Beautiful Burn (Maddox Brothers #4)

by Jamie McGuire

  ALSO BY JAMIE MCGUIRE

  THE PROVIDENCE SERIES

  Providence

  Requiem

  Eden

  Sins of the Innocent: A Novella

  THE BEAUTIFUL SERIES

  Beautiful Disaster

  Walking Disaster

  A Beautiful Wedding: A Novella

  Something Beautiful: A Novella

  THE MADDOX BROTHERS BOOKS

  Beautiful Oblivion

  Beautiful Redemption

  Beautiful Sacrifice

  Apolonia

  Red Hill

  Among Monsters: A Novella

  Happenstance: A Novella Series (Books 1-3)

  Sweet Nothing

  Copyright © 2016 by Jamie McGuire

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.jamiemcguire.com

  Cover Designer: By Hang Le, www.byhangle.com

  Editors: Murphy Rae, www.murphyrae.net, and Madison Seidler, www.madisonseidler.com

  Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of 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 either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN eBook: 978-1310232152

  To Sweet Cheeks,

  Amber Cheeks and Sarah Sweet

  Thank you for always putting a smile on my face.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  When I was a child, I’d sit for what seemed like an eternity, staring into an open flame. My family thought it was a peculiar pastime, but almost twenty years later, I was gazing at the end of my cigarette, the ashes as long as my finger, the end burning orange as the fire climbed the paper.

  The house was crowded, so full of sweaty, stumbling drunks and debauchery that a deep breath wouldn’t matter; all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. My bones were saturated with the sounds of the bass drum, yelling, and cackling girls, most too young to buy a can of beer much less be on the verge of puking the six-pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade they’d just consumed.

  I sat back in Mother’s favorite overstuffed imported chair, taking in the chaos and feeling at home.

  Daddy was convinced I was a good girl, so it was easy to be a witness to bad behavior without guilt, even if I occasionally participated.

  A pompadoured beauty with glitter lotion and a purple dye job held out a roach—just an inch of magic grass encased in twisted paper—and I gazed into her eyes for less than a second to assess if the joint was laced before accepting. I exhaled toward the ceiling, watching as the smoke wafting above joined the white cloud already hovering the span of vast space that was our gallery, meant for après ski, wine, and sophisticated guests, not the drunken blue-collar locals who were rubbing against paintings and knocking over vases.

  I immediately relaxed, letting my head fall back against the sofa cushion. As recreational cannabis goes, Colorado was one of three states that qualified as my top favorite places to be during a holiday. The fact that my parents kept a vacation home in Estes Park made it my number one.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  I turned to face her cherubic splendor, unsurprised that she was at a packed party without knowing the host. “Ellie,” I said, barely paying attention to her sleepy, red-rimmed eyes.

  “Ellie Edson? Are you Ellison’s sister?”

  I sighed. This wasn’t the conversation I felt like having. “I’m Ellison.”

  Her eyebrows turned in as confusion shadowed her face. “But … Ellison’s a dude, right? The guy who owns this house?” She giggled and rested her cheek on her arm. “Are you like … twins or something?”

  I leaned back, grinning as she spontaneously ran her fingers through my long, dark hair. One of her arms had been inked with various sizes of black-lined skulls and bright blue roses; the other was a blank canvas.

  “No, I’m Ellison, the dude who owns this house.”

  She giggled loudly at my joke, and then kneeled on the floor in front of my chair. “I’m Paige.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “What makes you think I’m a local?” she asked.

  She was focused on my every word, the one-sided attraction making me feel a strange combination of exhilaration and tedium. Paige was more than just beautiful; she wore hope the way she carried her sad stories—out in the open, for everyone to see, vulnerable even when her heart had been broken too many times to repair.

  I held out the roach. “Your eyes are absent of a lifetime of failed expectations and the guilt of wasting limitless resources.”

  She giggled. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is that painting of your parents?” she asked, pointing her short, chipped nails at the portrait across the room.

  I sighed. “That’s them—attempting to buy immortality.”

  “They don’t look so bad. They gave you all of this.”

  “No, it’s still theirs. I’m just borrowing it. People like us learn early to quit giving things away for free.”

  “People like you?” she asked, amused. “As in, people who own a gazillion-square-foot house?”

  “Several of them,” I said.

  Her eyebrows rose, and her mouth curved up into a sweet grin.

  Some might perceive my comment as bragging, but there was purposeful disdain in my voice I knew Paige wouldn’t recognize. She was still smiling. I could probably mention my mother had admitted to me during a Xanax binge that she loved my sister Finley more, or how I deliberately totaled the Ferrari my father had bought me for my sixteenth birthday (mostly as an apology that he’d missed it), or even the time my roommate, Kennedy—also an heiress—brought a Ziploc bag full of her miscarriage along on a women’s rights march at Berkeley. Paige would still gaze up at me as if I were professing my love for her instead of detailing seven levels of fucked up.

  I breathed out a laugh. “You’re definitely a local.”

  “Guilty. Boyfriend?” she asked.

  “You get right to the point.”

  She shrugged, taking a drag and holding her breath for five seconds before hacking out a puff of smoke. “Is that a no?” she asked, still coughing.

  “Unequivocally.”

  She tried to pass the roach back, but I shook my head. She jutted ou
t her glistening bottom lip.

  “Disappointed?” I wasn’t sure if she wanted a threesome or a drug buddy.

  “You just look like you’d be a fun girlfriend.”

  “You’re wrong.” I stood up, already bored with the conversation. A glass broke across the room, and a small group tightened around whatever show was happening in the center.

  Laughter turned to yelling and chanting. Peter Max’s Better World was knocked off the wall, shattering the glass. Cheap beer splashed over the fifty-thousand-dollar brush strokes. I pushed my way to the front, seeing two men throwing punches, making an unholy mess of every piece of art around them.

  All eyes fell on me, and the spectators quieted, causing the two in the middle to pause. They were all waiting for me to break up the fight, or yell, or maybe cry over the damage, but my gaze fell on the shirtless man covered in tattoos. He watched me, too, his chestnut eyes scanning my tits and legs, and then the room. His adversary had turned his red ball cap backward, bouncing as he circled Tattoos, rolling his fists back and forth in the air like he was in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

  “Maddox, you’ve proved your point. Let’s go,” someone said to the tattooed man.

  “Fuck you,” he replied. He didn’t take his eyes off me. “We’ll just take it outside.”

  Red Cap had at least fifty pounds on Maddox. I pulled out five bills from my cleavage and held them above me. “I’ve got five hundred on Maddox.”

  People shot their fists into the air, holding bills, shouting bets and winners. Maddox looked at me with a light in his eye I was sure no one had seen in a while—not even him. He’d just barely broken a sweat; his buzzed hair and dark eyes screamed invincible. Most of the men I’d met were all hat and no cowboy, but Maddox didn’t have to pretend. He lived it, and had the balls to back it up. The apex of my thighs tightened, and my panties were suddenly soaked. I took another step, forcing my way closer to the middle. I’d never seen him before, but he looked a lot like my next mistake.

  The way he moved, I could tell he was extending the fight much longer than needed. Blow after blow—none by the bulky douchebag in the backward red hat—more glass broken, more blood spilled and beer sloshed onto Mother’s custom, Italian shag rug.

  It became a pattern of Red Cap throwing a missed punch, and Maddox using the opportunity to land his. He was unbelievably fast, precise, and ruthless. I could almost feel his knuckles against my jaw, rattling my teeth, vibrating down my spine.

  Too soon, it was over. The tattooed champion stood over his bloody opponent like it was nothing. Someone handed Maddox his T-shirt, and he used it to wipe specks of blood and sweat from his face.

  Someone handed me cash, but I didn’t pay attention to how much.

  “Tyler … let’s get the hell out of here. I don’t want to get fired, man. There’s about a dozen underage, wasted kids in here.”

  Maddox kept his gaze on me. “What’s the rush?”

  “I don’t feel like explaining to the superintendent why we got arrested. Do you?”

  Maddox pulled the white cotton tee over his head and the defined curves of his chest and abs. When the V just above his belt disappeared behind the shirt, my shoulders slightly sagged in disappointment. I wanted to see more of him. I wanted to see all of him.

  His nervous friend gave him a black White Sox ball cap, and he put it on, tugging it low over his eyes.

  A friend patted Tyler on the shoulder. “You made me fifty bucks, Maddox. Feels like old times.”

  “You’re welcome, dickhead,” he said, his gaze not leaving mine.

  The crowd exchanged money, and then, in mass exodus, left for the kitchen where the kegs were tapped and flowing.

  Tyler Maddox approached me in a damp and blood-smeared shirt. His eyes and nose were shadowed by his hat. He began to speak, but I gripped a fistful of his shirt and pulled, planting a hard kiss on his mouth. My lips parted, letting his hot tongue slip inside. He reacted like I knew he would—carnal electricity between us—as he gripped the back of my hair, tilting my head up toward him.

  I shoved him back, keeping a grip on his shirt. He waited, unsure of what to expect. With a wry smile, I took a step backward, letting my hand slip from the fabric down his arm, and then pulled on his hand. His hands were rough, his fingernails bitten to the quick. I couldn’t wait to feel the coarseness against the soft parts of me.

  One side of Tyler’s mouth pulled up into a grin, and a deep dimple appeared on his left cheek. He was the kind of beautiful you couldn’t buy, with his golden-brown eyes and square, scruffy chin—a symphony of perfection only flawless genes could compose. There were plenty of beautiful people in my circles, with access to the best products, stylists, spas, and cosmetic surgeons, but Tyler was real—effortless and raw.

  I quickened my pace, climbing the first step backward.

  Tyler glanced up from the base of the stairs. “Where are we going?” I didn’t answer, but he still followed. I could have been leading him to his death, but I could tell Tyler Maddox was afraid of nothing. “What’s up there?” he asked, still climbing.

  “Me,” I said simply.

  He began to move with purpose, his eyes turning from amused to hungry. I twisted the knob of the master bedroom and pushed through, revealing my parents’ California king and two dozen pillows.

  “Whoa,” Tyler said, looking around the room. “This house is nuts. Whoever lives here must make bank. Friends of yours?”

  “This is my parents’ house.”

  “You live here?” Tyler asked, pointing to the floor.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Oh, fuck. You’re Ellison Edson. Like the Edson Tech Edsons?”

  “No, I’m just Ellie.”

  “Your dad is like on Fortune 500, isn’t he?”

  “Don’t really want to talk about my father right now,” I said between kisses.

  He held me at bay. “Sorry about the painting, and the table … and the vase. I’ll replace them.”

  I reached down, cupping the hardness behind his jeans. “Stop talking.”

  Tyler refocused, reaching down to slide his hands between my leggings and bare skin, his fingers knowing the perfect place to pause and explore. I kicked off my boots, humming while his fingertips glided more easily, slick with my desire for him.

  The end of the bed touched the backs of my thighs, and I leaned back, yanking Tyler on top of me. I’d kissed dozens of lips before that night, but none of them had felt like they’d been starving for me, and had been for a long time. Every part of my skin Tyler touched seemed purposeful. He was anything but nervous, as practiced as I was at ripping buttons and pulling at fabric.

  The second my bra and panties were tossed to the floor, I yanked down his boxer briefs. He kicked them off the end of the bed, and we rolled. I straddled him, both of us panting and smiling. My red lipstick was smeared on his mouth, and my insides tensed, begging for him.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” he asked in awe.

  I raised an eyebrow, and then looked over at his jeans hanging halfway off the bed. I reached over, searching his pocket with my fingers and grinning when I touched a foil packet. “Slow your roll, Maddox. I haven’t come yet.”

  Three deep lines formed on Tyler’s forehead as his eyebrows shot up. He watched me tear the condom package with my teeth, and then his eyes rolled back in his head as I used my mouth to secure it in place.

  “Holy shit,” he breathed. He lifted his hips as I put his entire length into my mouth and throat. His fingertips raked through my hair and pulled, and I hummed against the latex. He arched his back, sending his tip even deeper.

  I climbed up from his lap, straddling him again, gripping his girth and lowering myself slowly, watching the warmth and wetness of my insides overwhelm him. He had done this many times before, but not with me. Tyler looked like the type to take charge, the kind of guy who pleasured his women until they futilely begged him for more. But he couldn’t give them more, and that was exactly what I l
iked about him—aside from the fact that he was insanely hot and knew how to touch my sensitive parts like he was the architect who’d built me.

  His fingers dug into my hips, and I could tell he was trying to relax my pace. He wouldn’t admit he wanted me to slow down. He was close, but so was I, and some asshole was knocking on the door, calling his name. He wasn’t leaving until he’d finished what I’d started.

  I was panting hard, moaning every time my ass slammed against his lap, and when Tyler came, he came hard, gripping my ass as he arched his back. He was so deep it hurt, but I circled my hips until I tumbled over the edge. I dug my fingers into his chest, smiling with an open mouth, unable to control the cries ripping from my throat.

  Tyler spread my thighs and tensed his ass, pressing into me further. He growled a string of expletives, and then relaxed, exhaling after catching his breath. He looked up at me, sleepy and satisfied. “God damn, woman.”

  I leaned over, lifting my leg, and then crawled off the bed. He watched me dress as he lay on his side, ignoring the knocking on the door.

  “I, uh … I work a lot. I’m on the Alpine Hotshot crew, and—”

  “So?” I fastened my bra behind me, and then stepped into my underwear.

  Tyler paused, trying to decide what to say next. “So … are those Calvin Kleins?”

  I looked down at the extra small men’s tighty whities I’d slipped on. Lace, thongs, cheekies … not my thing. “Yeah?”

  He chuckled. “So, uh … I won’t be able to … you know—”

  “Call? That makes two of us.”

  Tyler stood up and began collecting his clothes while the pounding from the hall began again. “Maddox! You in there?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Zeke! Hang on!” he said, pulling on his jeans.

  He was waiting for me to dress before opening the door, but I’d barely pulled my T-shirt over my head before his friends opened the door.

  One of the men, a bit shorter and a lot bulkier, nodded to me, and then—realizing I was half naked—stared at the floor. “You ready or what?”

  “I’m ready, Zeke,” Tyler said, grinning at me.