Page 18 of Mr. Wicked

The six beauties tanning in lounge chairs only feet from mine. With their asses pointed high in the air, their skin oiled and glowing from the sun, a rainbow of string bikinis barely covering them.

Jesus fucking Christ.

France’s scenery was something special, but it didn’t compare to this view. A redhead, two blondes, and three brunettes, ranging from toned to curvy, tall to petite, gorgeous to stunning.

I was one happy man.

But as I attempted to make myself more comfortable, crossing my legs over the small table in front of me and sipping my scotch, digging for the cigar in one of the pockets of my swim trunks, something fucked up happened.

One of the brunettes glanced up and our eyes locked.

Within a blink, her face changed.

Her eyes now a bright blue.

Her nose small and sloped.

Her lips plump and pouty.

I knew that face.

It was one I couldn’t forget.

One that, the last time I’d seen it, had accompanied her holding up her middle finger before she walked out of my doorway.

Jovana.

My legs dropped from the table, my hand gripping the glass so hard I thought it was going to break.

What the fuck?

What is she doing here?

Her gaze pierced mine.

Her nose scrunched, her lips pursed, like she’d whiffed something rotten, the same expression she’d worn before she fled my condo.

You can’t be here.

I didn’t invite you.

I don’t even know how to get in touch with you.

My eyes were just playing tricks on me.

They had to be.

The brunette’s name was Rachel or Rebecca or Rhonda—something that started with an R.

I blinked.

Again.

And again.

And finally, Jovana’s face was gone.

Relief flooded my chest and I shook my head, rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands, making sure her face didn’t return.

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