Perfect

by Dani Wyatt

  P E R F E C T

  _______________________

  D a n i W y a t t

  Copyright © 2016

  by Dani Wyatt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  www.daniwyatt.com

  Cover Credit PopKitty

  Editing Nicci Haydon

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  PERFECT

  C H A P T E R O N E

  C H A P T E R T W O

  C H A P T E R T H R E E

  C H A P T E R F O U R

  C H A P T E R F I V E

  C H A P T E R S I X

  C H A P T E R S E V E N

  C H A P T E R E I G H T

  C H A P T E R N I N E

  C H A P T E R T E N

  C H A P T E R E L E V E N

  C H A P T E R T W E L V E

  C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N

  C H A P T E R F O U R T E E N

  C H A P T E R F I F T E E N

  C H A P T E R S I X T E E N

  C H A P T E R S E V E N T E E N

  E P I L O G U E O N E

  E P I L O G U E T W O

  BABY

  WRANGLER

  WHERE SHE BELONGS

  Other Titles by Dani Wyatt

  FOLLOW ME

  Thank You.

  A NOTE TO MY READERS:

  I appreciate every one of you.

  Dedicated to the perfectly imperfect.

  Strap on your favorite push up bra, throw some glitter

  in the air and remember you rock.

  Sordid fun and other dirty shenanigans

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  Dani Wyatt on Amazon

  C H A P T E R O N E

  GRIFFIN

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  It’s a sign. I shouldn’t have come. I consider retreating through the ivy covered wrought iron gates that I’ve only just stepped through.

  “Hey, Griff!” Stacey Phelps lifts one hand and waves a little unsteadily. “Griffin!”

  She was the homecoming queen of my high school senior class, and to my horror I was voted onto the court that year, so I’m not surprised she’s here. This is sort of my unofficial going away party at my best friend Derrick’s parents’ estate. I’ve known Stacey since fifth grade. We’re not what I would call friends, but we’d hung out in the same circles, and she saying ‘hi’ would be normal under normal circumstances.

  But in this case, it’s fucking weird.

  She’s leaning over a long, teak dining table that adorns the outside, covered dining area by the pool with her skirt flipped up over her rear and some dude’s dick deep in her lady business.

  People are idiots.

  “Jesus.” I grunt toward the darkening sky, shaking my head as I kick the squeaking iron gate closed behind me with my heel.

  I should have just taken the front entrance like everyone else, but I thought I might be able to sneak in unnoticed if I came through the back garden. Should have known better. I’m not one for attracting attention; I’m more the sit-in-the-corner-and-hope-no-one-notices-me kind of guy. That’s not always the case unfortunately. My sheer size draws eyes, I get that.

  If I had my way, I’d have my head stuck in a book or hitting some intricate math problem just to prove to myself I could solve it. But most people still see me as a varsity jacket. A football Guido. The cheerleaders used to have a betting pool on who would manage to snag me. Whoever got the first fuck apparently won a prize. That never happened.

  The scene that’s greeted me raises my blood pressure. Emily Post has no protocol for this sort of thing.

  I do my best to avert my eyes as I speed my steps across the ledge stone pathway, dry leaves crunching under my black boots, and doing my best to feign ignorance of the coital activities to my left.

  But Stacey won’t stop fucking talking to me.

  “I heard you were coming. MBA a year early, I hear. He always was Mr. Smarty pants,” she adds over her shoulder as the dick behind her thrusts forward. Every few words there’s a gasp of punctuation, her suitor seemingly finding my presence no deterrent to his dick’s needs. “Hey, Griff, come over and say ‘hi.’ My mouth isn’t occupied.” Her sing song tone does nothing to stay the violent uprising in my stomach.

  “No.” I jab the word at the ground, making it very clear her offer is not only declined but enthusiastically declined, shoving my hands into the back pockets of my Levi’s, the six pack tucked between the crook of my elbow and my hip. My leather jacket opens in the front. The “Property of University of Michigan Football” lettering stretching across my chest.

  “You sure? You and I never did get together. Kind of a shame don’cha think?”

  I’m three long strides toward the back door into the main house, still stunned she’s talking to me as though we’re standing outside a fucking library or something. All I want to do is get inside and away from that sight. Even though it was only a split second glance, it’s now burned into my brain. The incoherent glaze of inebriation and lust on both their faces, the way they’re lit by the color changing, underwater pool lights, like some kind of weird new art installation Derrick’s step-mom has wasted her money on.

  Keep walking.

  Sometimes I just can’t ignore the things I should.

  I take one hand out of my back pocket, my fingers twisting the door handle, but I can feel myself starting to shake. The fire flickers down in my gut.

  I take three measured breaths like my high school coach and mentor Lenny Robinson taught me to do. It doesn’t work. I set the beer down on the table next to the door and breathe through my nose for a long moment.

  “Dude, what the fuck are you doing?” I spin and take a few strides back in their direction. The guy standing behind Stacey bites his lip, eyes glazed, only half open, and I doubt he’s even aware of me at the moment. I know the fucking look and I feel dirty just seeing it, but this is total bullshit. I raise my voice and clap my hands together. “Hey, asshole, yes, I’m talking to you.” I thrust my arm out straight, snapping my fingers and pointing his way.

  Stacey’s head jerks back, her eyes wide, and she haphazardly brushes her tangled hair from her face. I see that she’s deep into this right now, but I can’t let this shit go, for her sake as much as anything. I don’t have any specific feelings for her one way or the other, and if she was a stranger I’d be having the exact same reaction.

  I look back at the dude, his eyes light on me and he loses his happy “O” face, hip thrusts paused, caught in between shock and release.

  “What the fuck, man? We’re busy here.” He narrows his eyes at me and I step forward so he can get a good look at who he’s messing with. I stop at the other end of the table though. Any closer and I’m going to get a view of things I care not see.

  “Yes, unfortunately I can see you’re busy.” I look quickly at Stacey, whose eyes are locked onto me. “But if you are any kind of man, you wouldn’t do this out here.” I jerk a hand from my back pocket and wave it, fingers up toward the sky, just in case he hasn’t noticed where he is. “Show her some respect. And the rest of us as well
. Take it inside.”

  My hands fall to my sides, fists tightening. I count to ten because I feel the tingling starting in the back of my neck and I know what’s coming next if I don’t calm down.

  What do I care, right? She’s not my girl. I don’t even know him, and I don’t owe her a thing. Fuck, I haven’t even kissed a girl in so long you would think I’d enjoy this kind of show.

  The truth is I’ve never done much of anything with a girl. No one knows that but Derrick. Hell, I’m not embarrassed to be a virgin, but I don’t advertise and I doubt anyone that knows me would guess that is the case.

  I must be from another century, right? I’ve seen too much of this sort of disrespect for sex, from both sides of the gender spectrum. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fan of sex, and I think it should be enjoyed enthusiastically by both men and women. When the time comes and I find the right girl, all bets are off, I want to do it all and then some. Nonetheless, all women deserve to be treated like something precious.

  The dude grunts my way, poison darts shooting from his eyes. “Back the fuck off, man. I’m not forcing her, move the fuck on.” He lets go of her hip raising his hand with a dismissive flap in my direction.

  I stifle a laugh at his bravado. It’s hard to look tough with your jeans around your knees and your ass hanging out in the October chill. I’ve also got about six inches of height on him, and from the looks of him, he’s from this side of the tracks decked out in his bow tie, plaid button down and cashmere sweater. It’s all good, I don’t care how he dresses, and having money is great, but I doubt he’s ever fought off a mosquito.

  I know what it means to work. I shoveled shit at a horse barn all through high school. Three jobs in college, swinging a hammer, cooking the line in a greasy diner and shoveling snow in a Michigan winter puts hair on your balls and callouses on your hands. So this trust fund baby best be wise to keep himself in check. Three years of college football has me layered with forty additional pounds of lean muscle than when I left this town the end of my senior summer, and I was already one of the biggest guys in our class then.

  My face heats and I have to reach out to grab the top of a chair on the opposite side of the table. I squeeze the top rail of the wood, raising the chair off the ground a few inches before slamming it back down, shaking the entire table, Stacey included. “I’m going inside that door.” I twist my head toward where the party is roaring inside. “But I’m going to turn around when I get in there and you’d better be fucking gone.”

  I don’t wait for his answer because he’s already on the retreat, my point made. I do my best to shake the anger away. Clearly that doesn’t work because when I get to the back door I jerk it open so hard it bends the hinges and won’t close behind me. I grab the six cans of some craft double IPA, fancy bullshit beer I thought Derrick might like and shoulder my way inside the house.

  That whole scene shouldn’t have set me off the way it did. I didn’t want this party, and I’m sure my general level of irritation when I came through the back gate didn’t help things.

  Inside, I take a quick breath, blow it out and try to reset my mood.

  Thumping music hits me in the chest. The back entry leads straight into a party room with floor to ceiling windows right across the back wall that also function as doors when the weather permits. It’s a little cool out in October for the pool, but plenty of parties in the past have seen this room completely open to the patio by sliding all those windows into the walls. Slick, I know. Money buys some cool stuff, that’s for sure. I only know about this stuff because of my friends. If I stayed on my side of the tracks my whole life, I’d be lucky to see a plastic kiddy pool in the backyard.

  I scan the busy room, raising a hand as people turn and wave. Heads spin as whispers grow. Girls start licking their lips and tossing their hair. They should know better by now. I’m not taken but I’m not really available either.

  One hand is holding onto the six pack and my other one moves to the comfortable place in my back pocket. I’m trying to work out the best strategy for getting through this with a minimum amount of attention. Then, just as my eyes adjust to the bright light, I catch a glimpse of the most beautiful silken black hair off to my right. Streaks of light cascade down the slick dark strands like moonlight on a still lake.

  Under that hair I see the blush of a cheek against skin that makes me think of the finest china. It’s barely a second, but it’s intoxicating. My insides start to rearrange themselves and my heart does some twitching thing that makes me wonder if I need a cardiologist.

  My eyes widen and my mouth waters. Maybe I’m sick. I’m lightheaded, and even my skin prickles to life.

  And my dick is hard. In an instant. That’s never happened before.

  I shift my head, straining to see around some idiot who’s stepped into my line of vision blocking my view. My feet may as well be encased in cement and bricks stacking on my shoulders. There’s a raging urge to throw myself forward and touch her, but I’m frozen.

  With a spin of her head the light is swirling around her raven black hair, and there is this look in her eyes that cuts me. She’s unsure. Even afraid. Maybe I’m hallucinating because I swear to Christ a halo hovers over her. She catches me staring. Her honey-green eyes capture mine for a split second and the wind is knocked out of me. Just that single second of connection sends me spinning.

  And with that, she’s gone, another young girl leading her by the hand out of the room followed by a few more giggling as they go. They’re too young to be friends of Derrick’s. Maybe seniors in high school, friends of Derrick’s newest stepsister, Amanda.

  I don’t know Amanda well, except whenever I come around she finds a reason to be wherever I am. She’s overly flirty for her age and from what Derrick tells me she does that with all his friends. To top it off, he’s mentioned her attitude needs frequent adjustment, unfortunately, her mother is less than attentive.

  Something about this whole setup is unsettling, they are way too young to be mixing with this kind of adult crowd. There’s alcohol flowing, flesh on display, and who knows what else might be being passed around this room. What I’d seen on the back patio now makes me even more pissed.

  I don’t even know the haloed angel that swept through the room and through me a moment ago, but the thought of her stumbling onto that sort of scene has me seeing everything through a red mist.

  I know when someone is out of their depth. Something was going on there, she looked like the lamb being lead to slaughter.

  I clear my throat and toss my head back on my neck, trying to shake it off.

  Looking around the enormous party room starts to close around me. The muscles in my chest twitch and tighten. In a house this size, some of the closets are bigger than my parents’ entire house. The place is all English country estate from the outside, all worn brick and limestone with ivy gripping onto every vertical surface it can find. But inside, clearly there is a new sheriff in town, which is Derrick’s new step-mother. The inside is more SoHo loft, all white on cream with splashes of modern artwork covering nearly every open wall.

  A lot has changed here at Derrick’s family’s estate since I was here last Christmas. Seems Rita’s been giving the old credit card a workout with her redecorating.

  “Hey, retard!” I roll my eyes as Derrick’s bark cuts through the thumping music and the static hiss of voices from the people packed inside, mostly friends and acquaintances from our high school class. Some of Derrick’s college friends. He got his undergrad a year ago and stopped there. I pushed on and finished up my MBA; I need every advantage I can get.

  A slap on the back spins me around, my hand flies out of my back pocket ready to do battle. I know it’s Derrick, but I’m not a huge fan of random touch and he knows that so I throw an elbow into his gut as I turn around, holding the six pack in my other hand still, letting him know my retaliation wasn’t an accident with a glare. “You should know better.”

  He doubles over with a laugh. “I sho
uld. But I can’t help myself. It’s fun.”

  My aversion to touch became a game with our football teammates in high school. On the field it wasn’t an issue. But more than a few of my teammates found out that when I said ‘don’t touch me,’ I was fucking serious.

  “Yeah, fun for who? You having fun?” I chuckle down at my friend who is bent in half finding his next breath. “You’re lucky I don’t throw another shot into that pretty face, give your nose a new angle. You’re too pretty to be a dude anyway.” Even as I’m goading him,, I’m shoving the six pack his way. He’s grinning and nodding getting his vertical back with a groan.

  “Yeah? Well you’re too ugly to be above ground, dude.” He playfully slaps my face and I let that one go. He could easily be in an Abercrombie ad with his surfer looks. Me, I’m more the dark, gritty underbelly, hard on the outside, but when you get to know me, the inside is far different.

  The irony is the scar on my lip is from when Derrick knocked me over when we were ten playing football out in his front yard. He hit me low, took my legs out and I fell face first into the jockey statue at the edge of their driveway. He’s the only one who’s ever taken me down and left a mark. And, lived to tell the story.

  Which, trust me, he does at every opportunity.

  Derrick was our high school quarterback when I was a lineman, so I know he’s tough, but I doubt he could topple me over anymore, even on the best of days.

  Derrick flashes me his ever present smile. “With your looks the D.O.D. will surely keep you locked in the dungeon with the other freaks. Forensic accounting? Who would’ve thought that was such an in-demand skill.”

  “Shut up, it pays well. I’m all about the paycheck.”

  I know he sympathizes, but there’s no way Derrick could understand about student loans, housing fees let alone my family’s medical bills and foreclosure notices.

  He nods. “How’s your mom?”

  I shake my head and let out a long sigh.

  “Sorry, man. Your dad’s worked hard his whole life. Plumbers should be paid better than doctors in my opinion. Dealing with all that shit.” He explodes in a laugh. “Forensic accounting is almost as glamorous as plumbing.”