Intoxicating, page 2
“He seems to have suffered some serious injuries,” Linc noted, unable to tear his gaze from the picture of the boy.
“Not serious enough,” Monty muttered. That did get Linc’s attention. At his raised brow, the older man’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just frustrated. He’s a good kid. He’s just…confused. He lacks discipline. Rules. Order. That’s why Jackson thinks you’ll be a good fit. He won’t charm you like he did the others.”
“I’m sorry if this is out of line, but your son is twenty-two years old. I can’t just move into his house and watch him against his will.”
“The hell you can’t. My son is currently on house arrest, which he received after failing his court-mandated breathalyzer tests. He might be an adult according to the law, but he relies on me to live. Until this accident, he was finishing his final year at the University of Florida before moving on to law school. He had to take a year off to serve out his sentence, but he knows he belongs to me. He certainly doesn’t have the skills or ambition needed to support himself. He’ll do what I tell him. He’ll do what you tell him.”
Linc’s eyes dropped back to the picture, his dick intrigued by the notion of the green-eyed boy doing anything Linc told him. He shook the thought away. “Sir, if he’s on house arrest, what do you need me for? If he’s got an ankle monitor, aren’t the cops already keeping tabs on him?”
“He’s left the property twice despite the damn monitor. He’s got two weeks left on his house arrest, and then Miami-Dade’s finest are releasing him back into society. I need you to keep him out of trouble so they don’t extend his sentence, and then I need you to keep his name out of the headlines for the next five months. It’s a damned miracle I’ve kept the house arrest a secret.”
Monty sure loved to throw the word ‘miracle’ around. Linc suspected the senator didn’t fully understand the word’s definition.
“The one good thing about that Topher kid,” Monty continued, unaware of Linc’s inner monologue, “he’s determined to run a ‘clean’ campaign, so he hasn’t tried to dig up any dirt on me. He only wants to debate the ‘issues.’”
Linc didn’t trust anybody who used air quotes as much as this man did. “So, I’m not a babysitter, I’m a prison guard?”
“If you consider living in a seven-thousand-square-foot penthouse apartment overlooking Biscayne Bay a prison, then sure, you are the world’s luckiest and most well-paid prison guard.”
These people were everything Linc hated about the world. “Alright, then. I’m in.”
The senator’s face lit up, and he once again stood, extending his arm. “Excellent.” Once his hand was around Linc’s, he squeezed tight. “Let me be frank. I cannot stress the importance of discretion enough. Understood?”
“I signed a non-disclosure agreement when I took the job with Elite.”
“Excellent. I trust you won’t mind signing another one my attorney drew up on your way out.”
Linc frowned but nodded. “I suppose not. That’ll be fine.”
“Then there’s nothing else to say but welcome aboard. Once you collect your belongings, my driver will be happy to take you over to the house.” Linc had a hand on the doorknob when the senator spoke once more. “Don’t forget you work for me, Mr. Hudson. No matter what my son tells you.”
Linc closed the door behind him, a headache throbbing behind his left eye.
He hoped this job was worth it.
Wyatt rubbed at the strap cuffed to his right ankle. Underneath it, the skin looked raw and irritated, but he consoled himself by imagining the look on his father’s face if he could see him sunning himself by the pool, a bottle of the old man’s best Bordeaux beside him. He wasn’t even drinking it, just had it open in case dear old Dad popped by unannounced. Not that his father ever had or ever would. He put his efforts into the things he cared about, and Wyatt hadn’t been a thing Montgomery Edgeworth cared about since he was six, if ever. Pressure swelled behind Wyatt’s ribs, but he pushed it back, biting down on the inside of his cheek until the taste of metal filled his mouth.
Whatever.
He flopped back onto the plush green lounge chair, throwing one last glare at his government-issued ankle bracelet before he closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the sun and the pain of his throbbing cheek push away the sick feeling he didn’t want to acknowledge. He hadn’t seen his father in months, not since the judge had given Wyatt a stern lecture about responsibility and then sentenced him to six months of house arrest. He had no reason to think his dad would darken his doorway, even though Wyatt had chased off another watchdog.
Without opening his eyes, Wyatt picked up the bottle of Chateau Latour Pauillac and sniffed it before taking a tentative sip and wincing. It tasted like plums and dirt and reminded him of wood shavings. He took another generous swig. Maybe if he got drunk enough, he could pretend the white noise of Graciela’s vacuum cleaner was the beach and the upbeat Latin music pouring from his Bose speakers was a live band at a tiny island bar.
Today wasn’t Graciela’s cleaning day. She was only scheduled on Wednesdays, but since his incarceration at Casa de Tightass, she’d been there every day pretending to clean. In exchange, Wyatt pretended not to notice it wasn’t her day. He liked the company, even though he suspected his mother sent Graciela there in the hopes she would spill Wyatt’s secrets. He couldn’t fault Graciela for pretending to. His mother paid her spies generously. But Graciela was one of two people in the world who were loyal to Wyatt above anybody.
Despite the noise, Wyatt had no trouble hearing the obnoxious chime of the doorbell as it blared Beethoven’s Fifth. He stayed where he was, but he forced his eyes back open. “Graciela! Doorbell!”
The housekeeper flicked her gaze in his direction, then deliberately turned her back to him, swinging her ample hips to the music.
“That will reflect in your Christmas bonus, lady,” he promised as he walked past her.
“Oh, and I was so looking forward to that fifteen dollars,” Graciela simpered, her accented words dripping with sarcasm.
He grinned and patted her graying bedraggled bun as he passed. He didn’t bother to put on pants, instead throwing open the door in only his black boxer briefs.
Big mistake.
“Wyatt Edgeworth?”
Wyatt was certain his mouth fell open. He gaped at the six-foot-plus slab of suited muscle standing in his doorway, but he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t often every fantasy you ever had came to life and knocked on your front door.
The man before him had a wide stubbled jaw, gorgeous honey eyes, and thick chestnut hair shot through with silver that Wyatt decided was the perfect length for tugging. He was old. Easily forty. There were crinkles forming at the corner of his eyes and deeper lines along his forehead, but that didn’t detract from long sooty lashes and a very kissable mouth. A mouth pressed into a hard line as if irritated. Shit.
Wyatt glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, Graciela. Did you hire a stripper?”
“Aye, yes. Send him in, he’s late,” she yelled over the noise before waving a dismissive hand. “No, you stupid boy. Your father sent you another babysitter. I hope this one is smarter than the last.”
The man’s lips twitched as if attempting to hold back a smile, and Wyatt tried to ignore the fluttering in his belly. Could his father really be so cruel as to send the most beautiful man Wyatt had ever seen to guard his body for the next six months? The answer was yes. What a fucking bastard. What the hell was he supposed to do with this guy?
“You could start by letting me in.”
Jesus, had he said that out loud? “Uh, come on in, I guess.”
The man frowned at him until Wyatt realized he was blocking his path. He took a hasty step backward, trying to recover his equilibrium. Pull it together, asshole. He’s just another warden. “So, you’re my dad’s latest super-soldier, huh? Graciela’s right. The last guy was a moron. Hope you’re a lot smarter, G.I. Joe.”
“It’s Lincoln, but you can call me Linc.”
Wyatt wanted to call him a lot of things, but he needed to shut this shit down. “I’m not going to call you anything. In fact, I’m going to pretend you don’t exist. You should do the same. Stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours and we’ll just do our best to get through this next six months. Cool?”
The man—Linc—snorted before closing what little distance there was between them, forcing Wyatt to take a step back or have his nose buried in the taller man’s chest. Even with distance, Wyatt could smell the man, could feel the heat of his body, and that was very much not okay because he smelled like an old-school manly cologne like Old Spice, which Wyatt liked way too much for a guy wearing only skintight boxer briefs.
If Linc noticed Wyatt’s predicament, he didn’t say so. He leaned close, his voice a low growl. “Listen, kid. I don’t know how things worked with your last babysitters and I don’t really give a shit. Pay attention. When I speak, you’ll acknowledge me, and when I tell you to do something, you will do it because I don’t just run my mouth for no reason. I can smell the liquor on your breath, and that stops right now. If you’re doing drugs, that stops now too. You’ll get up at a reasonable hour every day, put on some fucking clothes, and eat something healthy because you look like you’re wasting away. You’ll do something productive with your time, and lights out will be midnight and not a minute after. Do I make myself clear?”
Wyatt’s throat clicked as he swallowed, his mouth bone dry and his dick rock hard. Don’t look down, don’t look down, he chanted silently as he debated covering his hard-on with his hands. What was wrong with him? It was just a lack of options. It had to be. His father—and the sheriff’s department—had held him captive there for months with not a man in sight, and the two attempts he’d made to venture out with his ankle monitor on had ended with him recaptured before he hit the lobby. He just needed to jerk off and he’d be fine.
He wasn’t sure there was a non-humiliating way out of this situation. Too late, he forgot the man was waiting for an answer. “Yeah…yeah, sure. Whatever you say, G.I. Joe. We’re good.”
With that, he turned on his heel and marched down the hall, his feet sticking to the marble tile.
“Graciela will show you around,” he tossed over his shoulder before entering his room and slamming the door shut behind him. Once inside, he leaned against it as if the man might follow. “Holy shit,” he muttered, sliding his hand inside his underwear and wrapping it around his cock, squeezing hard to stave off the sudden arousal. He took a few deep breaths, trying to will his body to relax, but he was too far gone.
Wyatt had never had such a visceral reaction to another human in his life. Linc’s voice was gruff and growly, and it struck a chord low in Wyatt’s belly. Even with the bulky fabric of Linc’s cheap black suit jacket, Wyatt couldn’t miss the massive size of his arms. He just knew those arms could grip him hard enough to leave a mark, could throw him around, make Wyatt bend to his will.
He turned, pressing his forearm to the door before letting his cheek rest against it. Fuck. He bit his lower lip to cut off a moan as he stroked his hand over his cock, the dry friction both painful and exactly what he needed. He pictured Linc’s face, imagined his weight against Wyatt’s back, his gravelly voice against his ear. Imagined him holding him down and fucking him, using him. “If I tell you to do something, you’ll do it.” His chest tightened, his breath leaving him in tight bursts as he worked himself faster. He wanted this man. Wanted his hands and his words and his demands. What would have happened if Wyatt challenged him? Would Linc punish him? He bit back a moan at the thought. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Fuck. Fuck,” he whispered, spilling over his hand as waves of ecstasy rolled along his body and he painted the back of the door with his cum.
He stayed where he was, panting, eyes shut tight as he caught his breath.
“What the fuck?” he whispered. After a minute, he stepped out of his underwear and made for the bathroom. Maybe a cold shower was exactly what he needed.
He settled for a lukewarm shower. As he washed his body with clinical efficiency, Wyatt fumed. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? He would not have some old man ordering him around like he was a child. He was almost twenty-three years old. He wasn’t about to bend to some super-soldier who wanted to give him a bedtime.
He yanked the handle for the water hard enough to make it groan in protest. Once outside the shower, he toweled off and turned to face himself in the mirror, examining his naked body. He wasn’t wasting away. Sure, he was thinner than usual, but that was because he was existing on whatever Graciela brought him to eat and he didn’t know how to cook.
He leaned forward, narrowing his gaze at the bluish circles under his eyes. When had those shown up? It wasn’t like he was having trouble sleeping. Hell, he’d slept twelve hours yesterday. What else was there to do? His blond curls were now pasted flat against his scalp, making him look somewhat gaunt, but it wasn’t like he was on a hunger strike. It was more like a cleanse, fruits and vegetables chased down with coffee and energy drinks. He ate when he was hungry. He just never really felt hungry anymore, not for food anyway. When his eyes fell to his thighs, he looked away, still not ready to acknowledge the scars there. Instead, he poked at his flat belly, examining himself closer. Was he too thin?
“Fuck that guy,” he said to nobody.
Why was he letting a guy he’d known five minutes get into his head?
Maybe ’cause you want him in your pants?
“You shut up too,” he told himself, stabbing the mirror with his finger.
Linc dropped his bag on the plush king-size bed and shook his head as he took in his surroundings. He’d never seen a room so large. The ceilings soared, and all the furniture had a sparse modern look that made Linc feel like he’d just wandered into a museum’s art installation. A metal bookcase ran the length of the wall to his right and two uncomfortable looking curved black chairs sat before the bank of windows that made up two walls of his room. Everything was black or white or chrome, but the bed looked comfortable enough to Linc, and that was all he cared about.
He jerked his tie loose and let it fall on the bed, followed by his jacket, shirt, and pants. The senator hadn’t stated any particular dress code and Linc refused to wear a suit to babysit a spoiled rich kid in a ten million dollar condo. He slipped on a t-shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans before walking to the window and staring down at the bustling city far below.
Linc wasn’t sure what he’d expected when Wyatt opened the door, but it wasn’t a sullen fallen angel with sparkling green eyes and a riot of blond curls. He was all sleek muscle and sharp edges, lithe like he’d gotten those muscles swimming laps in the pool, not hitting the weights at the gym. His features were almost…delicate. High cheekbones and a perfect jawline. He was…he was pretty. Beautiful, even. Sculptors spent lifetimes trying to create that kind of perfection.
He shook the thought from his head. Wyatt was a kid, eighteen years his junior. He couldn’t even think about him as anything less than a job. He was just a job. A much-needed paycheck. If he thought of him as a troublemaker, a boy in need of a firm hand and correction as his father said, then things could get out of control. Linc knew exactly what to do with boys who needed discipline, and that could absolutely not happen there. Ever. No matter how much the idea appealed to him.
He yanked the things from his bag and shoved them into drawers to keep his mind off the boy just outside the door. Fifteen minutes later, a soft knock sounded. He paused before yanking it open. Graciela stood on the other side with a large sandwich and a glass of milk. “I thought you might be hungry,” she said, a placid smile on her face.
“Oh, uh, thank you.” He took her offerings as she stared past him into his bedroom. “Uh, do you want to come inside?” he asked. It wasn’t like it was improper; the bedroom was the size of somebody’s apartment. There was a sitting area, for God’s sake.
“Yes, please, for a moment. That would be wonderful.”
He stepped back, gesturing with his glass for her to come inside. She made her way to one of the strangely shaped black chairs and sat. She wasn’t as young as he’d thought at first glance. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles and she wore not a stitch of makeup. He could see that her once black hair had long since ceded to the silver, even with it caught up in a knot on her head.
He sat opposite her in the other black chair and took a huge bite of the sandwich, trying not to groan in pleasure at the combination of ham and spicy mustard. “This is great. Thank you,” he said around the bite.
She beamed at him for a moment before her face grew serious. “Did Mr. Monty send you to be the next babysitter for the boy?”
Linc frowned at her words. “He hired me to watch over him for the next few months, yes.”
She sat up straighter, her gaze eagle sharp. “What did he tell you about Mr. Wyatt?”
“That he’s been in several accidents. And that he’d been under the influence for the last one, which is how he ended up on house arrest. He said he was…impulsive, reckless. Spoiled.”
“The last two guards he sent were barely older than him and were easily manipulated—Wyatt’s specialty—but I don’t think you will be so easily led.”
“I’ll do my job,” he said.
“I hope so. He’s fragile. He’s wandering, always wandering”—she tapped her finger against her temple—“in here.”
Linc wasn’t sure what that meant. “Fragile?”
“Mr. Monty refuses to see Wyatt for who he is. He’s never given him what he needs.”
Linc contemplated her words as he ate another bite before saying, “What do you think he needs?”
