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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.
