Survival: A Military Stepbrother Romance Read online

  Mom and Gerald were greeted at the entrance to the club by the manager, who was conveniently distracting our parents for us. They assumed we were already there, getting ready to walk down the aisle. Meanwhile, we were lifting off in a Blackhawk helicopter from the small, private airport ten miles away. The manager made some kind of excuse about the golf cart being screwed up, so they’d have to walk the half mile up to the banquet hall, giving us time to make our grand entrance.

  When the helicopter was near the tenth hole, Wes told the pilot to hover at 5000 feet, discreetly far enough away that none of the guests were suspicious, until we were sure Mom and Gerald were both seated in their chairs. The altar was set up to look over the fairway for the first hole, a rather picturesque setting that had been used in a semi-famous movie about golfing years before. Wes closed his face mask and sent a signal to the Minister of the Wedding with some kind of transceiver. “All right, hit it.”

  The crowd of about a hundred people, mostly employees of Collins Robotics and their families, but also a few of Wes’s old Army buddies, and one old man that Wes had whispered to me he suspected was Oscar from his secret agent days, all looked to the altar as the minister stood up.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you,” he said in a slight Midwestern twang. “I get to start this ceremony off in a way that is a first even for me, and I’ve been doing this for going on twenty-five years. The bride and groom have planned a unique entrance for all of you, so if you’d please stand up and direct your attention above us.”

  The helicopter pilot did his job perfectly. Swinging around, he parked us right where we wanted, about twenty yards north of the wedding party and a thousand feet up. We had designed for the Mark X to be able to handle larger falls, but we didn’t want to put too big of a divot in the turf. The country club was being nice as it was.

  “Ready, babe?” Wes asked over our private intercom circuit. “Just remember, take it like a drop from a basketball hoop. Let the suit do the work for you.”

  It took more guts than I had anticipated to slide out the side of the Blackhawk. I had done the calculations over and over; freefall time was supposed to be just over eight seconds, and we’d hit the ground at just over a hundred and fifty miles an hour. Basically, I dropped out of a helicopter into a car crash, and was depending on my design to let me walk away alive.

  Those eight seconds were both the shortest and the longest of my life, even more so than the plane crash. Part of my mind was in total freak-out mode, shutting down and making the whole fall seem like only a blink of an eye. Another part of me slowed time down to a crawl, so it felt like I was up there for what had to be a minute at least. I found out later that the feeling was normal, the result of your brain being in panic mode.

  Thankfully, I was able to hang onto Wes’s instructions to me to keep calm and let the suit do the work. Hitting the ground, I let my knees bend and roll, the suit working perfectly. It wasn’t until I was on my feet that I realized that instead of The Wedding March, the band was playing Back in Black, and I started laughing. Mom and Gerald were both on their feet, and part of me felt bad for the expression on Mom’s face. Still, she recovered well and joined in the clapping, Wes and I striding toward the altar together. I had to give it to the minister—he recovered well from the shock, and spoke again into the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Bride and Groom.”

  Wes

  After the ceremony was over and Robin and I were back in normal clothes, Dad found me and hugged me, right before giving me a sharp smack on the shoulder.

  “If you ever try to scare the bejesus out of Rebekah and me like that again, you’re going to find out you’re not too big to get a whoopin’ from your old man,” he joked, smiling with tears in his eyes. “But it’s beautiful, son. And you’re the second luckiest man in the world today.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, looking toward the front of the reception hall, where the Mark X and X2 were on display, an appreciative crowd of people gathered around. “Although I will have to respectfully disagree with you on the ‘second luckiest man’ bit.”

  “I’m sure,” Dad said, taking a drink from his flute of champagne. His eyes turned toward the Mark X, a whistle coming between his teeth. “A thousand foot drop, and it still looks like you just got done giving it a wax job. Do I want to know how much those things cost?”

  “Nope, but trust me, they’re going to be great PR ambassadors for the company,” I said. “Let’s face it, the Mark X is bad-ass.”

  “And of course you and Robin get to go play with them as often as you want,” Dad said with a grin. “Like your typical sports car owner. Yours just doesn’t have Lotus on the hood.”

  Dad and I laughed before an older man, maybe ten years older than him came up, offering his hand. “Congratulations.”

  I went with my instincts and shook his hand. “Dad, could you give us a minute? I’m sure Robin would love to talk your ear off about the design or something.”

  Dad nodded and left us. I guided the gentleman outside, where the sun was just starting to go down, the golf course covered in amber gold light. “Those are two hellacious divots you caused,” the old man said, pointing toward the holes on the fairway. “Glad you hit only a few yards out. Won’t mess up anyone’s tee shot.”

  “Oscar?” I asked, and the old man nodded. “It’s been a few years. You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

  “I never stopped keeping tabs on you,” Oscar replied. “Although this is the first time I’ve personally watched your little creations in action. Your work is impressive.”

  “Thanks, I’m a lucky man,” I said for what felt like the tenth time that day. “I don’t want to sound suspicious or anything, Oscar, but why today?”

  “I heard from a friend that you were going to be putting on a show today, and that, combined with the fact that you were getting married, caused me to come and pay my respects. I was right in both regards.”

  “Thank you,” I said, offering him another handshake. When Oscar didn’t let go, I tilted my head to the side. “What is it, Oscar?”

  Oscar grinned, and I swear I watched twenty years fall off of the man’s face. “Wes, how would you like to help out your country again? Except this time, I was thinking maybe as part of a two-person team?”

  I looked at him, then looked over my shoulder at the Mark X and X2. The offer was tempting. Adventure, action, and with Robin by my side? My life would be a living comic book at that point.

  But I also remembered the bad side of comics. Danger, lack of family opportunities, and the inevitable death of the characters, usually by horrible means. Then Robin came into view, resplendent in the cocktail dress she had chosen for the reception, and my mind was made up for me.

  “Oscar, there might come a time that the X or X2 would be used in just that way. But for me personally, I have to pass. Didn’t your source tell you? We’re planning on starting a family.”

  Oscar nodded and let go of my hand, clapping me on the shoulder. “Well, we might approach you two in the future, but I understand. Go and enjoy. She’s a beautiful bride.”

  Oscar walked away, toward the front entrance of the club and a waiting car, I was sure. Going back inside, I found Robin, pulling her into an embrace and kissing her on the lips. “Well, not that I mind, but what was that for?” she asked me, while a few onlookers cheered.

  “For giving me everything I could ever want,” I whispered in her ear. “Now, let’s get this dinner and reception over with. There’s a lake in Canada calling our names.”

  THE END

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  Excerpt - Addicted: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance
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  “Your lips would look great wrapped around my…”

  Who in the world tells a girl that on their first meeting? Tyler Locklin, that’s who. He’s filthy rich and arrogant with a set of abs that is the envy of all young men everywhere, and did I forget to mention devilishly handsome? He’s a bastard of the first order. I can’t stand to be in the same room with him.

  But with one wink or a flash of his mischievous grin, I go weak in the knees. It pisses me off. I’m supposed to hate him. He’s an asshole. Yet, I can’t help but be drawn to him because I’m . . . ADDICTED.

  * * *

  Prologue

  Victoria

  I squirmed beneath the silken sheets, the last vestiges of an earth-shattering orgasm coursing through my sweat-covered limbs. My breasts rose and fell below the sheets as I tried to catch my breath and regain control. After a while, my racing pulse slowly started to calm down as the tremors slowly receded. At last, a sigh escaped my lips as my body was flooded by a rush of hormones.

  It was always this way.

  He takes me, ravaging my body for everything that it’s worth . . . and then leaves. It’s a game he plays. He wants to leave me in a state of desperation, aching for more of his touch. Aching to feel his lips all over my body. He leaves, knowing that I’ll still be there when he comes back, wanting every piece of him.

  Bastard.

  I should’ve left him. I had every right to. But whenever I think I’ve finally had enough, I make up reasons why I can’t. Maybe it’s because he's one of the richest men in the country. Maybe it’s that incredible swagger or that cocky grin that says he can fuck any woman he wants. Or maybe it’s because I like feeling his eight-inch cock plowing through me like no tomorrow.

  The truth is, being with him is a huge ego boost for a girl like me. He’s handsome, powerful and mysterious, and I’m a small town girl with dreams of becoming big in the fashion world. Being with him is downright intoxicating. Addicting. And I can never get enough.

  There’s just one problem . . . he’s my stepbrother.

  Chapter 1

  Victoria

  A fool. That’s what my mother has always called me for choosing a career in the fashion industry. Why can’t I aspire to work in a real industry with more stability? She’d ask.

  “Because that’s always been my dream, Mother,” I’d say.

  “Well, sorry to tell you, sweetheart, but dreams don’t pay the bills.”

  Then she’d go on to berate me, telling me how much of a mistake I was making with my life. It got so bad that after I graduated from college and got a job as a personal assistant for one of the most popular designers in the city, Christine Finnerman, we had a huge falling out. I don’t know what it was with her and my pursuing my dream of fashion.

  Every day, she would call me to tell me that it wasn’t too late to turn around and do something else with my life. She would offer alternatives to my career choice—all of which I hated with a passion. For a while I put up with her not-so-subtle suggestions, but I was infuriated every second that I had to listen to her complaining, and it took great effort to hold it all in. I mean, isn’t it a parent’s duty to encourage their child's hopes, dreams and aspirations? Not so for my mother. She seemed to take a special kind of glee in telling me I was doing it all wrong.

  Finally, I could take no more. The feelings that I’d been holding back had boiled over and I soon started getting into shouting matches with my mother, saying things better left unsaid. Of course, none of these arguments ever ended well, and we ended up not speaking to each other for weeks at a time.

  It was so bad that when her wedding came about, I didn't go. She was marrying some filthy rich guy that she'd callously divorced my father for.

  I figured if she thought I was such a failure, then she wouldn’t want me showing up at her wedding, embarrassing her in front of her high-class guests.

  In truth, I also didn’t go because I was still angry about the divorce. My mother had up and left my dad without so much as an explanation, simply stating that she wasn’t happy in her marriage and hadn’t been for a very long time. I thought it had more to do with the new man she was seeing, who had a far, far larger bank account.

  After all, my mom has always had a taste for the finer things in life, you understand.

  It didn’t seem to hurt my father, however, since he had a new girlfriend half his age within a week of the divorce. My father, it seemed, had already been dipping his toes in the younger pool way before things turned south in his marriage. Perhaps it was the real reason why Mother left him. Whatever the case, despite being angry about the divorce, I didn’t approve of my father’s behavior either. The girl he was with was around my age and dumb as a sack of potatoes. To make matters worse, he had plans to marry her and start a family. Out of distaste, I started shunning my father’s company as well, because when it came down to it, I couldn’t tolerate a girl that was basically the same age as me being my stepmother.

  So here I am, in a big city, parentless, with only my dreams and aspirations to guide me.

  * * *

  A sharp voice snapped me to attention.

  “Where is my coffee?”

  I froze, a stack of papers filled with clothing designs, measurements and fashion models bundled in my arms. Slowly, I turned around to see Christine Finnerman, my boss, leaning against her desk, her palm resting against the polished wood. She impatiently tapped on her desk with her immaculate nails, making a clack, clack, clack sound.

  As usual, she was dressed as sharp as a tack. A white dress wrapped around her matronly frame, fitting her like a glove, and a shiny black belt circled her waist, giving her shapely figure a va-voom appearance. She was wearing black glossy heels I’d contemplate killing my mother for, and not one bit of her shoulder-length hair, which is a striking pepper gray, was out of place.

  “I’m sorry, Christine,” I said when I could finally manage, trying to push down the anxiety that was suddenly rushing up my throat. “I was just about to get it. I didn’t expect you to arrive ten minutes early.”

  Christine eyed me with contempt reserved for a dog. “One should always be prepared for the unexpected, especially in this industry.” She paused for dramatic effect. Hurry up. I swear she spoke the last words with her mouth closed.

  “Right away.”

  Scrambling in my three-inch Christian Dior heels—a job perk that I particularly enjoyed—I made my way to my desk that’s in the adjoining room to Christine’s office. I threw the stack down on it, breathing in and out, trying to catch my breath. I was wearing a tight black dress that makes it difficult for me to breathe as well as move because it’s a size too small. Christine told me that at a size eight, I’m fat by industry standards, so I’d started trying to squeeze into smaller dress sizes, hoping that the discomfort would encourage me to lose weight.

  Once I thought I could breathe again, I scurried over to the professional Keurig machine that sat in the hallway leading up to Christine’s office. A few seconds later, I’m setting down a steaming mug on her desk.

  I stepped back and beamed proudly as if I'd just won a nationwide competition. “Will that be all?” I asked her, my tone respectful.

  Christine didn't even bother to look up at me as she flipped through the pages of a fashion book. “You may go,” she said, motioning her hands as if she was shooing a fly.

  I turned away, feeling dejected. I hated how Christine treated me, but I was used to it. I saw my tenure as her indentured slave as a necessary sacrifice. As one of the most powerful women in the fashion world, working for Christine would open up many doors for me.

  And once that door opens, I’m going to run through it, slam it, and never look back.

  I made it to the door before Christine spoke again. “Oh, and Victoria, I need you to call Adam Pierre to tell him I won’t be attending his show next week.”

  I turned back around, my mouth agape like a frog. “But . . . Adam throws one of the biggest shows in the indus
try,” I dared to protest. “You can’t just not show up.”

  Christine looked up from her book, her expression sharp enough to cut glass.

  It was the only answer I needed.

  “I’ll get right on it,” I squeaked.

  I scurried back to my desk and flopped down in my seat. Blowing strands of hair out of my eyes in frustration, I took a deep breath and picked up the phone. Did I mention that I really hated working for Christine? I consider myself a pretty headstrong girl who can speak up for myself whenever I feel like I’m being mistreated, but in the face of Christine Finnerman’s wrath, I became a doormat—mainly because I so desperately needed my job.

  I quickly dialed Pierre’s number.

  “Bonjour?”

  I was surprised when Pierre himself answered. Usually he had some lackey to handle his affairs, but when Christine Finnerman was calling, I guess even if you're the busiest honcho in town, you have time.

  “Mr. Pierre?” I asked nervously. “This is Victoria Young, Christine Finnerman’s assistant.”

  “Ah yes, Victoria,” Pierre said in his heavy French accent. “Christy has told me a lot about you.”

  None of it good, I’m sure.

  Sweat beaded my palms. “I’m sorry to tell you this, sir, but Christine has informed me that she must cancel for your upcoming show.”

  Pierre let out a gasp, sounding like he was choking on a hot dog. “What? Impossible! If she doesn’t show up, it’ll be a disaster.” I could hear frantic movement through the phone and a rustling of papers. “Where is Christine?” he demanded a moment later. “I must speak to her.”

  I glanced up from my desk. Christine had made it absolutely clear that she wanted to cancel. If I went inside of her office and tried to convince her otherwise, I might be out of a job. She doesn't have patience for employees questioning her decisions.