Lust (The Elite Seven #1)(11)

The burn of alcohol is becoming an addiction—a necessity to scald away the chill in my veins.

And women to convince me I’m still alive. Breathing and not numb.

Sheets tangle around my limbs like vines, trapping me to the mattress I passed out on last night.

Flashes of the night’s activities snap behind my eyelids like movie clips.

Cracking my eyes open, I ignore the sting from the intrusion of light streaming in from the open window and glimpse around the room, recognizing my shit everywhere.

Thank fuck.

That’s a good sign. Too many times I’ve woken up in a stranger’s place surrounded by the sin of the night before.

I pat my hands over my body. Naked, all except the condom still attached to my now soft dick.

Gross.

That’s sloppy of me.

Usually, I’d ditch that shit and watch the water swirl with it until I knew for sure it was gone. I don’t want any little Rhett’s out there in the world. One is more than enough.

But I know there are no fluids in it anyway.

Ever since losing Robbie, my body and mind rage war, and my mind always wins. I never allow myself to finish.

The chicks don’t notice. Hell, they don’t care. As long as they get to say they were fucked by Rhett Masters, that’s enough for them.

Sounds stupid, shallow, but it’s true. And something I was proud of before…

My entire high school years were built on my reputation of panty peeler, pussy realtor, heart stealer.

People wanted to either be me, or get with me, it was as simple as that.

Money mixed with athletic ability and good looks equals power.

What can I say, humans are basic creatures, and I’d grown a reputation I wasn’t ready to give up yet.

It’s all I have left.

A pounding on the bedroom door causes a groan to pass my lips and kicks off a marching band in my skull.

Cotton balls fill my mouth as an acid stream crawls up my throat, threatening to expel last night’s liquor intake.

“Fuck off,” I bark out, wincing when the door is flung open and crashes against the foundations, rattling the mirror fixed to the far wall.

“Or come in,” I grit out under my breath.

I hate living here, especially when he’s playing dad, like he actually gives a fuck about me or what I do.

Morning to you too, Dad.

He glares at me, disdain in his dark brown eyes. If I could fully open my own, I’d reflect that look back at him.

I remind him of my mother, and he won’t admit it, but he hates me because of it. He still loves her, and I’m a constant reminder of what he’s lost. Not just her, but his favorite son too. Now, all he has is me, and I can’t stand him.

“Are you listening to me?” His voice booms, wrenching me from the ghosts that own my mind.

No.

His cell shrills from his pocket, giving me a reprieve from his disturbance.

Exhaling an exhausted breath, he flees from the doorway to talk in mumbled whispers to whoever the fuck is calling this early.

No doubt one of his hoes. He’s made no effort to cover up his whoring ways now that he knows I know he cheated. Dick.

Caught balls deep in his secretary, yet tried to blame his divorce on Robbie’s death. He makes me sick.

His fucking secretary?

Ten years younger and dumb as shit, thinking if she let him dip his old dick in her cunt, it would propel her career.

Cliché as fuck.

People say love is powerful, and that’s true, but more often than not, it’s corrupted by lust.

Lust is a force all its own. It consumes the mind and body, and causes even the most loyal to indulge in its sinful ways. He risked it all for a quick fuck over his desk.

He didn’t think of the chaos that fuck would cause.

Lust is a violent desire, destructive and uncontrollable. If you let the sensation take root, you become captive to its power, until you’re waking up in the wreckage of its path.

And even though it’s part of the reason Mom left, I would still take lust over love every fucking time.

Fuck love.

It’s more damaging to the soul than anything else in the world.

Losing someone you love is like living through your own death.

The pain so brutal, the sorrow rips the soul to shreds while still pumping gas to the heart.

No big brother should have to see his kid brother die.

No parent should have to outlive their child—bury their child.

Grief is a fickle whore. It hits me in waves, reminding me whenever I try to forget. The remorse chasing me, and I can’t outrun it, no matter how reckless I become.

“I won’t be late, I promise.”

I am the fucking cliché



“If I hadn’t seen the three girls sneaking out of here, I’d start to worry about you two.” My old man shakes his head, sneering down at something on my floor as he returns to my doorframe, disdain in his tone.

Lifting to my elbows, I follow his glare and snort.

God, my best friend and partner in crime is sprawled out on the floor, buck ass naked, with a pair of panties over his head covering his eyes.

“Don’t be a homophobe, Dad. How do you know we don’t just let the women watch?” I tease, just to see the disgust transform his features.

Redneck piece of shit.

I wanted to be nothing like him growing up. Robbie was his little double. Used to sit in his office for hours learning the ropes of trading.