Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (17 page)

“I slept with Ash’s sister.” The stunned look on Nolan’s face would’ve been hysterical, if Beck had been talking about anything even remotely humorous. When the man remained mute, staring at him as if he’d grown another head, Beck couldn’t help himself. “Only we didn’t sleep.”

It was a full three seconds before Nolan blinked. “You’re gonna die.” The somber statement of fact was barely more than a whisper.

The chair springs screeched in protest when he stood abruptly, walking to the open doorway of Beck’s office and looking up and down the hallway. His paranoia at being overheard was justified, but not necessary. Beck wouldn’t have said those words out loud if there was a snowball’s chance anyone else was within fifty feet. It was unusual for the two of them to be alone in the posh digs of the Scorpio Securities office in the middle of the afternoon, but Mike and Grady were out on assignment together and Ash was at the shooting range—the irony of which wasn’t lost on Beck, but he was trying not to think about it. Sam was still in Venice, getting laid day and night, Italy style. And Caroline, a busybody that was frankly less prone to juicy office gossip than Grady, was home with her littlest son, who according to Mike had gotten some kind of common baby virus that Beck had never heard of before and couldn’t recall now if his life depended on it.

“When you say sleep, you mean just a little over the shirt action, right?” Nolan sat back down, this time with his elbows braced on his knees, his hands folded in prayer position.

Beck nearly laughed at the unconscious gesture. “No.”

“Like, a little in the pants action, then?” He sat back in the chair and looked skyward. “Jesus God, tell me that’s all it was, man.”

He slowly shook his head. “She’s the girl from the Vistancia.” At Nolan’s confused look, he looked skyward himself, impatiently adding, “At Sam’s wedding. Christ, you have the memory of an eighty-year-old man.”

“No shit?” His brows shot up when Beck nodded and he looked around the office, at a loss for words as he absorbed that information. “Whoa. Are you serious?”

“Do you think I would joke about this?”

“So, did you...” His face scrunched up in uneasy disgust and he glanced toward the open doorway again. “Did you do her?” Beck’s guilty look must have confirmed it, because Nolan didn’t wait for the answer. “Christ Almighty, Beck! His sister? I thought you were only with her for an hour.”

“For fuck’s sake, Nolan, I didn’t know who she was then. And you can accomplish a lot in an hour when there’s no talking happening.”

Not one for crude locker room talk or macho pissing contests regarding his sexual proficiency, Beck hadn’t shared the finer details of that night with Nolan. But he’d left Hope in that disheveled hotel room bed, looking utterly fuckable and oddly vulnerable, and headed straight for the lobby bar. Where he’d remained for several hours, his foolish ass planted on an uncomfortable barstool, racking up a doozy of a tab while powering through several tumblers worth of Jameson. Turned out applying Irish whiskey to a guilty conscious didn’t work for shit, but it could make you look like a chump when you called your best buddy to come pick you up because you couldn’t drive your sorry self home. Beck wasn’t completely sure what he’d told Nolan about Hope during that vomit-inducing ride home, but since he’d made a vow to God and the devil himself never to tell another soul about his transgression, he assumed—even in his inebriated state—that he’d kept his culpable mouth shut.

And this was before he knew she was a Coleson.

Beck had broken a promise to Ash that night and it had nothing to do with screwing his sister, but carried the same amount of dishonor. Hell, probably more. Beer was it, he’d sworn to Ash three months ago, draining all the booze in his house as the big man watched with all the compassion of a brick wall. Beer, and nothing more. He could handle it. It wasn’t beer that made the nights tolerable, anyway. It was the pipe burning, memory crushing flow of smooth liquor that did the trick. And staying away from it, Beck had stupidly thought, was cake. How hard could it really be, he’d scoffed to Ash, in response to his subtle but unmistakable mention of rehab. Not as hard as six months of BUD/S training, the first eight weeks of which were so grueling, you lived in a literal world of hurt. Not as hard as running dozens of life and death missions across four continents and countless countries with the teams, some routine, others going sideways as soon as his boots hit the ground. And certainly not as hard as washing the dried blood and brain matter of your teammate off your gear, mad as hell that it wasn’t your own instead.

Trained to be an instant decision maker and extreme action taker, particularly under the most stressful of situations, Beck wasn’t used to being wrong. It simply wasn’t in his DNA. And with all the swagger of a guy used to overcoming any obstacle thrown his way, used to succeeding—to winning—at all that he did, Beck had carelessly added booze to that list. And it had kicked his deaf, dumb, and blind ass. Alcohol, in any form, could take hold of him like a red headed stepchild, controlling him beyond reason. The best advice Beck had ever gotten was early on in his career and from his first Skipper, who’d walked the walk like nobody’s business. Liquor, women, and ego, he’d said, were a SEAL’s biggest enemies. And he’d do damn well to keep all three in check. He’d also told him not to have a joint bank account with his girlfriend, and/or wife, and/or latest piece of tail, because you didn’t want to get caught downrange when that sweet little thing you hide your dick inside grows horns and decides to take your truck, your house, your money, your kids, and your dog that she fucking hates, and give it to the next fool that comes along. All good advice and as such, Beck had followed it to the letter. Until last winter. When the alcohol started trumping everything.

Ash had been right. And that bender he’d gone on after his night with Hope had been the last drop of alcohol he’d swallowed, beer included.

No matter how confident, how full of blustery ego Beck had been on the day he’d drained the bottles with his boss supervising, his fight with alcohol was hands down the hardest one he’d ever been in. It was easy to eliminate an enemy. A damn sight harder to eliminate an enemy you needed as much as your next breath. There was a brand new unopened bottle of Crown Royal whiskey in his kitchen cabinet to prove it, too.

Nolan finally found his voice. “Wait, this is
that
girl? The catering girl? The one who’s name you never got? And walked out on in favor of getting stone cold drunk alone? She’s actually Ash’s sister?” Astonishment laced his voice as he stared at the charcoal colored carpeting, not expecting an answer to the rapid fire questions as he struggled to wrap his mind around Beck’s confession.

“You’re gonna die,” he repeated a minute later, with the same seriousness as before. “He’s gonna kill you.”

“Jesus Christ, this isn’t the olden days. He’s not gonna show up on my doorstep with a loaded shotgun and a preacher, Nole.” At least, not the preacher part anyway. The shotgun was for fucking certain.

“I’d consider witness protection, if I were you. I know you’re a mean son of a bitch and granted, there’s been many a radical insurgent meet an unlucky fate attempting to take you out, but let’s be real here. None of them were Asher Coleson.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and chuckled, his usual carefree demeanor returning. “Nice to know you’re a human being, though. Hanging out with a guy who never fucks up was giving me a complex. But in all seriousness, Beck, Wit Sec might be your best option at this stage of the game.”

A soft bell rang out from the lobby, signaling someone entering the offices. The computer monitor on Beck’s desk displayed a live feed of the reception area, telling him who it was.

Nolan leaned forward to see for himself, then stood quickly. Rapping the top of the desk with his knuckles, he said, “God be with you, my friend.” And with a shit-eating grin, headed toward his own small office, nodding as he passed Ash in the hallway.

There hadn’t been time to tell him the rest of the story. That she was living in his house. And sleeping in his guest bedroom. And doing it naked as a fucking jaybird.

“What’s that all about?” Ash mumbled, sitting down in the chair Nolan vacated, stretching his legs out and crossing his booted feet. As if he planned to stay awhile. He’d set his fully packed range bag down in his own office, one of the two executive suites at the end of the hallway, and Beck took it as a good sign that he wasn’t getting shot at today.

Shrugging the question off, he waited for his boss to speak again, assuming Scorpio business was on the agenda. He was wrong.

“I’ve been thinking. About this whole Hope thing.” He paused, his jaw tightening as he stared at Beck, his right hand clenching into a fist several times before he gripped the arm of the chair and blew out a breath. He looked uncertain. And Ash was never uncertain. About anything. Leaning forward, he fiddled with the zippered pockets on his faded cargo pants before clasping his hands together and sitting back again. Then he cracked his knuckles.

It was an unsettling display and Beck quickly assessed the situation, his mind rapidly going through what defensive options he had at his disposal. The close quarters wouldn’t be an issue, but it’d be a tough fight given how closely matched they were. Ash had a few inches and twenty pounds on him, not to mention a truckload of emotional anger they all pretended didn’t exist, but Beck was no slouch in hand to hand combat. Hell, he’d spot him a few punches simply because he truly deserved the ass kicking. She’d been a virgin, after all, and that alone merited a cracked rib or two. But Army boy or not, a complimentary pop to the mouth from Ash’s beefy fist was going to hurt like a motherfucker.

“Maybe this is a good idea. You and her.”

You could’ve knocked Beck over with a feather. It was the last thing he’d expected the man to say. And somehow, it made the goddamn guilt that much worse. “How do you figure?”

He shrugged. “I have no other way to keep tabs on her.”

“I’m not gonna be her babysitter. And why are you keeping tabs on her? She’s an adult.” Probably not the best thing to say in this situation and it earned him a considering look from Ash, intimidating brow lift and all.

“I know she’s an adult, but thanks for pointing out your awareness of that fact, as well. She’s also my little sister and not to be touched in an inappropriate manner, so now that that’s been established, can we get back to the issue at hand?”

Not needing a response, Ash kept talking, trusting his instructions would be taken as gospel. His words were stilted, as if difficult to say, and Beck knew he was choosing them wisely.

“The vineyard wasn’t exactly the easiest place to grow up. Even big fancy houses have fucked up people living inside them and we were no exception. It was tough for Hope, after her mom died. Hell, it was worse when Inez was alive. She liked to skirt around, not thinking a hell of a lot about her kid. You know Hope’s my half sister, right? Ten years younger.” Ash shifted in the chair, not mentioning that his own mother had died the same day. “I was dragging ass in basic training when she was still in pigtails. It pissed Marshall off to no end, that I would choose to get my ass handed to me by the Army everyday while they paid me a pittance for the pleasure, instead of sitting in some leather paneled office, streamlining the fermentation process to maximize profits or some such bullshit. But pissed off or not, he gave up on me after a few years and looked toward Hope. Wanted to groom her for the position. Make her the face of the company.”

“And she wasn’t interested?” Beck asked, wondering why.

Shaking his head, Ash shrugged. “I guess not. I never saw her much as a teenager, just heard the things she’d tell my w—,” he smoothly rephrased himself, “a woman I used to know. She’s an account manager for the vineyard and was close with Hope. Whenever I was stateside, I’d get second hand information. Hope was never good at returning my calls. Still isn’t. I know she’s not at the Vistancia anymore and I’d rather not put a tail on her, so I need you to keep an eye out, fill in the blanks for me. Where’s she working, who she’s seeing, what are her plans, kind of thing. And if she’s heading back to the vineyard.”

Whatever Hope’s reasons were for not maintaining communication with Ash, Beck assumed they were valid, and no matter how loyal he was to the man sitting in front of him, he wasn’t going to step on her toes.

“She’s waitressing. That’s all I know.” Balking at Ash’s request in favor of some apparent sense of allegiance to Hope was surprising, even to him.

Ash’s eyes narrowed in suspicion at his vagueness. “Where? And how long is she planning to stay with you? It’s not hard to find an apartment in this town and the fall semester starts in a few months. School needs to be her priority, not working a low wage job. Or getting sidetracked by playing house.”

He said it as if Beck was intending to stop her. “Listen, I have minimal contact with her.” If you could call having his fingers in her pussy that very morning minimal. “I’ll keep my eyes open, but other than that, I’ve got nothing for you.”

Ash nodded once, but Beck knew he wasn’t convinced. And he let his unanswered questions go, albeit with a look that clearly said the discussion wasn’t over. It was a matter of time before he started digging deeper. He stopped at the door, adding, “Keep me posted. She doesn’t always do what’s best for her.”

The offhand comment made his ears perk up. Sitting back in his chair, he ran a hand down his face, thinking of the messages he’d found on her phone. Far more threatening than what Ash had just said, there was a similar connotation and it amped up Beck’s need to identify the sender.

“And Beck?” There was a half grin on Ash’s face, which was about the closest he ever came to smiling. “If you end up in the same bed as her, then I expect to see a ring on her finger shortly thereafter. Even if it means you and I make a quick run to the nearest jewelry store.”

His look was sly as he walked out, and with sudden clarity, Beck realized he might have just been played. Because the picture that popped into his mind—of Hope and a ring, and all the shit that came with it—wasn’t nearly as scary as it should have been. Sure, it was a far scarier option than the thought of Ash pointing a shotgun at him, because that he could actually handle. He had some real world experience with guns pointed at him, but he didn’t have a lick of experience with commitment, beyond devoting a good portion of his life to the Navy. A woman was a whole different ball of wax. A woman
and
a ring? That was the pinnacle of commitment.