Perv (Filth #1) Read Free Page A

life.”
    I respect her mercenary tactics too much to wish her a long walk and a short cliff.
    But give me time.

~CHAPTER TWO~
     
    I sit up like the recently undead at exactly 4:59 a.m. It's a ritual from my army days I can't shake yet—up and at 'em before some asshole with a God complex wakes me. Doesn't mean I'm a morning person. I almost throw my alarm clock across the room when it goes off a minute later.
    I breathe and take a mental inventory of myself and my surroundings. The deep throb in my shoulder is there. The shrapnel is gone, and so will the ache, once I work out the kinks. Only other thing aching is my cock. I need to piss, and...I shake my head and swing my feet from under the covers onto the carpet.
    Darkness spills through my curtains so I can only make out the shadows of furniture—dresser, chair, nightstand, closet door. Some of that darkness is swirling inside of me.
    Breathe.
    I need coffee and to punch something, in that order, or there would be blood in the goddamn streets. No surprise, right, coming from a vet? I served in Afghanistan. Five tours under my belt, and then I didn't reup. That doesn't mean I'm naturally violent. Army doesn't teach regular soldiers hand-to-hand.
    No. I need to punch the shit out of something because, despite the copious amount of scotch I'd downed the night before or that I'd trolled the club in vain hopes of finding a decent replacement for Stealth, I woke up and her taste still colors my tongue.
    I washed my hands and brushed my teeth thoroughly before bed and there she is, fucking haunting my mouth in the morning. It's all in my head—I'm aware of that. Doesn't change a goddamn thing.
    I need to run, sweat, and punch something. Maybe kill a cow with my bare hands then eat it. Then I can forget her, and the phantom taste of her pussy will leave me the fuck alone.
    For the next hour my thoughts bounce between “I'll forget Stealth,” to “Fuck her, and not in the good way.” Eventually I find myself at Tarek's job. The London-Berg Gym sits on the outskirts of town and caters to the middle class and healthy.
    My friend is on the weight-room floor walking a couple of clients through personal training. For a man who spends his life working out, he's not bulky. His arms aren't short-looking from too much muscle and there's still a neck visible, though both are covered in tats. His dark brown skin has a sheen of sweat when he meets my gaze. A nod of acknowledgment is thrown my way, and then his focus is back on his clients.
    I hang back by the free weights to stretch first and to see if Duke is answering his cell this week. He's an attorney at a top firm and a slow week for him is sixty billable hours. Sometimes we don't hear from him. Tarek and I take turns saving his soul and sanity, but that only works if Duke answers his phone. Today he doesn't.
    I stuff my phone back into my pocket, irritation twisting inside me. I'm only calling him for one reason—not to check up on him, though he needs it. Not to see if he can escape the office for a few hours. And, yeah, he needs that.
    It's about her , and I should have fucking moved on by now. What's done is done as long as I ignore the gnawing ache in my gut.
    I can sweat her out of my system, drip her out of me like a toxin. Or that's the lie I try to convince myself into believing. I hit the bench press. Three sets of ten at two hundred and forty pounds. Yeah. I'm trying to die, but I can still taste her, so death is the least of my worries.
    “ I don't know how many times I've told you to have a spotter.” Tarek comes into view and takes the position above my head.
    All I can really see are flashes of his brown skin, muscles, and gray sweats. He's the good guy of our group, which probably isn't saying much. As a friend though, he's as solid as they come.
    “ Yeah,” I reply. “Teach the people in your gym the proper way to spot is to not have their nuts on my forehead.”
    My friend laughs because he knows exactly