Page 1 of Brutal Obsession

GREYSON

The cash slides from my palm into the valet’s. His fingers curl around the wad of bills as he pulls back, and he looks away.

Aw, he’s embarrassed.

The girl on my arm giggles and leans into me.

Money and good looks will help people get away with just about anything. I learned that at the tender age of five from my father, thank you very much. He toted me around and flashed his smile or his wealth, and doors opened for us.

Sometimes literally.

Sometimes figuratively.

We were invincible.

Look at that sentence. Then read it again.We.Were. Invincible.

Back when I was a kid, my father and I wore gilded armor. He was a king, and I was a prince. We floated above the rest of society, and nothing was out of our reach.

I experienced the world through my father’s view of getting everything he fucking wanted. It’s only natural that I became him.

Look, I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just saying this is how it works. People are sheep, all too eager to be sacrificed to the wolves. And the wolves… well, they only survived if they were willing to get a little dirty.

The girl releases me long enough to stumble around the hood of my car. She practically falls into the passenger seat, her dress shifting to give me—and the valet—an eyeful of her tits.

That right there is the only reason she’s here.

Paparazzi cameras flash from across the street, and I turn on my brilliant smile. The one that worked on the girl at the bar. And the waitress. And the cop who pulled me over a few hours ago for speeding. He let me off with just a warning.

I raise my hand as someone calls my name. Trying to get me to make eye contact, to get the perfect photo. Everyone wants something but fuck them if they think they cangetit. They get the bare minimum of my acknowledgement, and it probably gives them a hard-on.

The passenger door shuts. I take one more look at the valet, making sure he knows. I see him. I saw him put the cash into his pocket. I want him to know that the money doesn’t buy speedy service—it buys his silence.

He nods once, then averts his eyes again.

I slip into my car and leave the restaurant parking lot with a screech of tires. The familiar, intoxicating smell of burning rubber follows me. I love it—it means I’m making an exit. One that people will notice—and remember.

The nameless girl leans over and licks my cheek. I’m undecided if it’s hot or gross, so I ignore it. She whispers something that I also ignore, and I press my foot harder on the gas pedal. I don’t care about her right now.

Only two more streets before we hit the highway, and I can push this baby to a hundred. She has a certain purr when she gets that quick. The steering wheel almost vibrates in my hands.

It’s an adrenaline rush I never pass up.

Later, when the girl is sucking my cock and moaning my name, I might pretend to give a shit about her.

I shift her away and readjust my grip.

We skid around a corner, our light green. I hit the gas, and we fly down the darkened street. Ahead of me, the stretch of road is empty—until it isn’t.

The car comes out of nowhere. My headlights illuminate the driver’s pale face seconds before I smash into her vehicle.

My airbags explode, and only my seatbelt, which I don’t remember putting on, keeps me from rocketing through the windshield. My passenger’s head slams into her airbag, and she falls back against the seat. Blood drips down her face from her nose.

I struggle to inhale. The seatbelt is too fucking tight, and smoke fills my car.

I unbuckle and shove my door open, falling out.

Fuck.

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