Savage Obsession (Savage Sins #2)

Chapter 1

Xander

A LITTLE LOST

Blood flows over my knuckles to the tips of my fingers before dropping onto the freshly mowed, pristine grass.

I sway a little, but I feel nothing. Not the pain in my chest that only seems to ease when there’s whiskey in my veins.

Not the lacerations on the back of my hand.

Not the anger or the grief that’s taken over my life and settled in so deep that it owns me.

My eyes glaze over the dark gray stone before me. My parents’ names glimmer on their joint tombstone under the moonlit sky. Perfectly engraved.

I love you. Today. Tomorrow. In the afterlife.

It was what they always said to each other. After nearly fifty years of marriage, they were still madly in love with each other. Even after Mom died, my dad never entertained another woman. That’s real loyalty. Something impossible to find these days. Other than my brothers, I trust no one.

Slowly, I bring the bottle to my lips and take a long pull, letting the heat drag me farther into the numbness.

You’re a good man, Xander. You’re just a little lost right now.

In time, you’ll figure out how to heal, and someone will love you as deeply as your mom loved me.

I can hardly wait to meet her; I already know she’s going to be the sunshine of this family.

Don’t let her slip through your fingers because I can tell you from experience, my life wouldn’t have meant anything if I hadn’t met your mom.

They’re the last words my father ever said to me before he was brutally murdered. And now it’s echoing in my mind as I stand in the middle of the dark cemetery. I’m more than a little lost.

I was keeping it together until he was killed.

The past year has been hell, but my dad was there for me through it all.

Some of the darkest days were when all I could think about was putting a bullet in my own head.

He was there, though. He and my brothers.

They picked me up when I wouldn’t get out of bed.

Right on cue, my phone rings, and when I pull it from my pocket, I’m not surprised to see Cash’s name on the caller ID.

My older brother and best friend. I stare at the screen, my blood-soaked hand shaking.

It’s the third time he’s called tonight, and once again, I let it go to voicemail.

I don’t want to talk. It won’t solve anything.

It won’t mend my shattered heart or bring back our dad.

Instead, I came here to stand in this graveyard and down this expensive whiskey. Alone.

Normally, I’d prefer to drink in one of our many upscale bars on The Strip or while sitting at a poker table with some buddies as I rake in millions of dollars, but even I know I’m not good company at the moment.

Once I finish the bottle, I take one more look at my parents’ graves before I turn around and stumble toward my cherry-red Maserati.

I fumble for my keys. When I finally pull them from my pocket, they drop with a loud clatter.

Fuck.

Squinting at the ground, I bend and pick them up, then slide into the driver’s seat, thankful that the top is down so I don’t have to worry about hitting my head.

As soon as I press the ignition button, the engine roars to life. I shouldn’t be behind the wheel right now. I’m wise enough to know that. I’m also fucked up enough, both from liquor and in the head, to just not care. Maybe I’ll do the world a favor and miss one of the curves on my way home.

What’s the point anymore?

Caring gets you hurt.

It’s what tears you into pieces.

Painfully.

Caring for someone fucks with your mind.

It makes you vulnerable.

The last time I let my guard down, it blew up in my face. I let myself fall for her bullshit. Her cheating. Her fucking lies. And the entire time, she made me out to be the bad guy.

Too obsessive. Too controlling. Too dominant. Too much of everything except for what she wanted. I can’t deny that I’m those things. They’re who I am. And it’s what she liked in the beginning. Or that’s what she made me believe.

The wind on my face keeps me awake as I speed through the streets of Las Vegas. Everything passes by in a blur of bright lights, but I don’t pay it any attention.

I ease through the gates that lead into the underground parking lot of my apartment building. After I put the car in park, I look around, scanning the area. How did I get here so fast?

Everything around me tilts as I walk toward the keyed entrance that leads directly into my private elevator. Thank fuck it’s a fingerprint reader because there’s no way I’d be able to remember a code at the moment.

I need my bed.

My phone rings as I wait to reach the fortieth floor.

The penthouse.

The one she wanted.

The one I paid nearly twice the asking price in a bidding war because I would have done anything to make her happy.

I’ve never considered myself an idiot, but we all surprise ourselves sometimes.

Cash’s name appears on the screen when my phone starts to ring again.

It’s nearly two in the morning. He’s probably on his way home from one of our casinos.

Or stalking his wife while she’s working at one of her casinos.

My bet is on the stalking. Not that I blame him.

I’d be doing the same. Which was a huge problem for my ex because it made it difficult to cheat on me.

She called me obsessive. A psycho. I argued that I was being protective.

I slide the device back into my pocket and step into the foyer of my soulless penthouse.

Maybe just one more glass of whiskey to quiet these thoughts bouncing around my head. They’re too loud right now. Too painful.

As I pass the round table, positioned perfectly in the middle of the useless entryway, my eyes land on a pile of mail that’s been growing for a week.

My housekeeper, Shirley, leaves my mail there each morning.

She probably wants to throttle me for ignoring it this long.

It makes the fresh flowers that she arranges look cluttered.

That’s what she says. Personally, I don’t give a fuck.

Cluttered or not, the entire place is ugly. Cold. Uncomfortable.

I pick up the pile and head for the built-in bar that runs along the side of the living room. A glass isn’t necessary. Even I know I won’t stop after the first.

Bottle in one hand and mail in the other, I lean against the kitchen counter. As soon as I pull the cork cap and swallow the amber liquid, my mind goes quiet.

It takes more work than it should to lift my arms to open one envelope after another, tossing them into piles. Bill, junk, junk, bill. It doesn’t matter how fucked up your life is; the world never stops spinning, and the bills don’t stop coming.

I take another gulp of whiskey and let out a deep breath, my shoulders dropping slightly as I rip open the next bill.

Perfectly numb.

When I unfold the paper and look at it, I blink slowly. Once, twice, a third time.

What is this?

A check?

My eyes land on the name on the check.

Quinn Summers.

Why is this in my stack?

I glance at the envelope and squint. So damn blurry.

The address is correct, but it should have gone to Quinn Summers’ apartment, which is on the fourth floor.

After picking up the pile of my mail and the bottle of whiskey, I leave the check on the counter. Shirley can run it down to the correct apartment tomorrow. And I’ll deal with the rest of these another day.

I stop in my home office, leaving the papers there before I head to my bedroom, kicking off my shoes as soon as I walk in. Without bothering with anything else, I drop onto my bed and let the liquor-induced haze pull me under, wondering if maybe I’ll get lucky this time and won’t wake up.

A loud thud shakes me slightly, and I groan.

Did Shirley drop something while cleaning?

Thump.

“What the fuck?” I mutter and roll to my side, my head ready to explode from the repetitive pounding at my temples.

“Don’t ‘what the fuck?’ me, asshole. Get up before I pour ice-cold water on you.”

For fuck’s sake.

I let my eyes crack open, inwardly wincing as the morning—or afternoon—light pours in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

My brother Cash glares at me, his arms crossed over his chest. Does this asshole think he’s intimidating? I swear to God, he thinks being a couple of years older than me gives him the idea that he gets to boss me around.

“Fuck off, Cash,” I grumble, throwing my forearm over my eyes.

“Nope. Get the fuck up. I’ll be in the kitchen making coffee.”

Of course he will. The only reason I have a fancy-ass espresso machine is Cash.

The idiot sent it to me as a random gift one day after he came here and I didn’t have anything other than drip coffee.

He acted like I committed a horrendous crime.

The guy is something else. He’s also my best friend, the one who knows me better than anyone else. Which doesn’t usually work in my favor.

Knowing he’s not leaving until I drag my ass out there, I grumble and sit up, then scrub a hand down my face. This should be fun. Just what I want to deal with at this godforsaken hour.

What time is it anyway?

I glance at my watch, my eyes taking a second to focus. “Jesus.”

Ten minutes later, I make my way down the long hallway toward the open-plan living room and kitchen. “What the fuck is so important that you show up here at six in the morning?”

Cash leans against the counter and brings a cup to his lips, studying me. “Coffee?” he asks with a smirk.

With a sigh, I ignore the steaming mug he’s already set out for me, grab a glass, fill it with water, and then find the aspirin I’ve been tapping into a little too often lately.

I pick up the bottle, desperate for some relief from my pounding head.

My heart sinks when nothing rattles inside the container.

Shit.

Why is this here if it’s empty?

Did I put it back this way?

Where does Shirley store the extras?

“Xander!” Cash snaps. “Are you listening?”

Furious, I slam the cupboard shut, which is more of a punishment to my head than to Cash, and glare at him. “What the fuck do you want? I’m not in the mood for your bullshit today.”

Cash narrows his gaze, his jaw twitching.

“You’re not ever in the mood, asshole. You went to a dark place over a year ago, and just when you started to come out of it…

” He pauses, his throat working as though he’s struggling to go on.

“Dad got killed, and now, three months later, I feel like I’ve lost you, too. ”

My heart squeezes. Without thinking, I take my cup of coffee and head toward the bar to pour some whiskey into it.

“Seriously?” Cash stares at me, his eyebrows pinched. “It’s six in the morning, Xander. Alcohol should be the last fucking thing on your mind right now. I think you have a problem, bro.”

As I bang the bottle onto the counter, I scowl at him, my shoulders raised like a predator ready to attack. “Get out of here with that shit.”

He sets his cup down, his head held high as he glares at me disapprovingly. “I haven’t seen you without a drink in months. You avoid all our calls. Ditch out on group dinners. You can’t fucking do this forever, Xander.”

My vision blurs, and I curl my hands into fists at my sides. I’m vibrating as I take a step toward my brother. I can’t remember the last time we got into a physical fight, but we might end that streak today if he doesn’t watch himself.

“Fuck off,” I growl.

Cash is silent, and it feels like an eternity of thick tension stretching between us. Then, he scoffs and shakes his head.

“You need to get over Nicola. She didn’t deserve to be part of this family. You sure as fuck didn’t love her.”

I stagger back like he stabbed me. It’s not that I disagree.

Cash is completely right. I didn’t love her.

I loved the big fake picture she drew for me in the beginning and took her words to heart when I should have been paying attention to the red flags.

I guess when you’re having your cock sucked on a regular basis, it’s easy to miss things.

But his first comment, about getting over her. That. Have I not moved on?

Before I can formulate any sort of coherent reply, Cash shakes his head and then strides past me, heading toward the foyer.

He pauses and meets my gaze, his eyes dark and…

hurt. “Don’t shut us out because of your fucking grief.

We’re family, so start acting like it.” His jaw clenches as he glares at me.

“Jordyn is hosting a family dinner this week, and you better be there or I will find you and drag your ass to my house myself. Or worse. I’ll send my wife. ”

Then he storms out, slamming the door behind him.

Fuck.

Standing in the quiet of my living room, I glance down at myself, still dressed in black slacks, dress socks, and a dark gray button-down shirt. I couldn’t even be bothered to change into pajamas last night because I was so fucked up.

And once again, I’m paying dearly for it.

Scraping a hand over my face, I groan. Screw this. I’m going back to bed. Maybe my head will finally explode, and I won’t have to deal with this shit called life again.