Misjudged (Death Dwellers #3.5) (17 page)

He’s moved off the stairs. When did he?

My fingers are shaking, but I manage to get my baggie. I have no place to lay the line, so I just dump it down my throat and swallow. I’m going to be hyper for hours now.

The plastic is yanked from my hands. “Stupid little bitch,” Sloane growls with disgust.

His words and tone sting. I blink at him. “I love you,” I blurt. “I’m your number one fan. I know everything about you.”

“That so?” he sneers. “Then you must know I’m an addict.”

“A recovered addict,” I counter.

Instead of appeasing, my words seem to annoy him more.

“Georgie, lamb, what are you doing awake?” My father’s voice sounds stricken.

I giggle like a hysterical hyena. “It’s not even one, Dad. I can’t sleep.”

He gives me the once over, and nods, distracted as usual. It’s when Mom points out the obvious or asks him to do things normal teenagers do that he wants to be all protective.

I point to the man of my dreams. “What’s Sloane doing here?”

“Business,” my father barks out.

Normally, I back off. But I’m pumped. “What kind of business would
you
have with him, Dad? You’re like ninety.”

Sloane loses his tension for a moment and laughs. My father isn’t as amused.

I fling my hands out and twirl. “I’m just kidding, Daddy,” I drawl, my words whipping around me as fast as my body is spinning.

Hands grab me. Not my Dad, though. Sloane. His fingertips are rough on my bare arms. Heat singes through me. He’s so tall and ripped and handsome. I want to lick the shell of his ear with the hoop earring. I want to taste him like Crowell taught me.

I gaze up at Sloane. My heart is beating fast for a different reason now. Him. His scent. Musk and mystery, sex and sin. My body is so ready for him. I can’t wait to have sex. I’ll have a connection to someone. I’ll be loved.

“Georgie, get upstairs, lamb. Sloane’s in town for two weeks. I brought him over to discuss guitar lessons for you. Be a good girl and go to your room, so I can iron out the rest of the details.”

Anger replaces Sloane’s initial shock and he glares over my head. “Says who?”

I tune out Sloane’s distaste and wrap my arms around him. Vaguely, I wonder why his shirt smells like my mother’s perfume. “Thank you,” I murmur, bouncing up and down, adrenaline rushing through my system. “I was so bummed I can’t see you onstage tonight.” I stare into his eyes and see a brief glint of tenderness before it’s gone and his disgust returns.

I back toward the stairs and crash to my ass when the back of one hits my ankle. Didn’t I fall and hurt something earlier?

I hoot with laughter, grabbing the bannister to haul myself up. I wave and stumble the rest of the way up the stairs.

Sloane

She’s high.
Higher
. She swallowed the powder like she’s a pro at using.

The sight sent a range of emotions through me, mostly I’m pissed. I’m not sure of her exact age but she looks too fucking young for anything.

Parnell McCall rubs his forehead, watching in silence as his daughter disappears. I might not know her name or her age, but I know she’s his. They have the same black hair—or he
had
her black hair before gray seeped into it. Her eyes remind me of lilacs at twilight.

She’s fucking gorgeous. But then so’s her mother, the woman I just fucked within an inch of her life. She’s brilliant in bed. Reserved, though, and guarded. I don’t give a damn. I like pussy. Dad passed this to me because he had to fly out of town on business. Parnell hadn’t wanted me with his wife. I’m twenty-five. Dick can go for hours.

Apparently, if he brings
her
treats, he gets
his
treats. Pretty fucked up and more than a little devious. All the asshole’s doing is covering the fact that my dad’s sister is a freak
and
Parnell’s mistress, who suggested Parnell bring other people into the bedroom to ease her into being accepted by Cassandra. Then, they won’t have to sneak around. Abby can fuck Parnell right in front of Cassandra and the woman won’t suspect anything.

Parnell clears his throat. “Monday, Georgie will be in school.”

“Georgie.”

He nods toward the staircase. “My daughter.”

I think he might’ve said her name before. I can’t remember. I was just too struck by her. She knew me. From the moment her gaze landed on my face, I knew she knew who I was. But she didn’t rush me or do that annoying fucking squealing.

She asked a logical and intelligent question. She wanted to know why was I in her house? She treated me like a regular Joe Schmoe whom she knew had no business being here.

I liked that. She seems lost and without an anchor. Parnell’s still talking. I have little regard for him. He’s a cheating asshole—not that I have room to talk, but
my
affairs are out in the open. I fuck. I don’t stay.

I’m not sure why I’m like that. Until Mom died, my folks had a wonderful marriage. My home life was happy and stable. But my lifestyle keeps me on the road. There are legions of girls who want me, pussy available to me worldwide. I’ve tried the girlfriend thing a few times and my dick always messes it up.

Usually, a fucked-up scandal follows and the gossip rags hound the fuck out of me. I just can’t do relationships.

Kids? That’s another story. I want kids.

The sudden silence snaps me out of my thoughts. Parnell’s watching me expectantly. “Yes or no?”

“Yes or no what?” I bite out, wondering if he even saw how high his daughter was.

“A foursome. Monday. Me, you, Cass, and Abby.”

“Abby’s my aunt, dumb ass,” I growl.

Parnell tightens his mouth. “I don’t want
you
to fuck her. Keep Cass busy while
I’m
fucking her.”

I have
some
morals. “Pick another chick to fuck while I keep the Mrs. busy.” I shrug and bargain. “She has good pussy so I can fuck her again.”

The older man stuffs his hands in his pockets. “About Georgiana.”

My dick jumps at her name. Anger surges through me. I don’t get boners for little girls. She has to be about fourteen or fifteen. “Yes?”

“The guitar lessons I promised her.”

“You’re fucking serious?” Because the asshole can’t be. I have a fucking tour to do, practice sessions, press junkets.

“Just one or two,” Parnell cajoles. “A little something to let her know I love her.”

I lift a brow. “Try telling her. Better yet—show her.”

“She knows. I just bought her a car for her birthday. If I didn’t love her, I wouldn’t have spent so much money on her.”

“So the amount of money you spend on her equates to how much you love her?” That’s fucking sick. Fuck, it’s easier not to have love at all. Material possessions are no substitute for love. Of course, dickhead doesn’t realize that. He might be a bald-faced womanizer, but he spoils the shit out of his wife. I got sick of listening to all the shit he’d given her and intended to give her.

Guilty conscience. Guilty fuckhead.

“How old’s Georgiana?” I ask, curious. I wonder if her dipshit father is picking up on my change of voice when I ask about her.

“Sixteen.”

Nope. His nonchalant answer tells me, if I’m around her, I have to police my own dick.

I scrub my hands over my eyes. “Tell you what? I’ll send a car for her tomorrow night and let her come hang out with me and the rest of the band—and legions of groupies—before and after my concert. I’ll even choose a special spot where she can watch me from stage,” I add, the coupe-de-grace.

He looks skeptical. “I can buy her concert tickets and send her to my suite. Guitar lessons from you are better. She can brag to her friends. They’ll think she has a real cool dad. She’ll think I’m cool, too.”

“Does she even want to play the guitar?”

Parnell shrugs. “Don’t know. She’s always listening to your hideous music. I’d think she’d want to learn just to emulate you.”

This shit pisses me the fuck off again. “Raise your fucking daughter yourself so she can emulate you. She does not need to copy a drug-using, unsettled, rowdy, man whore, like me.” Fuck, I know what I am. The press knows it. My friends and family know it. Even if I wanted to lie to myself, I couldn’t.

It’s always thrown in my face. Instead of crying over it, I own it.

“We’re raising her,” he protests.

“Are you? Then why the fuck was she so hopped up when she walked in here? And where the fuck was she coming from after midnight?”

Another infuriating shrug. “From somewhere in the house.” He sighs. “Georgie drinks a lot. I know it and so does her mother, but we drink, so we can’t very well tell her not to.”

Of all the bullshit. I’m not listening to anymore. I stalk to the wooden and glass entry door. “See you Monday,” I toss over my shoulder and slam it behind me.

I halt. My Harley’s nowhere on the circular, red-bricked driveway. Servants are nowhere to be seen. Fuck, if asshole’s letting his wife get her freak on with another man, he could have the courtesy to keep staff around to get their vehicles.

Fuck it. I’m in a state, anyway. I need to walk off my agitation. The whole Georgie encounter has upset me. She’s young and gorgeous and headed for catastrophe if someone doesn’t rein her in.

I tell myself she isn’t my problem. I have a fucking tour with my band. I can’t be linked in any way to a fucking sixteen-year-old. What the fuck could I do from a jail cell? Not to mention I’ve just spent hours fucking her mother while her father watched.

Jesus Christ, what kind of family is this?

I round the corner and blink at the huge pool and all the lights. The heat is stifling. I can’t wait to get to my house on the outskirts of Denver, when the tour is over.

“Sloane, Sloane, I see you.” Georgie’s voice floats above me and I look up. She’s balanced on the balcony railing, gripping a balustrade.

I’m aging a decade with every passing second. Every beat of my heart. She’s naked and her hair is loose, long, a cascade of midnight. Her breasts are high and round, her waist narrow. Pussy hair is fashioned into a landing strip.

This goes through my minds fast. But still too slow. Before I can move or talk, she’s flying through the air, hands spread, and crashing into the pool.

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