Young Adult author Aiko Bradley wants some worldly experience and who better to teach her than the worldliest of men-Maximilian Croft?
From his daredevil stunts to his decadent affairs, Max is everything a perfect heartbreaker should be-one that Aik...
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Cobalt Bay, California
Several years ago...
Maximilian Augustus Croft must've died and gone to hell as he rightfully deserved.
It would be a stretch for him to hope for purgatory because the drinking spree he'd indulged in for about a week had sealed his fate.
Surely, seventeen-year-old devils with a penchant for whisky and women in nearly equal ratio weren't allowed through the gates.
So down and down and down he'd go, into the fiery pits of hell.
It was definitely hell because his body was on fire with excruciating pain. He was having trouble telling which limb was which and his eyes were too swollen shut he couldn't even take a look to see if any limbs were missing.
Not that he had any time because before he could do anything else, he was dragged off by the feet, his back and head bumping painfully against what felt like the floor of a vehicle.
Voices rumbled around him but he couldn't make out faces.
None of his companions sounded sympathetic or concerned. In fact, with the way they were hastily handling him, like a gab of trash being hauled out to the dump, they seemed quite eager to be rid of him.
No-good fuckers.
Max opened his mouth to speak and realized two things—his jaw ached like a bitch and his drawn-in breath sucked fabric into his mouth.
No wonder he couldn't see—he had a bag over his head.
And then he landed on his side against the cold, hard concrete, the impact jostling his bones and making his teeth rattle. Despite the pain, Max tried to push his way up and realized why he was having trouble distinguishing his limbs. His wrists were bound together behind him, joined by his ankles since his legs were folded backwards. In this form, he couldn't have escaped or fought.
What the fuck happened to me?
Max vaguely remembered being out on a yacht party. It was the end of summer, just a week after he and his friends came back from Santa Catalina Islands where they'd spent the last two months. He'd been making rounds at all the parties all week so he wouldn't miss anything. This was the only one he'd gone to without any of his friends but Max hadn't been without company for too long. There were guys there who wanted to hang out, talk surfing, talk sports, drink their kidneys to dust and lose their trust fund to him in a jet ski race. He enjoyed those well enough and his competitive nature wouldn't let him sit anything out but it was the women who really made that party a party.
A party that sure went to shit.
The last clear memory he had was of stumbling off the yacht and into the town car he'd thought was waiting for him. He'd been half-passed out when he climbed into the backseat but he hadn't forgotten the sudden sharp force that had slammed into the side of his head.
