Intoxicating, page 3
“Time. Attention.”
Linc snorted. “He’s a bit old to be acting out for attention, don’t you think?”
Her expression grew stormy. “That boy’s been raised by one nanny after another since the day they brought him home from the hospital. He has no life skills. But more than that, his parents have treated him like an afterthought. An inconvenience since day one. Nobody more so than his father.”
Linc had no idea why she was unloading all this on him, but he nodded anyway.
She wasn’t finished. “I come here every day and I pretend to vacuum that floor so that I know he’s okay. To make sure he hasn’t done the next stupid thing. I thought having those guards around would help, but they weren’t interested in seeing the truth.”
“The truth?”
“You just have to look beneath his words.”
“I don’t understand.”
She gave him a sad smile and stood. “I know you don’t, but you’re not the only one who signed a stupid paper. I cannot tell you what I know, but I’m hoping you’ll see it anyway. Enjoy your sandwich.”
With that, she left him to decrypt her message.
The sound of glass breaking in the distance had Linc on his feet and moving. He glanced at the clock. One-forty a.m. He’d been asleep less than an hour. He quietly slipped open his door and padded barefoot toward the noise somewhere in the vicinity of the living room. He studied the darkened room, but nothing seemed amiss. Then he noticed the doors to the balcony were open just enough to accommodate a body, but the only light was the light sparkling beneath the water of the swimming pool.
Linc pushed the doors open enough to fit through and started his process all over again, scanning the back porch for any signs of life. His gaze snagged on a wet rust-colored stain, growing larger, spreading like blood across the stark white travertine tiles. He crept closer, noting the chunks of glass scattered through the puddle and beyond, almost to the water. Not blood. Wine. The sound of breaking must have been a wine bottle.
“Hey, G.I. Joe! Just in time. Can you grab me another bottle? I broke mine and I’m a little stuck here,” he said with a giggle.
Linc’s heart stopped. Just beyond the broken bottle, Wyatt lay across the concrete railing of the balcony looking at Linc with glassy eyes.
“What are you doing up there?” Linc asked, keeping his voice calm.
“I’m sleeping. Well, I was trying to sleep, but my brain just was going around and around, so I came out here for some air. Doesn’t the moon look pretty tonight? Both of them.” He flailed his hands toward the sky with another sharp laugh.
Before Linc could say anything, Wyatt sat up before losing his balance and almost toppling backward off the balcony. “Oopsie daisy. Nope,” he said, glancing out toward the ocean. “That was close.”
Blood pounded in Linc’s ears. Monty Edgeworth was right; his kid was reckless. Linc took the long way around the pool to avoid the glass, and when he was close enough to rest a hand on Wyatt’s knee, the boy glanced over and smiled at him. “Oh, hi, Joe,” he said as if they hadn’t just had a conversation sixty seconds ago.
“I’m going to guess my rule about no drinking and no drugs didn’t penetrate,” he grunted as he glanced over the edge of the railing to another pool eighteen stories below.
Wyatt snorted. “You said penetrate.”
Linc rolled his eyes, carefully pulling Wyatt into a sitting position. Wyatt gazed down at him and gave a goofy smile. “You’re old. Like way older than me and even way older than the other super-soldiers my dad hired to babysit me.”
“Thanks,” Linc said through gritted teeth as he tugged Wyatt from his perch before turning and depositing him on his feet safely away from the glass. Wyatt pitched forward, the boy’s smooth hands skimming across the hair on Linc’s chest and over his nipples. Linc should have shoved a shirt on before investigating the sound. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
He waited for the boy to drop his hands, but, instead, he slid his palms down, tracing the grooves of his abdominal muscles, dropping his hands just before his fingertips could skate beneath the waistband of Linc’s pajama pants.
Jesus.
Wyatt gazed up at him with wonder. “How can you be so old but still so hot? I bet girls line up for you, huh? Even the ones my age probably want you to be their sugar Daddy. Can you be a sugar Daddy with no money?”
Linc struggled to form a coherent thought. All the blood had rushed from his brain to his cock the moment Wyatt touched him. “I have no idea. Not really my area.”
Was the boy trying to distract Linc? Make him angry? Confused? Was Wyatt confused? Linc walked him back around the pool, his hands on both arms, locking them at his sides just in case the kid got any ideas about groping him again. Linc wasn’t sure he was that strong.
Wyatt stopped short, forcing Linc to do the same. “That’s too bad. You’d be a good Daddy.”
Linc’s dick throbbed, but he just pushed Wyatt back into the house.
Once inside, the boy wriggled himself out of Linc’s grasp and stumbled into the kitchen. “I’m starving.”
He pulled a can of whipped cream from the fridge, upending it and spraying the contents into his mouth before moaning obscenely. Linc rolled his eyes, snatching the can and putting it back. “That’s not food. Sit down, and I’ll make you something.”
A strange shadow crossed the kid’s face before he gave him a lopsided smile. “G.I. Joe can cook,” he said with a fake gasp. “Plot twist.”
Linc didn’t bother to answer. He opened the fridge, scrutinizing the contents. There was fettuccini on the shelf and raw spinach in the crisper drawer. With a little more digging he found cream, butter, and parmesan; everything he needed. He spent another ten minutes trying to find the spices and the pots and pans for the meal. He heated the butter in the pan and dumped the spinach in.
When he turned back around, Wyatt was amusing himself by taking all the almonds out of a bowl and arranging them to form pictures. “Come here.”
Wyatt blinked at him. “What?”
“You can help. I’m not your cook.”
Wyatt stood, making his way toward Linc with trepidation, like it was some elaborate scheme. Linc handed him a wooden spatula. “Just push them around in the pan so they don’t burn, okay?”
Wyatt frowned but nodded, staring into the pan with the same concentration one gave bomb disposal. Linc smiled. He couldn’t help himself.
He opened the cream and grated the parmesan before returning to the pan. As soon as he approached, Wyatt shoved the spatula in his face. “Here.”
“Uh-uh. You’re the chef. I’m the teacher. It’s easy. Add this.” Linc held out the cream. Wyatt stared at it stupidly before taking it and upending it into the pan with all the finesse of a toddler. It hissed as it hit the burner, and Wyatt flinched, wide eyes cutting to Linc. “It’s fine. Now, you’re going to just fold in the parmesan slowly while you stir. Got it?”
Wyatt didn’t answer, just shook the parmesan into the sauce. Good enough, Linc thought. He placed the pasta in the now boiling water and pulled two plates from the cabinet.
When he’d plated the pasta, he filled two glasses with water and set them next to the plates.
Wyatt climbed up onto the stool next to Linc and picked up his fork. “No. Water first. The whole glass, then you can eat.” Wyatt stared at the fettuccini longingly before picking up the water glass and draining it. “Good boy.”
The words left Linc’s mouth before he could stop them.
He could feel Wyatt’s gaze burning into the side of his face, but he refused to look. Instead, he slipped from the stool and refilled Wyatt’s glass. “Eat, or it’ll get cold.”
“Okay,” Wyatt mumbled.
They ate in silence. Once they finished dinner, Linc rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the sink. “Bedtime,” Linc said, pushing the boy toward the hallway. “Let’s go.”
Wyatt moved, still not speaking. When they got to his room, he turned on Linc. “Are you going to tell my dad I was drinking?”
Linc examined him, trying not to get lost in luminous green eyes. “Is that what you want? Do you want me to tell your dad you’ve been drinking so he can have another reason to be mad at you?”
Wyatt’s face fell, and his cheeks flamed. “Good night, Linc. Thanks for the pasta.”
Two gunshots had Wyatt rocketing upright in his bed. He couldn’t see. The taste of metal filled his mouth, electricity jolting along his spine. He was blind.
“Rise and shine!”
The words exploded in his head like shrapnel from a dirty bomb. His hands flew to his face, relief washing over him as he realized he wore a black silk eye mask and the sexy-as-fuck soldier shouting at him hadn’t, in fact, shot and blinded him. The loud bangs must have been Linc’s fist hitting his door before entering.
His relief was short-lived as he peeled off the mask and the sun seared a hole through his already aching brain. He couldn’t help the whimper that escaped. “Why?” was all he could manage. His tongue felt like he’d dragged it across a thousand dirty carpets.
What had happened last night? He didn’t want to know. He slipped the mask back in place before rolling over and nestling himself deeper into the comforter trapped beneath him. There was a moment when the world righted itself before his stomach sloshed and the mattress began to rise and fall, like it rode the waves of rough seas.
“Why is the bed moving?” he groaned.
A low chuckle sounded from the vicinity of the doorway. “It's not. You’re hungover.”
“Why…are…you…screaming?” he asked in a desperate whisper.
“I’m not screaming. Why are you naked?”
“I’m not na—” he started.
Except, he was. Totally naked and laid out over the covers, like he was presenting himself to Linc. Oh, God. His already aching cock throbbed. He was thankful he was lying on his stomach. But that left him in a weird predicament. Did he just stay there, ass up, until Linc let him be? Did he cover himself and act like some scandalized maiden?
Another thought sent a shudder through him. Was Linc looking at him? The idea made him want to grind himself down onto the mattress. Guys like Linc…military guys…they all had girlfriends and wives. Even the ones who were gay were so deep in the closet they were frolicking with woodland creatures in Narnia.
What the hell was wrong with him? Everything. Fucking everything.
“You’d make a good Daddy.”
Heat flooded Wyatt’s face. Jesus, he’d actually said those words to Linc last night. He’d gazed up into those warm whiskey eyes and told G.I. Joe he’d be a good Daddy. What the fuck? There was nothing left for Wyatt to do but lie there, hungover and horny, and just wait to starve to death and die. He could never look Linc in the eye again. Like, who said shit like that? Not straight guys. And definitely not to another straight dude. He couldn’t ‘no homo’ his way out of this.
He hoped his humiliation would somehow lessen his hard-on but nope. Apparently, Wyatt had all kinds of kinks. Had Linc left? Was he looking at him? God, the thought of Linc watching him had him wanting to arch up, push his hips into the air, present for him. Would he like what he saw? Would he want more? What would more look like with somebody like Linc? He wanted to know more than he wanted his next breath. More than he wanted his hangover to disappear.
Linc let out a strangled cough and then cleared his throat. “I told you yesterday. You will not sleep all day. Get up and get in the shower. I’ll make you something to eat.”
Wyatt swallowed. “I just need another hour. My head is pounding.”
“There’s a bottle of water next to your bed and some ibuprofen. Take the pills. Drink the whole bottle. Then get in the shower.” When Wyatt didn’t move, Linc barked, “Now.”
“I’m a little naked here.”
Linc snorted. “If you’ve got something I’ve never seen, I’ll throw a dollar at it,” he promised, his voice far more gravelly than Wyatt remembered.
It was clear Linc wasn’t leaving…ever. “Yeah, fine.”
Once more, he peeled off the eye mask, but this time, when he rolled over into a sitting position, he brought the covers with him, even if it looked a little ridiculous. He fought to keep the contents of his stomach where they were as the world assaulted him on every front. Linc looked fresh and clean in a pair of jeans and an olive-colored t-shirt. Wyatt had been right, Linc’s arms were huge. He was huge. Was he huge everywhere? Wyatt forced the thought down before he started tenting the sheets.
Linc watched Wyatt with a strangely guarded look. Wyatt made a show of tossing the pills back and sucking down all twelve ounces of water before turning the empty bottle over so Linc would see he was compliant. Linc snorted and shook his head but said nothing.
“Good boy.”
Linc had said that to him last night. He’d practically purred it. Was that real? It couldn’t be. Not even twenty-four hours with this guy and Wyatt was ready for the nut house. How was he going to survive six months with this man? His fucking dickhead father had finally found the perfect punishment.
Once Linc left, Wyatt practically crawled into the bathroom. He turned on the hot water and sat on the floor of the shower until some of the cobwebs in his brain finally faded away. He didn’t bother to shave. He didn’t trust himself around a razor. He brushed his teeth and threw on a pair of black joggers and the first t-shirt his hand touched, a white V-neck with the Chanel logo in bold black script. He didn’t try to tame his damp curls. He was too busy trying to navigate walking and breathing at the same time.
How much did he even drink last night?
When he stumbled into the kitchen, he found Linc leaned against the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee in his hand as he read a folded up newspaper. Who read newspapers anymore? All that stuff could be found online. On Facebook, even. Old people loved Facebook.
On the counter was a plate with two pieces of toast with butter and a cup of black coffee. It stopped Wyatt cold, his chest constricting painfully. He swallowed hard, blinking sudden tears from his eyes. To somebody who knew nothing about them, the practical stranger standing in his kitchen could be his husband who had made Wyatt breakfast. Linc was barefoot, for fuck’s sake. Wyatt didn’t know why that mattered—why any of it mattered. Frustration had him wanting to turn and run but his feet seemed glued in place.
Linc glanced up. “Good, finally. Sit. Eat. All of it.”
Wyatt rubbed at his eyes with probably more aggression than needed.
“You okay?”
The concern in Linc’s voice was like a hand against his windpipe. He sucked in a shaky breath. “Yeah, the smell of coffee just turned my stomach. Made my eyes water. That’s all.”
Linc grunted but didn’t respond. Wyatt was grateful. He was far too raw for anybody to be questioning him about anything. He sat at the bar and nibbled at his toast, ignoring the coffee. He preferred a little coffee with his cream and sugar, but he couldn’t seem to will himself to open his mouth and ask for it. God, he was a fucking mess.
Luckily, Linc seemed content to stand there and read his paper. Had he left and gotten the paper, or did they deliver it? Wyatt had never noticed one before. He didn’t know why it mattered. He just needed something innocuous to occupy his brain rather than the man six feet away.
He was going to ask—just to fill the silence—when a strange chirping sound came from Linc’s pocket. He pulled out his phone and frowned at the caller ID.
Linc flicked his eyes toward Wyatt. “I have to take this. Eat.” He walked around the corner, but Wyatt could still hear every word. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay?”
Once more, that strange pressure in Wyatt’s chest returned. Of course, he had a girlfriend, maybe even a wife. Lots of military guys didn’t wear rings. He took another tentative bite of his toast, forcing himself to chew and swallow.
“I know. Tell them I’m working on it.” What exactly had ‘sweetheart’ said? Working on what? “Okay, well, I’ll call them in a little while. Try to buy us a little more time.” Another pause, and a huge sigh. “Look, I know. What time is his doctor’s appointment?” Whose doctor’s appointment? Wyatt silently screamed. “Make sure you give yourself an hour to get him ready. He was feisty the other day. He wants to do everything himself, but he just can’t.”
Jesus, a wife and a kid? Wyatt pushed his plate away, pills and water and half a piece of toast churning in his stomach.
“Yeah, I know. Call me when you leave the office. I love you, too.”
Wyatt picked up his coffee and gazed into it glumly. Linc frowned when he came back around the corner, staring pointedly at Wyatt’s still full plate.
“I said all of it.”
Wyatt set his coffee down and leaned back against the cool iron back of the bar stool, crossing his arms. “I can’t. I’ll puke.”
Linc stalked forward, pushing the plate toward him. “You can and you will. This is non-negotiable.”
A tiny shiver raced along Wyatt’s spine, his nipples going hard at Linc’s stern tone. But he stuck out his chin. “I said I can’t.”
Linc leaned into his space until his breath puffed against his cheek. He smelled like coffee and sandalwood. “Listen, kid. I’ve got all day. If it takes the next six months to get you to eat two goddamn pieces of toast, well then, that’s what it takes. Try me.”
Wyatt licked his lips, thinking there was nothing in the world he’d like more than to try Linc. He tried not to let his gaze fall to sleeves stretched over muscled biceps that led to perfect forearms dusted with dark hair.
Wyatt was so fucked. He pushed the thought away, sneering at the older man. “Fine. But if I puke all over the counter, you can explain it to Graciela.”
Linc raised one thick brow. “If you puke on the counter, you’re going to clean it up, brat. You’re twenty-two years old. Time to act like it.”
Something flared in Wyatt’s stomach. “I’m sorry, but who the fuck are you? You’re just a fucking bodyguard. You’re not my fucking life coach. That chick quit, like, six months ago. I’ll eat your stupid fucking toast, but you can stop acting like you give a fuck about me. We met yesterday.” The minute the words left his mouth, Wyatt wanted to suck them back in. He wanted to invent a time machine and go back thirty seconds and not sound like the pathetic loser he truly was deep down.
