viciously grind my c.o.c.k against her p.u.s.s.y. I can almost hear the little moans she makes, practically taste the tequila on her tongue. I run my thumb over the head and it glides over the drop of pre-c.u.m. f.u.c.k. I can only imagine how d.a.m.n good it would feel to actually have my d.i.c.k in her. I give myself one long stroke and immediately feel everything in me relax. Picking up the pace, I push off the wall, turning to lean my back against it as I reach down and grab my b.a.l.l.s. I tug harder and faster, ma.s.saging my b.a.l.l.s as I think about how d.a.m.n good it felt having her all over me.

I imagine what she would look like on her knees, with those f.u.c.king lips wrapped around my c.o.c.k, my hand fisted in her hair while I f.u.c.k her face until she gags. I'm frantic at this point. My hand is loudly slapping against my lower stomach. The fact that she's completely unaware that I am beating my s.h.i.t like it owes me money makes me even more frantic.

I barely hear her talking in her sleep. "Jude," she whispers, followed by a soft, feminine, incredibly s.e.xy moan. And that's it; I feel my b.a.l.l.s tighten and my entire body tenses like a coiled spring. I go off like f.u.c.king Mount Vesuvius. It's been awhile since I've been teased like this, which means s.h.i.t goes every-f.u.c.king-where. Holy s.h.i.t! My body tenses and jerks with aftershocks, my head slamming against the wall as I try to catch my breath.

"Jude..." she mumbles, which snaps me out of my fog. "Please..." Her voice trails off and I can barely make out her begging, and not the good kind of begging.

I grab a towel and wipe myself off. She mumbles my name again and whimpers. I step back into the room, and climb across the bed, brushing her hair from her face as I lay down next to her. She quiets and turns into my neck.

I don't know what the f.u.c.k I'm getting into here. I just have this unexplainable urge to fix her, which is f.u.c.king ironic, because I'm usually the one to f.u.c.k s.h.i.t up. It's unnatural for me to care, and I have no idea how to handle it.

I close my eyes, my mind racing. I glance at the clock and minutes fade to hours. Every d.a.m.n time I close my eyes I see my mom and sister; I hear the screams, my mother begging Joe to not hurt my sister, to let her go. I see Tor crying and bleeding, Euan pleading for his life. For the first time in my life I allow myself to realize that I am the monster in other people's nightmares just like Joe is the monster in mine. I have brutally taken the lives of people, leaving their families with nothing but a fading memory. The people I kill know d.a.m.n well what they're getting into when they decide not to pay me my money, but their families...that gaping wound ripped into their souls from that loss...that affects me. Since when have I had pieces of me that give a f.u.c.king d.a.m.n? I don't want to give a d.a.m.n, but Tor f.u.c.king makes me. Her being here has chipped away at me, caused me to re-evaluate everything. I roll onto my side, and instead of an empty s.p.a.ce, there she is. She's like a physical f.u.c.king conscience that I can't ignore. I stare at her silhouette and my mind comes to a gridlock. This woman has changed everything in my life. In a matter of weeks she has created a f.u.c.king war inside me. She makes me question who the f.u.c.k I am.

I trace my fingertip over her arm. She's something I'm not used to, something that almost doesn't seem real. She is light in this pit of blackness. She's an angel surrendering to the unforgiving flames of h.e.l.l, and in no way is that right.

She sighs and tosses in her sleep. She is so much more than what she's been reduced to. She's in my bed because she's afraid to be anywhere else; really, because she has nowhere else to go. She's been given freedom, but she's chosen to remain captive. She's that wounded that a heartless b.a.s.t.a.r.d like myself seems like a haven. I draw in a heavy breath, the scent of her drowning me.

I am all she has.

Having one person, that's a s.h.i.tty destiny.

I will keep her safe, and I will f.u.c.king slaughter Joe. For my mother, for my sister, for Tor. Right or wrong, I don't f.u.c.king care.

Oh, my f.u.c.king G.o.d. What the h.e.l.l happened last night? My head feels like somebody just smashed it into a wall. I groan as I roll over, and my stomach follows suit. Ugh, my mouth feels like a badger took a s.h.i.t in it. I try to open my eyes, but I can't. Holy s.h.i.t, I think I'm actually blind! Maybe I've had a stroke. Oh, G.o.d. Why is the bed moving? Wait, that's not the bed. I rub at my eyes and blink. My vision is blurry, but I seem to have an in-depth knowledge of Jude's chest now, and I know that's exactly what is moving beneath me.

I manage to pull away from him without yesterday's limpet display. I groan when I stand up, swaying slightly. I feel gross. I can practically smell the tequila seeping from my pores. Ugh, tequila. Just the thought of it makes my stomach turn.

I wobble to the bathroom and lean over the loo for a few minutes because I'm pretty sure I'm going to hurl. Eventually, though, my stomach calms its s.h.i.t. A shower, that's what I need. Everything will seem better then. h.e.l.l, at least I don't have anywhere to be. Silver lining and all that.

I turn the shower on and let the water warm. I glance at the vanity. I should look awful this morning, but I don't. As always, my eyes drop to the long scar across my throat, only this time, there are two purple marks to the side of it. I touch them gingerly and step closer to the mirror to get a better look. Bite marks, they're bite marks! I remember Jude's body pressed against mine, his lips at my neck, his teeth...My lips are swollen, and my bottom lip is raw.

While part of me is screaming what the f.u.c.k, there's another part that's like a giddy b.l.o.o.d.y girl. What the h.e.l.l is with that? This is Jude I'm talking about here. Giddy should not even be a possibility around that man. He's a killer, a criminal, a man with no morals and few loyalties.

What happened last night should never have happened, so why, when I think of it now, does it make my skin flush and my stomach tighten? I'm so f.u.c.ked.

I jump into the shower, hoping that the water will strengthen my resolve and give me the will power I need to face Jude this morning...think of the devil, and he shall appear. I hear the bathroom door open, and he steps in. For one awful yet somehow hopeful second I think he might try to get in the shower with me, but he doesn't. I hear the taps turn on, and I think he's brushing his teeth. Then there's the unmistakable sound of him p.i.s.sing. I roll my eyes. Really? Why can that man not urinate somewhere away from me? I'm really hoping our drunken bonding hasn't dropped some weird barrier whereby we're suddenly into communal p.i.s.sing. Some things are just sacred.

The entire time he's in here, he never says a word. Oh, my G.o.d. Maybe he's ashamed too. I stay in here for a long time, trying to wash away my shame. There's not enough water or soap in the world for that, though.

I eventually step out and wrap a towel around me. Okay, be brave, Ria. It's no worse than a one night stand...except for the fact that I have to spend every minute of every day with him.

I push the handle down and open the door, stepping into the room nervously.

I pretty much define awkward right now. I glance up to see Jude lounging on the bed. The TV is on and he's leant against the headboard, watching it. I can't for the life of me tell you what is on the screen because he's almost naked, except for his boxers. His hands are behind his head, and every muscle in his torso seems to be popping out in the morning light. s.h.i.t. Look up! I scream at myself.

His eyes stray away from the television and land on me. He grabs the remote and switches the TV off. In the sudden silence, all I can hear is my own heavy breathing.

He clears his throat. "I'm going to go handle some things while Caleb gets you breakfast. Oh, and we need to dye your hair."

"My hair?" The f.u.c.k?

He moves off the bed and pulls a t-shirt out of the chest of drawers. "Yeah, your hair. You're dead, remember? Which means the hair is gonna have to be dyed or something. Sorry."

"I thought I was only supposed to be here for three weeks?"

He frowns. "You are. It's just a precaution."

I narrow my eyes at him. "For what? I'm dead, remember? I'm hours from home. No one here knows who I am or gives a s.h.i.t what colour my hair is."

"Joe knows what you look like." He c.o.c.ks an eyebrow.

I roll my eyes and move to the bed. I sit in the middle with my legs crossed, watching him. "Great. Well, my old life is ruined. What the h.e.l.l, I suppose you might as well just destroy my ident.i.ty."

"Really?" He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, his biceps straining and stretching the thick ink over his muscles. "Get off the f.u.c.king cross." I feel my temper rise to the surface instantly. He has screwed up every aspect of my life.

"f.u.c.k you, Jude! You're a c.u.n.t!" I snap.

He laughs humourlessly. "I can't f.u.c.king win. I try to kill you, I'm an a.s.shole; I try to save you, I'm a c.u.n.t. You want to leave, I let you, and then you come back. What the f.u.c.k do you want me to do?"

"Nothing, I want you to do nothing. Just go and take your illegal bets, beat the s.h.i.t out of some poor unsuspecting b.a.s.t.a.r.d, f.u.c.k some dirty, AIDSy stripper, h.e.l.l, drown a kitten..."

He crosses his arms, staring at me with a raised eyebrow. "Drown a f.u.c.king kitten? Really?"

"Why do I have to get stuck with you anyway? I want Caleb back. He's nice. He's the only person in this house that isn't a total b.l.o.o.d.y psycho!"

He taps his foot over the floor as he narrows his gaze on me. "Is this some hormonal female s.h.i.t? Get that s.h.i.t under control, would you?" Oh, he did not.

"You!" I scream, crawling onto my knees and moving to the edge of the bed. "f.u.c.k you!" I stab a finger against his bare chest. My b.o.o.bs are brushing against his stomach, and his eyes instantly drop to my chest. His lips pull up in a smirk, which makes me even more irate. He makes me so b.l.o.o.d.y angry. I slap his chest, the sound ricocheting around the room.

His eyes narrow, the only warning I get before he grabs my wrists and pushes me back on the bed, pinning my hands above my head. He kneels over me, his face inches from mine. "You done yet?" He growls. I don't answer him. "I would have thought you'd have learned by now not to slap me." He comes even closer to me. "Don't f.u.c.king do it again." His voice is a deep rumble that has my skin breaking out in goose b.u.mps, even as it feels like I'm over-heating.

"Or what?" I challenge, before I can even stop myself.

He growls, and one by one the fingers of his free hand move around my throat. He stares at me, his breathing ragged. "Don't test me, Tor."

There's a moment of silence. A moment where I should be scared. A moment where I should apologise, try and get him off me, but I don't. I don't, because some warped part of me wants Jude. A dark, twisted corner of my mind revels in the danger that he represents and rises to the challenge. I'm all too aware of how wrong that is. I have lost everything, and in having nothing to lose, the danger he promises has become an adrenaline shot to my broken and dying soul.

His thumb brushes against my skin as his eyes lock with mine. I can feel his even breath on my lips, his warm fingers tightening around my throat. "Or maybe you want to test me? You like being strangled, Tor?" His voice is husky and raw, s.e.x, laced with danger and possibility.

His lips are so close to mine. My eyes flick to his mouth as a blush creeps over my cheeks. I can remember the way his lips felt on mine last night, his teeth nipping at my throat, his tongue skimming my lips. Our eyes lock, and I watch as that familiar volatile anger gives way to a very male l.u.s.t. My pulse skitters wildly as he releases my throat and grips my jaw, tracing his thumb over my bottom lip. "You have no idea how many times I've pictured these lips wrapped around my c.o.c.k," he grates.

I should be repulsed. I should be offended, but I'm not. My breath hitches and my lips part as I try to drag more oxygen into my ailing lungs. A small smile pulls at his lips before he leans forward, his lips brushing mine as he talks. "I want to corrupt all this innocence right here."

And I want him to corrupt me.

I can't take his teasing. I move, pressing my lips against his like the wanton s.l.u.t that I've apparently become. He releases my chin, his fingers winding into my hair and pulling at the roots hard as his tongue dives into my mouth. My back bows off the bed, trying to get closer to him as my legs spread shamelessly, inviting him between them.

He releases my wrists, moving down my arm and over my body, leaving a trail of fire. His teeth nip at my lip, leaving a sting. I moan against his mouth and he lets out a throaty chuckle as he grabs my knee, hitching it over his hip. He rolls his hips, grinding his hard c.o.c.k against my p.u.s.s.y, and even the thin pair of lace knickers I'm wearing feel like a f.u.c.king chast.i.ty belt right now. His lips, his hands, his c.o.c.k; he uses every weapon in his a.r.s.enal to wind me so tight that I'm sure I'm going to snap.

My hands work over his chest, his back, his arms, clawing at the thick muscles. I want more. I need more. He rolls his hips again and my nails dig into his skin, making him hiss.

"You want me?" he rumbles.

I can barely form words. "Yes," I choke out.

"Then f.u.c.king beg me for it, Tor," he growls against my ear.