by Gwyn McNamee
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Epilogue
The Hawkeye Club
About the Author
Tortured Skye
by
Gwyn McNamee © 2017
All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Dangerous Ties is intended for 18+ older, and for mature audiences only.
Editing: Barbara Hoover and Kathleen Payne
Cover Design: Michelle Johnson at Blue Sky Designs
Cover Model: Sam Wiles
Photographer: Christopher Correia at CJC Photography
Interior Design: Swish Design and Editing
Dedication
To anyone who ever struggles to make it through the day…don’t let the storms of your past cloud your future.
Acknowledgments
I have to start with the most important people in my life—my husband and my daughter. Trying to write Tortured Skye while caring for an infant would have been impossible without my husband’s support and amazing daddy skills.
Once again, I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to my beta readers—Dawn, Kim P., Jennifer W., Janice, Renee S., Diane E., Audra F., and my super-betas, Star and Christy. You have all helped me more than you could ever know. Writing Gabe and Skye’s story wasn’t easy, but you ensured it was told properly.
Christy, I’m sorry I made you such a bitch in high school. I could never hope to accurately portray what a badass bitch you truly are. Thank you for listening to me when I have meltdowns and telling me like it is when something sucks balls and needs to be revised. I fucking love you!
Audra, try to keep it in your pants next time. No one likes a slutbag…except me…I love your face! Thanks for all your priceless advice in this series.
Star, I’m sorry your namesake doesn’t have the same drinking skills you do. But to be fair, I did name these characters before I even knew you, or the fact you also had a sibling named Sky. So, cut me some slack. I will never forget your epic alcohol tolerance in real life.
I also want to thank Ryan D., my source for all things Army Ranger. He went above and beyond to provide me the information I needed to make sure Gabe was portrayed as accurately as possible.
I love you all!
Waking up with a beautiful woman’s mouth wrapped around your hard cock shouldn’t be a bad thing. In fact, most men dream about just this.
Fuck, what the hell is wrong with me?
Her blonde head bobs up and down on my dick. She swirls her tongue around my piercing, sending a zing of electricity straight to my balls. I grab her hair and jerk her off me with an audible pop. Wide, confused, bloodshot brown eyes meet mine, and she scowls. “What the hell, Gabe?”
She knows my name. That’s a positive sign; we must have at least talked last night. I almost wish I could remember hers, but it doesn’t matter at this point. Surveilling my room, the pile of empty condom wrappers on the nightstand and the half-empty glasses of whiskey assure me she had a good time.
Excellent. That makes kicking her out a lot easier. At least I know she’s leaving satisfied.
I release her hair and extricate myself from under her before sliding out of bed and walking naked to the bathroom. The door slams shut behind me, and I flip the lock. Two seconds later, the knob jiggles, and an angry growl sounds from the other side of the door.
“Seriously, Gabe? You’re just going to lock yourself in the bathroom without a word?”
Yeah, actually, that would be fucking awesome.
But I’m too much of a gentleman to do that. I unlock the door and crack it open, keeping my foot behind it so she can’t push her way in.
“Look, I’m sorry. I have to be somewhere early this morning. Thanks for last night. You can let yourself out.”
Fury turns blondie’s pale skin red, and she stomps over to the bed, searching the floor for her clothes—bare ass and tits shaking and bouncing with every movement. My cock throbs, reminding me of the impending blue-balls situation.
Shit.
I close the door and lock it again without an ounce of regret. She knew exactly what this was. No matter how drunk I get, I’m always up front with the girls I end up with. They know it’s a one-time thing, except with a few regulars I know I can trust not to get attached.
Blondie may have been a miscalculation last night, but I can’t even remember where I met her, so it might have been an off night for me too. The evidence of the evening’s escapades glare at me from the mirror—scratches down my back, a giant hickey on my collarbone, and faint bite marks around my nipple ring.
Fucking fabulous.
I turn on the shower jets and crank the temperature to scald-my-skin hot. A cold shower would probably be more appropriate for my current predicament, but the need to burn off whatever happened last night is one I can’t shake.
A door slams. Thank God she didn’t put up any more of a fuss. I really can’t handle that today.
This is the only day in almost a month I don’t have any work obligations. That should make me happier than a pig in shit, but I have to go to the barbeque today, and I’m not fucking prepared to deal with that right now.
I step into the hot spray, wincing when the water hits the torn skin on my back and then my hard cock when I turn around.
I’m going to have to do something about that. If I don’t, today is going to be even more unbearable than it already promises to be. Sometimes, I really miss shooting those
shitheads in the desert; it seemed easier than life here most days.
The water beating down on my chest soothes some of my distress. I drop my head under the spray and take my dick in my hand. I can’t even remember the last time I had to masturbate. That was the whole point of last night, to get this need out of my system.
Yeah, well, that was a miserable failure.
Sliding my palm up and down my length, I close my eyes and picture blondie and what she must have looked like riding me last night, or bent over with my dick jammed inside her. My cock pulses in my hand, and I increase the pace, needing to get this done.
A flash from last night returns, of the blonde towering above me, bouncing up and down on my cock with her perfectly round, silicone breasts bobbing with every move.
I groan and jerk faster, gliding my palm over the head and against my piercing with every stroke, urging my body to give me the release I need.
Her pussy clenches around my cock, and the orgasm I’ve been chasing finally starts at the base of my spine.
But then, her blonde hair morphs into jet black, and her brown eyes become a familiar blue.
No! Fuck!
It’s too late to stop now.
With two final tugs, I come, shooting my load against the tiles of the shower and down my hand. Each pulsing spurt should be blissfully mind-numbing, but even as my body shakes and my head spins wildly into the ecstasy of release, I know it won’t last.
I pant under the scalding water, waiting for the post-orgasmic haze to clear and the inevitable regret and anger to take over. It will come. It always does right after I do.
Godfuckingdamnit!
Why the fuck can’t I get Skye Hawke out of my fucking head?
Months of endless nights with brunettes, blondes, and red-heads, and I still only come harder than a freight train with her image in my head.
Standing under the water, I’ve never felt so dirty—not even when I killed people for a living.
That was war. This is my life.
I have to find a way to fix this, to cure myself of the unhealthy obsession. If I don’t, it just may be the end of what little sanity I have left.
The thought of ending up back in Doc Cochran’s chair makes me shiver despite the heat of the water. I’ve managed to keep my shit together, mostly, for the last six months without paying her to listen to me spill my guts. I’d like to keep my sanity and my money, if at all possible.
It’s probably my own fault things have gotten this bad. I didn’t tell Doc everything the last time we had a session.
But, how the fuck was I supposed to know I’d still be thinking about her seven months later?
I went back to Doc to deal with the fallout from killing Abello’s men. For months afterward, I drowned in a gluttonous pool of booze, smokes, and women. I got up to a bottle, a pack, and a half-dozen a day, respectively. The tipping point was the same reason I’m dreading the barbeque today and hating myself for jerking off—Skye.
After what happened with her at the wedding, I realized I needed to do something to get my head on straight. I would never have allowed it to occur if I were in my right mind…at least, that’s what I told myself.
But I didn’t mention anything about Skye to Doc when I resumed my sessions. It’s not like she could have done anything about that anyway. She treats mental health issues, not I-want-to-fuck-my-best-friend’s-little-sister issues.
She wasn’t surprised to see me back in her chair, and I didn’t know if I should be pissed about that or not. I couldn’t tell her everything, because that would not only have been a violation of our agreement with Abello and my father; it would also have put her life in danger if they ever came after us again just by virtue of her knowing the truth about what happened. Even without all the details, she withheld judgment when I told her I had killed three people, and she reminded me I am not a cold-blooded killer and never have been.
Every life I took, I did so with honor and without another choice. I remind myself of that every day and try not to let the memories take over my life.
I live every day hoping my symptoms don’t return, and that I can keep my shit together.
But with the passage of time, I only fall further down the rabbit hole of my fixation with Skye, and it’s taking a toll on my miserable ass.
The mid-summer sun seeps into my skin and, combined with my third margarita, it warms me and helps me momentarily forget the clusterfuck my life has become.
Lounging next to the pool in Mom's backyard, my earbuds blaring angsty alt-rock, I begin drifting off into the space between wake and sleep when a shadow falls over me, blocking out the rays and disintegrating any bliss I was so close to achieving.
Fucking thanks.
I reluctantly open my eyes and find my mother looming above me. Her lips are moving, and logic tells me she’s speaking to me, but I have zero interest in whatever it is she’s trying to say. She should know by now not to interrupt my sunbathing.
Just as I’m about to close my eyes and ignore her, she reaches down and yanks the buds out of my ears.
"Hey, what the fuck?" I prop myself up on one elbow, glaring at her even though I know she can't see through my shades.
She scowls. "Skye, language…" Her eyes flit toward the pool where Angelina is swimming with Ben to ensure her young ears haven't been subjected to my foul mouth.
Like she hasn’t heard it a thousand times at home.
"What do you want?"
"I was asking if you knew when Savage and Danika are supposed to get here. You spoke with him earlier, didn't you?"
I sigh, dropping back down and grabbing my half-full third margarita. I take a sip before returning my attention to her. "Yes, I spoke with him. He said she wasn't feeling well. But they’re still going to try to be here before noon."
She smiles and nods. "See, was that so hard?"
"Yes."
Her scowl returns, and she eyes my glass. "How many drinks have you had today, Skye?"
"Not enough, apparently.” I drain the last drops of the delicious tequila concoction and set my empty on the small table to the side of my chair. Sometimes, I wonder how I would survive this family without alcohol. There’s always some sort of drama.
I’m the only sane one left. Although, if you ask them, I’m the worst of them all…well, except maybe Stone.
Mom ignores my comment and plows ahead with her agenda. "What about Gabe? Do you know if he’s coming with them?"
Hopefully not.
Leave it to my mother to bring up the one person I don't want to think about, let alone discuss. How she’s so oblivious to the tension between us blows my mind. She must be denser than she appears.
"I don't know, I didn't talk to him, and Savage didn't mention him at all."
She lets out an exasperated sigh. "Fine. I’m going to finish getting the burgers ready. Why don't you try switching to water for a while."
"Thanks for the unsolicited advice, Madre."
She retreats to the house without glancing back.
I don't mean to be a bitch to her, but she grates on every last nerve I have. The only person who ever seemed to understand the dynamic with her was Star. Since the accident, things have only gone downhill, and the tension between me and the woman who gave me life has quadrupled. I know she means well, but we’re like oil and water, never going to mix.
I pop my buds back in, close my eyes, and try to relax again.
Deep, calming breaths, Skye. Enjoy the boozy bliss.
A second loss of rays wakes me, and I shoot up, ready to tear my mother's head off with my bare teeth if I have to. "Jesus, what do you want this time?"
The words are out of my mouth before I have time to register who I’m looking at.
"Shit, I'm sorry." Dani holds her hands up in surrender and eyes me like I’m a rabid dog ready to attack—which isn’t far from the truth.
"No, no, no, I'm sorry. I thought you were my mother again." She gives me a sympathetic smile and slowly lowers
herself down onto the chaise next to me. Her normally bouncy and happy demeanor is gone, and she’s as pale as I’ve ever seen her. "Damn girl, you look like shit. How are you feeling?"
She sighs, resting her hands on her protruding belly. “Okay. Better than this morning. I swear to God, this morning sickness bullshit was supposed to end when I hit the second trimester. I’m already twenty-six weeks along, and I still feel like shit. I guess I lucked out by not really feeling it until into my third month, but on top of the occasional queasiness, I’m also just exhausted all the time."
Yet another reason I never want to have kids.
“Did your doctor prescribe you Zofran?”
“Yeah, it helps with the nausea, but it knocks me out. I’m so tired when I take it, I’m completely useless.”
“How’s Savage doing?" I peer over her shoulder at my brother talking with Storm under the back awning. He waves, but his eyes never leave Danika. He watches her like a hawk, ready to swoop in should something happen. I can only imagine what it’s like living with him hovering around 24/7.
No fucking thanks. I don’t need a babysitter.
She glances over her shoulder and waves before turning back to me. "He is…well, he’s Savage. It drives him crazy not being able to control this."
"I don't doubt it." I know my brother, and I understand his need to be master and commander in every situation. Watching his wife suffer must be hell for him.
As if summoned by the mere mention of his name, he appears next to us. "Hello, ladies."
I lean over and give him a half-hug, ruffling his perfectly combed hair in my usual attempt to push his buttons. "Hey bro, how are you?"
Running his hand back through his hair in an unsuccessful attempt to return it to its rightful place, he smirks at me, fully aware I did it intentionally. "I'm fine. How are you?"
I shrug. "Oh, you know, the usual."
Tired. Annoyed. Not drunk enough to do this today.
He nods and reaches out to take Danika's hand in his. "You feeling okay?"
She nods and smiles at him. "I'm fine, I think I'll go help your mom and Storm in the kitchen."
