Mason
Three days feels like three months.
So far, Trix is no closer to finding her sister’s killer. She’s kept me informed through short phone calls and texts, even managed to come over for a few hours before she went to work yesterday, and for that I’m grateful. This guy she calls Hatchet has been MIA since the night Trix showed up drunk on my doorstep.
Although it would break her heart, I’m praying the fucker never shows his face again.
I flex my sore fists, reveling in the ache of my joints as I gear up for a session with the heavy bags. There’s something to be said for being hate-fueled and resentful. These last few days in the gym have been some of my best. Amazing what happens when I paint a faceless man who’ll have his hands all over my woman on every fucking thing I punch.
After five minutes of jump rope, I throw my first punch, feeling stronger than I did even yesterday. Blow after blow, I imagine the man who will be seduced into giving up information by my woman.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
NOFX’s “Stickin’ in my Eye” bleeds in my ears; the beat pushes me harder as I throw all my weight behind each hit. Sweat blurs my vision, but doesn’t slow my pace. With every strike, I throw up a silent prayer that Trix’s mission goes down in flames and we can return to where we were the night we got came back from San Jose. I throttle the bag with a series of jabs when NOFX fades to the pinging of my ringtone.
I rip my phone from the elastic case at my bicep. Drake’s name flashes on the screen.
Dammit.
I hit “accept,” panting into the speaker hanging from my earbuds. “Drake, man . . . what’s up?”
“Whoa . . .” He chuckles. “You fuckin’?”
I work to catch my breath. “Shut up, asshole.”
“Needta’ finish up? Call me back?” He laughs. “Hate to be the cause of a nasty case of blue balls, brother.”
Dumbass.
“I’m training.” I pull my bandana off my head and wipe my face. “You call for a reason?”
“I did. I’ll be in town this weekend. My dad’s putting us up at Caesars again.”
My pulse pounds in my ears and my muscles tense. “Business?”
He’s silent for a few seconds then clears his throat. “Yeah.”
I drop my chin and dig my fingers into my eyes. “Drake.”
“It’s not what you think.”
Like I don’t have enough shit to deal with right now, Trix and her renegade mission, and now my hard-headed brother.
“Not bailing you out again. I’m done. This last time could’ve totally fucked me.”
“I know. I know. Listen. I need you to come by Saturday night.”
“No. Wait. Scratch that. Fuck no.” I pace and run a hand through my sweaty hair.
“It’s not me, man; it’s my dad. He’s asking for you.”
“Yeah, well you can tell him to kiss my ass.” I’ve been more of a father to D than his biological father ever was. “He thinks he can snap and have me jumping, he’s out of his motherfucking mind.”
Drake blows out a long, frustrated-sounding breath. “Don’t make him come after you, Mase. Puts me in a shitty-ass position. Just come by, see what he has to say.”
“No, I told you—”
“He knows I want out.”
I freeze my pacing and stare blindly at the heavy bag. “You told him you’re done?”
“Yeah. Thing is . . . fuck . . . Jessica’s pregnant.”
I drop to the bench and lean back against the concrete wall. “Oh shit.”
“Exactly, oh shit.”
“Are you . . .? I mean, is it—”
“Mine?”
I didn’t want to just come out and ask, but after what I saw last weekend I have to wonder.
“She messes with me, but she’s a good girl. I don’t think she’d fuck anyone else.” He groans. “Hell, I don’t know what I know. No way I’m asking her now though. She hasn’t stopped crying in days.”
“So you’re pulling out of your dad’s shit to . . . what?”
“What do you mean to what? Take care of my kid, my woman, what the fuck you think?” It’s only natural for me to doubt his intentions. The guy fucks up things without even trying.
“Good to hear, D. Really. So, this Vegas thing, is it like a one last hurrah and then you’re out?”
“Something like that.” He mumbles something I can’t make out. “Shit. I gotta run. Saturday night. I’ll see you there.”
“I can’t guarantee—” The line goes dead.
Fuck.
I pop my phone back into my armband and take a swig of water. This is good. Drake’s moving towards cutting ties with his dad, and although getting his girl pregnant wasn’t in the plan, it’s helping him to man up. Can’t be angry about that.
I’ll go to Caesars Saturday night and see what his dickhead dad has to say; then hopefully Drake can put all this shit behind him for good.
Trix
Midnight.
Officially five days now since Hatch walked out of my life. Again.
Every day that comes and goes feels like fingernails slowly raking across my skin, digging deeper each pass they make, elevating my irritation. Hours, minutes, seconds tick by and all of it is wasted time. Time I could be spending with Mason.
A pathetic growl gurgles in my throat as I toss the contents of my dresser drawers onto my bed. Organizing has always managed to calm me when I’m angry. Sorting through my belongings, tossing the old shit, and arranging the still wearable.
I separate my shorts between casual and dress-up, throwing some of the worn pairs to the floor with more force than necessary.
How long will I wait before I give up and resume my life?
I told myself a few weeks, but here I am almost a week into it, and I’m ready to give up and launch myself into Mason’s arms for good.
Svetlana’s gone and Mason’s here, alive and wanting me, just as much as I want him. Neither of us deserves this torture.
As if summoned from my thoughts, I find a photo beneath my clothes pile. Bright shining eyes and her barely there smile. Svetlana.
I flip it over in my hand. It’s her passport photo.
She had plans to do missionary work with my dad at the orphanage we were adopted from in Russia. She’d had her photo taken, and days after she died, it was delivered in the mail.
Giving hope to all those children in the orphanage who feel completely forgotten was something she’d talked about for years. The last known picture of her is a sick stab to the heart.
Dammit. The senselessness of it all racks my body, and I drop to my knees at my bedside, resting my forehead against the mattress and pressing the photo to my chest.
“Why, God? Why did you have to take her? You had plans for her, plans that were bigger and better. I know you’re capable of using even the worst tragedies for good, but how, God? How can this ever be made good?”
I wait, listening with not my ears but with my heart. Waiting for an answer, a divine intercession that would throw me back and help me to see the purpose to it all.
But I get nothing.
“So that’s it, huh? Maybe some people aren’t worth your help.” Anger boils deep in my chest. I push up off the ground with my fists balled, crunching Lana’s picture in my palm. Not that it matters. She wasn’t important enough to God for him to save her. I’m not important enough for him to give me direction in all this.
With a primal roar, I lash out, sweeping my arm over my bed and sending my neat piles of clothes sailing across the room. Why can’t this just be over? A deep sob forms in my chest, but I refuse to give into my weakness. Sadness is pointless. Anger is motivating.
The low growl of a motorcycle filters in from my open bedroom window. Listening hard, I concentrate as the rumble grows louder and louder. I wait for the sound to reach my driveway, fully expecting it to continue by as the rest of them have these last five days.
But this one doesn’t.
Holy shit, he’s here.
Panicked, I race to the mirror, pinch my cheeks, and practice my fake look of indifference. Good enough.
I race to the front door just as I hear the motorcycle engine cut off. Crap, I can’t fling the door open right when he walks up. I scurry to my couch, flipping on the TV and trying to look casual just as the knock comes at the front door.
“Hold on.” With a deep breath, I force my feet to drag. “I’m coming.”
When I open the door, my heart jumps and quickly sinks. It’s Hatch.
I yawn and try to act casual. “Hey, you’re in town.”
His hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and he leans against the doorframe. “You done bein’ a bitch?” His voice sounds like jagged rocks over broken glass, but he flashes a teasing smile.
I cock my head and force myself to smile. “Am I ever done being a bitch?”
“Good point.” He doesn’t wait to be invited in, just moves past me and into the kitchen. “I need a beer.”
Hoping he’d show up eventually, I’ve kept my fridge stocked with his favorite all-American brand, bottles, extra cold the way he likes it. I close the door and move to the couch, trying to remember how the old me—the me who hadn’t completely given her heart away to another man—would’ve acted.
He’s right behind me and drops to the couch, popping off the cap to his beer and tossing it to the coffee table. The familiar smell of Hatch—wind, desert dirt, leather, and a hint of sweat—permeates the air. His heavy boots clunk hard to the table as he reclines and the creaking of his cut as he makes himself comfortable are so opposite of Mason.
My Mason is smooth. Everything he does is like liquid, clean and fresh, powerful, beautiful, and peaceful on the surface that covers the raw danger that stirs underneath. Just like the ocean.
“The fuck you watchin’ here, Trix?”
My eyes dart to Hatch, who has his glare aimed at the television. “Oh, this?” I grab the remote, hit a few buttons to turn off the DVD player, and put on the racy cable TV network Hatch loves. “The Lion King. There was nothing on, so . . .”
Fuck. The old me never would watch Disney movies with Hatch around. The last thing I need is for him to get inside my head, and even though the DVDs are on display, he’s never taken an interest in them.
Never taken an interest in me outside of blow jobs and sex.
Unlike Mason.
My chest warms, and a tiny grin curls my lips before I can wipe it away.
The sooner I get down to it, the sooner I can get back to him. I turn to face Hatch and fold my legs beneath me. “So, how long are you in town for?”
His eyes dart to me, rake over my bare legs to my cut offs and then to my chest. I rejoice in silent victory that I’m wearing a bra beneath the threadbare tank. Hatch seems to notice then slides his intrusive gaze back to the TV and shrugs. “Got a little business here this weekend. Then I’ll be gone.”
I chew my bottom lip, wondering how to bring up some deeper conversation without being completely obvious. I’m about to open my mouth when he turns his eyes to me.
“You busy this weekend? I might be able to use you and a couple of the girls tomorrow night.”
“Maybe.” I shrug one shoulder. “You have associates”—I use air quotes and lift a brow—“who need entertaining?”
He reaches out and fists a handful of my hair, tugging my face to his. “Fuck, you’re cute.”
I do my best to bat my eyelashes and play coy even though I’d rather spit in his face.
He presses a quick and bristly kiss to my lips. “Yeah, babe. Associates. Important ones. You game? They pay well.”
I swallow hard, my eyes burning with the realization that I’ve just officially cheated on Mason with that kiss, but I force all that back. “Saturday nights at the club are busy. I have to work.”
“I’ll make a call. Your boss has never been able to say no to cold hard cash.”
His grip is still tight in my hair. I pull against him, only to get a tug back, reminding me who’s in charge.
“Sounds fun. You know I’ve never been one to turn down a well-paying job.” I lick my lips as my nerves get the best of me. It’s not that I think Hatch will hurt me. God knows he’s had plenty of opportunity to do so and hasn’t. But a game that was once easy for me to play has now become complicated as every choice I make revolves around Mason.
He releases my hair and runs the rough pad of his thumb along my jaw. “Been a long time since I’ve had that mouth.”
Fuck! No, no, no. I roll my lips between my teeth in an attempt to keep them away from him, but his eyes flare with hunger.
My body revolts and I sit back, putting distance between us. He glares, suspicion registering in his expression. Dammit, I’m losing him!
“It’s been a long week. I could use a few drinks.” I give him my most seductive smile, and his wariness morphs back to desire.
“Grab the six-pack and the Jager. I like how your mouth gets sloppy when you’re drunk on that shit.”
My stomach twists, but I wink and move toward the kitchen as a plan forms in my head. Jager will be perfect. I’ll be puking before the night’s through and sleeping in the bathroom.
With the door locked.