Simon-fucking-Wagner.
The reason I don’t have Grace by my side anymore is the same fucking reason she doesn’t have her sister. I am man enough to admit that it worries me about what will happen when she finds out about that connection.
*
Monday morning comes way too fucking soon. I have spent the night hugging the pillow that still smells of my Beauty like a little bitch. Every time the scent of vanilla hits my system, it is like a signal straight to my dick to salute the heavens. Every dream is about her. How her blue eyes spark with fire and lust. How they go wide and lost there when she comes. And how when she forgets to be scared, she gazes at me like she knows I hold all the answers.
Yeah, I am officially hooked.
A clear sign of my distraction is my missing Sway’s presence when I pull up at Corps Security. I am busy picturing Melissa bent over my kitchen counter, but when I look up and see Swag waving like an idiot, the hard on I have been sporting all morning dies a quick death.
What the fuck?
Over the last few years that I have known this man, I have learned he is as unpredictable as they come. But the sight that meets me this morning is like nothing he has ever done before. There he is, standing on the sidewalk wearing those camouflage skintight pants things that chicks wear. The ones that make a man fall all over himself to follow her ass around the world, but on this man, they might scar me for life. If that isn’t enough, the sparkling burgundy shirt hugging his round stomach might get a good laugh. Then, I notice what he is doing.
“Sway? Why are you painting the sidewalk?” I question, looking down into the bucket of golden shining paint, “Is that fucking glitter?”
“Don’t you start with all your alpha hotness, Gregory. Of course, this is glitter! You can’t paint the sidewalk gold without glitter!” He’s serious, bobbing his head left and right, and waving his hands all over the place.
“This is for real? You’re painting the sidewalk fucking gold? Does Axel know about this shit?”
“Of course he does, my king of hotness. Don’t be such a tight ass. Actually, never mind that darlin,’ be a tight ass . . . just let me see it.” He starts laughing like a loon and all I can do is look around and notice the explosion of fucking glitter.
“Sway, my man, you wouldn’t know what to do with me.” He sobers instantly and I kick myself for encouraging him. “Forget I said that. Tell me why you feel the need to throw glitter all over the damn place?”
“Because my hunk of fine, glitter makes everyone happy!” When he starts dancing around his paint bucket, I have to leave. There is only so much Sway that I can handle when he is acting like this. I might joke, but that man is the funniest little shit I have ever met.
“Right. You know who loves glitter?” I question, noticing Coop’s jeep pulling in. “Coop loves glitter. Why don’t you go give him a good morning that will make his day, Sway? I’ll even hold your brush.”
“Ohhh! Yes, right away, Sir Sex-o-lot!” He bends over, grabs a handful of glitter, and runs across the lot as fast as his heels will take him. I can see Coop’s eyes widen when he takes in the man running full speed at him.
At this point, I couldn’t stop laughing if I try. The second Coop steps out of the out of the jeep, Sway attacks, throwing glitter in the air and screaming ‘good morning.’ When he leaps into Coop’s arms, I fear I might hurt something, laughing as hard as I am.
“Good morning, asshole!” I yell over at Coop and make my way inside.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Beck asks, stepping up to the front window. When he sees Coop trying to untangle himself from Sway, he throws his head back and his laughter booms through the room, causing Emmy to jump in her seat behind the front desk.
“You are all so immature.” I hear her mumble under her breath.
“Cheer up, Em. It’s only Monday . . . way too soon for that.”
When I see the look in her eye that clearly screams ‘don’t mess with me,’ I make quick work at heading to my office and a mental note to find out what is weighing on her mind.
First thing I need to handle is calling that bastard Derrick. Rounding my desk, I slam my body down and listen to the legs of my chair protest before picking up the phone and dialing a number that I won’t forget. After all, when you call it daily for almost two years, you don’t forget that shit easily.
“Johnson,” he says in an impatient tone.
“Derrick.” My tone is lethal. This jerkoff knows I am not a man to cross.
“C-Cage,” he sputters, clears his throat and tries again, “Cage, how can I help you?”
“First thing you can do is tell me if you just conveniently forgot to mention that Simon and Sofia Wagner have a son, a son that is very much alive?”