Mistake: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Read online

  Mistake

  A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance

  Lauren Landish

  Contents

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Preview - Duty: A Secret Baby Romance

  Also by Lauren Landish

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Landish

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  All characters are 18+ years of age, non-blood related, and all sexual acts are consensual.

  Introduction

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  **Mistake was previously published as a 3 part novella series called Stepbrother Bad Boy’s Baby.

  Even bad boys can be tamed . . . by a baby.

  My stepbrother-to-be is an arrogant bastard. He wants to make me his next conquest, and he wants to use me to embarrass his father.

  So why can’t I resist his bad boy charm, and how the hell did I make the mistake of having his baby?

  But there’s a voice in the back of my head that tells me maybe I can change him for the better… maybe our baby will make him a better man.

  Chapter 1

  Julian

  I was putting on my pants when my father called. Glancing at the clock, I could see that it was only eight in the evening, so him calling wasn't totally unexpected. It was about eleven his time out there in New England. The girl, I think her name was Candy, maybe Cindy, watched me with the sheet pulled up to her chin as her large breasts pushed the cotton out an impressive distance. She'd just turned eighteen not long ago. And yes, I checked. I'm not one to get taken for a fool. After a friend of mine got himself in a load of trouble with the law, I made sure to never just take the girl's word for it. "Yeah Johnathan?"

  "Julian, you know I hate it when you use my name like that," my father replied. Like I gave a shit. "I know it's been a while, son."

  "Not long enough, Johnathan. What do you want?"

  "I just called to invite you to my wedding."

  I closed my eyes, rubbing at my temples. I could feel a splitting headache coming on, and we were only fifteen seconds into the conversation. "What's the slut's name this time, Johnathan?"

  My father collected women like I used to collect baseball cards back when he was married to my mother. Of course, right about the time I turned seven, he sent Mom packing, and I never forgave him for that. To top it off, Johnathan could hire the best lawyers in the state, and instead of going with Mom, I had to spend all but a month each year of my time for the next eleven years living with him. I got to watch in person as my father went and got himself married again, this time to a woman almost half his age. She, of course, ditched his ass as soon as possible, taking him for a huge chunk of his money (again).

  I will admit, there are some benefits to being Johnathan Castelbon's son. First of all, he has enough money that he could get married twice, get taken to the cleaners twice, and still have enough left over to be listed in the Forbes 400. With that amount of dough, he can afford to let me do pretty much whatever the hell I want. I had a monthly allowance that is bigger than your average household yearly income. When I got my driver's license, the next day I was driving a Lexus. He insisted that I learn on a more reasonable car, I believe is how he said it. By the time I graduated from high school, I'd grown into a Porsche. Now I ride around in a Ferrari, my second.

  Thankfully, since turning eighteen, I'd been able to minimize Johnathan's access to my life. He'd by that point realized that trying to bullshit me and buy me off was useless. Of course I didn't stop him from buying me things, but I damn sure wasn't about to make nice with him either. Besides, by that point he was already balls deep in his second wife, Jennifer. That lasted another year, when she divorced him and took off with some dude from Europe. By then though, I'd already had my own share of drama to deal with. "So what's her name, anyway?"

  "Sandra. Come on Julian, I've been dating her for over three years." My father sounded slightly hurt, which I loved. It was just about the only emotion I got out of the bastard.

  "Hadn't noticed, Johnathan. In case you forgot, I've had some troubles of my own." I reminded him because it seemed for me and my father, the only way we did communicate was when I was getting myself in trouble. Now, I'll admit, starting a fight with Ariana Grande's supposed boyfriend at the Playboy mansion wasn't the best idea in the world. The guy rolled with a posse of five. But I swear, she hit on me. And besides, I held my own for fuck's sake. How was I to know the tough guy boyfriend would turn out to be a little bitch who insisted on pressing charges?

  "Yes, I know. Julian, I don't want to have a fight with you about this. I just wanted to invite you personally, instead of you getting a card in the mail or having my assistant do it. Son, please. I'm asking you as a favor to me. Come to the wedding, Sandra wants to meet you. She already arranged for her daughter to come as well."

  Daughter? Hmmmm, this sounded interesting. Maybe there was a way to get my father's attention without also getting another hit on my criminal record. "Okay Johnathan, I'll be there. Have your assistant send me the details. When is it?"

  "In two weeks. If you have the time, maybe you could come up a few days early? Sandra said Krystal will be coming up for the whole week before. She's a lovely young woman, Julian."

  "I'll see what I can do." I hung up my phone without saying goodbye. I never do. On the bed, the blonde I'd just gotten done with was still looking at me. "What can I say? Family drama."

  "Yeah, I know what you mean," the bimbo said in her almost too high pitched little girl voice. She had the body of a sex goddess, but the voice of Minnie Mouse. Seriously, fucking her was like listening to a hamster on helium. Total one night stand sort of chick. "Family drama is why I moved out here from Iowa."

  Iowa? For fuck's sake. "I'm sure. So....." I said, wanting to get out without getting something thrown at me. I've already had to talk my way out of a false rape accusation, and while it was untrue and I prevailed in the end, it's something I'd rather not go through again. I'm no saint, but I am damn sure not a rapist.

  "So you said you knew some guys I could talk to about getting a role in TV?" she said, sitting up. "I was kinda hoping you could give me t
heir number."

  I grinned in relief. Oh yeah, I had a few boys I could pass this girl around to. "Sure, baby. Hold on." I went over to my jacket and pulled out my wallet, flipping through some of the business cards I kept in there. I found the one I was looking for, a guy who called himself a talent agent named Eric. While Eric could boast to having a few clients who were secondary characters in some decent Hollywood films, most of his clients, especially the female ones, ended up working in the more risqué type of business. In other words, perfect for this Iowa farm girl, bless her heart. Taking out Eric's card, I handed it over to her. "Here you go. Hey, I've gotta get going, there's something I've got to do."

  The girl took it and looked at me, and I could see the self delusion in her eyes. She wasn't the first to look at me that way. It's a blessing, and a curse. "So we can get together another time, right?"

  "Yeah baby," I said, quickly pulling my shirt over my head. "Let me check my schedule, and I'll give you a call." I was sure I had her number, but I never gave out my real number to one of these types of girls. She was no doubt looking to use me, but I was using her too, so it all worked out. Not that it stopped the real determined ones from tracking me down. I am Julian Castelbon after all. "I'll see you later."

  Julian

  My father's secretary, a withered old battle axe named Patricia who I wouldn't have fucked even if she wasn't older than Johnathan, sent me the information three ways. I gotta give it to her, she's thorough enough. E-mail, text message, and registered delivery via US Postal Service. I was surprised she didn't hire a process server like others have when I've gotten sued. Some of them are pretty damn good at tracking me down.

  I was sitting in my own place when the e-mail bounced off my laptop. I've got one of the two penthouses for the building, owned by my father of course, but he hasn't been out to the West Coast since Mom left him. Sitting in my shorts, I was getting ready for a workout down at Metroflex when the computer dinged. I finished pulling a tank top on, making sure to showcase the new ink on my right arm. Then I clicked on my e-mail. Patricia was her normal brief self, which at least I could respect. She didn't like me, but she didn't overly dislike me either. I read her message, then opened the attachment.

  Johnathan Castelbon and Sandra Hepburn-Askoy

  Kindly request the honor of your presence at their wedding

  Saturday the Fifteenth of June

  At eleven o'clock in the morning

  Castelbon Manor

  Reception to follow

  Jesus, Castelbon Manor? Sure, the old place has been in our family since my great-grandfather Wayne Castelbon made it big doing ship building contracts for the Allies in World War I, and then later on for World War II. The manor was actually older than that, having been first built in the early 1800's by some old Yankee trader whose fortune, at least some thought, may not have always been by trading just rum and timber from the Americas to Europe and back. Wayne Castelbon bought the place from the diseased remnants of the family, and had actually renovated the main building, ripping down both wings to put up new ones. Since then, my grandfather and then my father both took the time and money to make sure it was kept up to date in terms of facilities while still retaining the old fashioned exterior. In short, Castelbon Manor was the seat of the family's power, and just another way my father was getting a dig in on me. Seriously, did he not remember than when he married my mother, she'd been only nineteen while he was twenty two, in a quickie ceremony in Las Vegas? Now here he was giving this latest gold digger a full on ceremony in the Castelbon seat of power, and my Mom got jack shit? Fuck that!

  I stormed out of my place and to Metroflex for a workout, needing to work off some rage. Randy, the manager on duty, was normally one of the guys I like to hang out and chat with, but that day I was just too pissed off. Thankfully that day was back day, which meant being pissed was good. Pissed off rage combined with a dose of Nano Vapor for my pre-workout meant I tore into my deadlifts like a demon. Even some of the pro lifters, a couple of IFBB juice monkeys and a powerlifter who had more tattoos than me stopped to admire my work and even cheered me on.

  I like Metroflex. For one, it's one of the few places in the entire Los Angeles area where nobody gave a shit what my last name was. To the regular crew, I was JC. Sure, a couple would mention when I got my face in the paper or on TMZ, but they didn't give me any drama. They would bust my ass over my lifts, or when my diet was off and I came in looking like a fatass, but there was respect, and there was the unspoken acknowledgement that I could bust their chops just as much. Hell, when one of the IFBB guys offered to hook me up for a cycle of steroids, he took no offense when I turned him down. In fact, the next day he was cheering me on and cussing me out during squats just like everyone else. The regular guys at Metroflex, they were almost like my family.

  Finishing up my deadlifts, I went straight into my normal secondary lifts, finishing with a killer set for my shoulders that left me gasping and my rear delts on fire. As I set my mind aside to not focus on the pain, I thought about what I could do to really fuck up my father's wedding. Showing up drunk? Nah, too trite and easily dismissed. Causing a scene and going on a rant would probably do the same thing. He'd just look at me with those blue eyes of his, boredom and dismissal competing for first place, and then go back to the ceremony.

  On the other hand, I could always go for the throat. It was a trait I'd inherited from him after all. In business, nobody could be as ruthless as Johnathan Castelbon if you crossed him. Well, my father had been crossing me for nearly twenty years, ever since he threw Mom out on her ass. But how to go for the throat?

  Suddenly it came to me, while at the same time my left shoulder muscle said no more, and the chains I'd been using dropped to the ground. Krystal! The way my father had spoken about her, the tone of voice, he was smitten with the girl. He'd told me many times growing up that he wished he could have had another child, a daughter. "Looks like you're going to get your wish, Dad."

  At the counter, Randy called out my name. I came over, and he held out his hand. "Great job out there today man! Listen, one of the members, they're a freelance photographer who's done some work for Men's Fitness, and wanted to know if you wouldn't mind letting him take some photos next couple of workouts. He was impressed, and you could use the good ink, he said. I dunno what the fuck that means, but he said you'd know."

  I laughed and nodded. "Yeah, it means something to put me in TMZ without it being attached to the words police, scandal, or starlet. You get his name?"

  "Yeah, he dropped off a card. You want it?"

  I thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "Sure, why not? Gotta look at least somewhat respectable half the time."

  Randy got the card, and handed it over to me. "So is everything cool now? You came in ready to tear the fucking doors out of their hinges."

  I thought about it, and the word Krystal flashed in my mind again. "Yeah, it's cool. Everything is Krystal clear."

  Chapter 2

  Krystal

  My hand ached, and my fingers were almost numb after chopping and slicing vegetables for seven hours, but I kept at it. I'd been busting my ass for too long to screw up this close to breaking onto the line, regardless of if Mom was marrying Johnathan or not.

  "Aksoy!" the sous chef, a German man named Horst, called over. "I'm checking your station!"

  "Yes Chef!" I yelled back. In a professional kitchen, it's really the only acceptable answer. Is your food ready? Yes, Chef! Are you listening to me? Yes, Chef! Did you really just put peanut butter in the beef Wellington like a brain dead zombie? Yes, Chef!

  Once, when my best friend Kimberly asked me what it was like working in a professional kitchen like the one at Alinea, my reply left her wondering if I was crazy. "Go watch Full Metal Jacket," I told her as we toweled the sweat off of ourselves. It had been the end of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu class, which I may add is a great way to get rid of stress. "Watch the first half from the beginning until they go to Vietnam. Replace Marines
with chefs, and rifles with cooking knives. That's kind of my life" I said laughing, but was dead serious.

  I could understand why Kim thought I was crazy. I mean, my father, Danyal Aksoy, had been one of the first Middle Eastern chefs to try and make it big in the United States. When he married my mother, Sandra Hepburn, they'd both found their soul mates. Between her business skills, backed by her family's old money, and Dad's culinary skills, they took his single little kebab shack in the east side of St. Louis and built it into one of the largest food companies catering to the Jewish and Muslim populations in North America. While Dad himself wasn't a practicing Muslim, and I'm pretty much a non-service attending agnostic, he had grown up knowing nothing but halal foods. He built off of that, and by the time the cancer took him when I was fourteen, he'd become a multi-millionaire by his own hand. After his death, Mom continued to build the company for a few years before selling it, and putting a large chunk of the proceeds into a trust fund for me. Last I checked, my yearly interest alone on the fund would be enough to let me live an upper middle class life without ever doing a damn thing.

  But I knew, even before Dad died, what I wanted to do. He'd been taking me into the kitchen with him ever since I could walk, and some of my favorite memories of him were the two of us hanging out in the kitchen as he taught me the secrets of his spice mixtures, or how he got the consistency just right on his beans. "Some day Krystal," he would tell me, "you're going to have to cook for yourself. There's a whole world of food out there to discover. Enjoy it."