Page 36 of Wanting What’s Wrong

Six

Scotch

F uck. What am I thinking?

I’m a damaged piece of shit and she’s a fucking angel straight from the pearly gates.

I clench my glass of ice water so hard the crystal cracks, reflecting the glow of the moon through the window.

I’m mad as fuck that she left, and also totally unsurprised.

I mean, I’m a rank ass piece of shit and she’s the fucking Easter bunny.

I’m thirsty as fuck but I put down the glass.

I haven’t had a sip of anything since I sucked all the delicious juice from her soft little beginner pussy.

I hate that her taste is wearing off and I don’t want any other liquids to speed that process along.

I didn’t even shower when I got home because I want her scent on me for-fucking-ever.

So, until I know I’m going to nail down what I already know is mine, I can’t imagine washing her off.

Not to mention the life changing orgasm I had dry fucking against her. Fuck. I thought blood vessels burst in my eyeballs I came so damn hard.

She high tailed it out of the bar as soon as the haze cleared though, but fuck, I can’t stop fucking thinking about her. I want to chase her ass down and tie her to my bed for the rest of my life. Naked. Doing things to her that border on illegal.

Definitely immoral.

Not that I’m a fan of morality.

My dick shoots a sticky pulse of cream into my boxers at the thought.

I’ve never been bare inside a woman before but when I think about Lula?

All I imagine is raw dogging my new stepsister until her tits are milky and her belly is ready to pop.

Fucking stunner as she is, but pregnant? Aph-ro-fucking-dite.

Jesus, I’m a mess.

“Fuck you,” I growl at my reflection in the mirror, then hurl the glass at myself, a flash of relief bolting through me as shards scatter to the floor.

Dazed, I move to the navy leather sofa I had delivered a few weeks ago after I destroyed my previous one just like it on the anniversary of my mother’s death.

I destroy something on that day every year. Sometimes it’s a person, sometimes an object.

But, something always dies that day, just like she did. Everyone suffers on that day.

Just like I did.

I drop hard onto the cushions, flipping open my laptop. The urge to hurt someone overwhelms me, and right now I have the perfect target.

When my dad showed me the scrapyard, my first reaction was I wanted nothing to do with it. I’m sick of the Larry and Scotch show. I want to spend less time with him, not more. My bank accounts are at the point I don’t need to go sewer diving with my sperm donor of a father for financial gain.

Besides, I’m balls deep in my three garages and buying and selling classic cars which is great money but one of the few things I enjoy.

Besides that, I’ve got three new internet ventures I’m bankrolling for a couple genius tech guys I know.

I’ve bought and sold ten businesses in the last five years.

Some as a partner with Larry, some on my own.

I know nothing about scrap beyond what I pay for parts. But Larry told me to take a look and I had to admit, it was a good investment, so I bought in. A quick turnaround, run the competition into the ground and build a new empire.

Running the competition into the ground? That, I understand. You could call it a specialty.

The screen lights up with browser windows, each with multiple open tabs, each one connected to a different sock account on social media, some review website or email.

Our scrap place, Metal Heads, only has one main competitor, an old, run down three generation family outfit called Z’s Scrap, not that I’ve paid that much attention.

With what I’m doing to them they won’t last long.

I switch to their website and open the contact page, channeling my current fury and self-loathing into an email that would give a sailor a heart attack.

“…find someone near and dear to you, bend her over the hood of my Dodge and pound her like a cut of prime beef,” I say with a dark chuckle as I write the words.

Jesus. This is the first time even I’ve been so personal with this guy, and I know why.

Because of her . Because I’m imagining it’s me and Lula right now.

“I’m going to leave her so she can’t sit down for a fucking week.

I’ll make her eyes bulge like one of those stress dolls. ”

Before I second guess myself, I hit send and sit back.

My dick is tenting the front of my jeans thinking of railing my sweet red-headed sister from behind.

About covering that perfect face in spurts of thick cream and watching her clean it off with her finger, sucking it down like it’s cotton candy.

My lip curls in disgust as I think about the message I just sent. What if someone talked that way about Lula? I’d tear them limb from limb. It’s not personal what I do. In another lifetime, who knows, this guy who owns Z’s, we could have been friends.

Even I know by now, this is my baseline. I’ll likely be this bully asshole for the rest of my life. I’ve done more bad shit than most people get through in a lifetime.

Maybe if I’d met Lula ten years ago, things could have been different. She could have changed me. But now?

I lean forward and alt-tab to a different sock account, going to the Z’s Scrap post on Facebook marketplace.

I grin when I see a bunch of angry emoji reactions to a flaming comment about how they screwed someone over, they’re cheating f*cks.

.. That’s my doing. Until I started posting, everybody thought their shit smelled like honey, now there are actual genuine accounts repeating what I’ve said about them like it’s the word of God.

I don’t even have to do anything to keep this going, but I throw gas on the fire, typing a comment they screwed me over and recommending our yard instead.

By tomorrow, I’ll have this sock shut down and another one open to keep sinking the nails into the coffin.

They’re close to giving up. The anonymous call I made to Standards Division that makes sure scrap scales meet code is coming down on them soon. Maybe give it another week to really hit home, then throw them a lowball offer they’ll cling to like I’ve just tossed a twig to a drowning man.

But as soon as they do, I’m done. Fuck this shit. One fucking look at Lula and I see a whole new life that doesn’t included destroying other people’s lives for profit and entertainment. How that’s possible, I don’t know but I trust my gut more than any person or science in the world.

I have a handful of businesses, I have my apartment, I have my own income and with my end of this scrapyard deal with Larry I might even invest and expand my own fucking empire and get the fuck away from family business.

My text tone goes off. I dig out my phone, tossing it on the coffee table. There’s only one text I’d reply to right now, and that person doesn’t have my fucking number.

I entwine my fingers behind my neck, dropping my chin to my chest as the phone dings again and I glance at the screen.

It’s James. Asking what got into me at the wedding, going ballistic on one of the strippers and her client. I delete the message without replying, grinding my teeth. None of his fucking business.

No, fuck it, I’m dialing his number ready to tell him to back the fuck off. We’re close, but he’s not my shrink.

Except I nearly crack the screen pounding the numbers and it’s not James I’m calling.

It’s Lula.

“Hello?” She’s tense, like she’s expecting bad news and my protective hackles rise wondering what is worrying her.

My dick is instantly erect. I grab it through my jeans with a hard squeeze trying to get it back down, but the contact only makes it more excited to get at her.

I swallow, licking my lips, trying to figure out what the fuck I’m going to say.

Why did I even call her? I have nothing to say that won’t make me sound like an ass.

“Say something or I’m hanging up,” she demands, but there’s a waver in her voice. She’s had to be strong with a mother like hers, but that’s not who she is. Not really. But, what the fuck do I know? I don’t know anything about her.

“It’s me,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Scotch.”

“How’d you get my number?”

Went through your mother’s phone after you left. The new one my dad bought her. The one with the same password he uses for all his wives and girlfriends’ phones so he can snoop whenever he wants. Pay to play, ladies. Pay to play.

I think to myself. “Larry. He said I should call you.”

“Oh. About what? It’s late…”

“Yeah, sorry. It’s good to hear your voice.”

Too good. I lower the phone and put her on speaker, lowering the zipper on my jeans as I listen to her breathing. Is she nervous? Is she thinking about what we did yesterday and how wrong it was? She’s my sister now. Dirty girl.

“Don’t fucking leave that way again,” I demand, the possessiveness I feel for her bubbling with anger inside of me that I don’t know where she is.

I did a Google search after her mother told me Lula had her last name, but nothing came up.

I have a call in with a friend of mine who’s a private investigator but he’s in fucking Bora Bora or something for the week with his girl.

I should have finished my call to James. He’s got less legitimate connections, some even I don’t like to ask about, but my brain is so fucking focused on Lula I’m not thinking straight.

I stoke my hard dick, remembering how she tasted.

“Uh, yeah, well I’ll come and go as I please.” Her voice is harder, too hard, like she’s forcing it.

“What happened to Yes, Daddy?” I toss that out as I palm the swollen head, spreading the seeping cum around the tip.

“Well, Daddy was swarmed by ten sets of tits and ass and wasn’t paying attention,” she snaps. I love the hint of jealousy in her voice. She’s with me, she’s just unsure and it’s my job to make sure that is fixed.