The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(4)

“Six is a guitarist,” I say as my back hits the wall. “He’s known for his manual dexterity.”

His mouth moves, just a hint of a smile as he pulls me against him again, his sizable erection pressing into my stomach. “Just wait until you see what I can do with my tongue.”





OceanofPDF.com





3





KEELEY





The sun is blinding, streaming in through the balcony doors like long steel knives.

Except my room didn’t have a balcony. I definitely would have noticed a balcony, right?

I roll over to see a pair of broad shoulders, the back of a head shaved to near military perfection. Not a single tattoo, therefore…

Not Six Bailey.

What the fuck happened last night?

More pressingly, what’s up with this guy? Because he is extremely still.

“God,” I groan, reaching over to feel his carotid artery, “not again.”

“Did you just check my pulse?” asks a gravelly voice. And that’s when I feel my first spike of terror.

No. No, no, no, no.

He rolls over, sleepy eyed, swollen-lipped, and in need of a shave. Someone else might think he looks pretty fucking good in the morning, but that would need to be someone who’s never held a conversation with Graham Tate.

He runs a hand over his face while I try to piece the night together. Margaritas, more margaritas. Arguing with Graham, the arrival of guests. And Six. I remember talking to him. I remember him smiling at me in the way of someone who very much wanted to fuck me. And then I remember Graham.

His lips on mine in a dark corner.

Him looming over me, pushing my dress above my hips. Mostly I remember how badly I wanted him to do it. Telling him to hurry, the pleased half smile that tugged at his lips in response.

God, how embarrassing.

“This didn’t happen,” I proclaim, jumping to my feet, ignoring that my whole body feels bruised, especially the area between my legs. My vagina took a beating last night. It deserves a beating for choosing to avail itself to the enemy when I was in a vulnerable state.

I step over a condom wrapper to reach my dress, which is on the floor along with my bra, and yet another condom wrapper. No sign of my panties, so I guess I’m writing them off. “We speak of it to no one and put it out of our heads.”

He watches me from the bed, arms folded across his broad chest, sheets bunched low at his waist. “Because you’re still on your mission to fuck the rock star.”

I drag my eyes away from him because the sheet is riding low enough for me to see his happy trail, and I’m tempted to keep looking. “If mankind let every simple mistake get in the way of its goals, we’d still be communicating via cave drawings,” I reply, stepping over another condom wrapper. Jesus Christ, how many times, exactly, did we do it?

He reaches for his phone while one hand goes behind his head, his bicep flexing impressively with the movement. “Fair enough, slugger. Knock ’em dead tonight. Though not literally, which is apparently something that happens to you.”

“I’m sure it happens to everyone at some point,” I mutter, and he laughs.

It’s a nice laugh, and there’s a part of me that wishes I could hear it again. I take one last look at him, with that unshaved jaw, those biceps, and that mouth before I head for the door.

As terrible as Graham Tate is, he comes in deceptively nice packaging.





I shower and collapse in my own bed for two hours, hoping I’ll forget what occurred. Unfortunately, I wake feeling deliciously overused, which means I either ran a marathon last night or had repeated sex with someone twice my size.

If my life was a movie, this would be the wake-up call, the moment when I realize I need to pull my shit together: stop drinking, quit medicine, and do something meaningful with my life—like open a restaurant and join The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Except I can’t afford to have a wake-up call right now, because the only way I can play hostess next to the loathsome, oversized Graham is through a little more drinking.

I order eggs, bacon, and a mimosa, and am informed that they are no longer serving breakfast, which leaves me feeling judged. I settle for the mimosa and put on my bikini, picking right back up where I left off last night: with no food in my stomach and a strange unhappiness I’m eager to dull.

I walk outside. We got lucky with the weather—January in LA is not reliably warm enough to be considered pool weather, but it’s in the seventies today and sunny. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with this idea, either. Gemma is lounging under the shade of a cabana, surrounded by her new friends, and it’s hard not to think about how different things are, how different she is. I’m so happy for her, but I can’t deny there’s this little pinch in my chest.

We used to be a mess together. I was bad with all things adult, and she was so emotionally detached I sometimes wondered if she might be a sociopath. But it turned out she was simply damaged, and now she’s fixed—madly in love and always doing grown-up shit with her well-adjusted husband and friends. She’s tried to include me, and I always make an excuse to get out of it. Being around all of them makes me feel like the only flower in the garden that’s failed to bloom.

I have to force myself to walk over. Gemma makes room for me to squeeze in, and once I’m seated, Tali, the very-pregnant wife of Ben’s best friend, taps my foot.