Mason
What am I doing here? Excellent question.
I was forced to listen to Lane talk about Trix while playing poker, so caught up in his graphic descriptions of his time with her that I ended up losing all my money along with my patience. He’d called her a “groupie,” said she was “fun to play with,” and as if that weren’t enough to have me wanting to lunge¸ he’d made reference to the fact that the whole band had had her.
The whole band!
When I turned my glare to Rex, I fantasized about the next time we’d step into the octagon together. I imagined crushing his throat under my forearm until the fucker passed out. He must’ve felt what was coming because he quickly clarified that he was excluded from that statement. He had never been with her.
Saved from an ass-kicking.
I left, unable to take being in the same room with a man who had been more intimate with Trix than I had. Trix . . . What a stupid fucking name! And if the stories Lane told are true, it would seem the name matches the girl.
She blinks up at me, hand still to her chest as if to calm a racing heart. “You gonna tell me why you’re here?” Her eyes narrow. “You followed me.”
I nod toward the door that leads into the house. “We need to talk.” The words come out on a growl that shocks even me. I have no right to demand answers. All we did was share a meaningless kiss. Even as the words filter through my head, my gut roils at my lie.
“Talk.” Her eyes are still narrow, and her lips quirk in a way that makes me want to suck them. “You expect me to just invite you into my home after you followed me home like a damn psychopath?”
I step into her space, her body heat drawing me in. “Are you afraid of me, Trix?”
She pushes back with a step of her own. “I’m not afraid of anyone, but you haven’t been overly nice since—”
“Did you hook up with Lane?” The words fly from my lips like arrows and strike.
She recoils slightly. “What?”
“Cut the bullshit. Just tell me the truth.”
“Why do you care?” Her question is barely a whisper.
“I have no fucking clue.” I rip my hands through my hair. “Answer me.”
She swallows hard. “Of course I did.”
Ouch. I knew she had, but why does hearing her confirm it piss me off? “Why?”
Her eyebrows pinch in confusion. “Why not, Mason?”
God, hearing my name from her lips, the light ring of her voice, I imagine what it would be like to hear her crying out my name in pleasure. I bite back the urge to take her mouth and press her up against her car. “Because your body . . . you . . .”
“My body is a tool, a means to an end.” She holds out her arms then drops them hard to her sides. “It’s just flesh and bones and nerves. I make money with it, and I have fun with it. And if you’re going to stand here and judge me, you can turn your sexy-as-hell ass around and go home.”
The air charges between us and I stop breathing. “You think I’m sexy.”
“You’re an idiot.” She moves to push past me.
I grab her elbow and pull her back to face me. “I don’t like you.”
She juts up her chin. “I don’t like you either.”
“You fascinate me.” I reach out and rake both hands through her hair, pulling it off her shoulders and face to fist it at the back of her head. “And you’re so fucking beautiful it hurts.”
Her lips part, breath catches. “Mason . . .”
That voice . . . This time it’s heavy with something that makes my blood pound in my veins. “You’re gonna break me.” I tilt my head and crash my lips to hers. She opens to me without hesitation, welcoming the intrusion of my tongue into her hot, slick mouth.
We moan in unison, as if we’d both been holding back and are finally reveling in the release. Her hands grasp at my arms, my biceps, and then pull at my shirt to bring me closer. I suck her bottom lip into my mouth, then the top one, and walk her back until her ass hits her car.
I rip my lips from hers, running them along her jaw to her neck. The light salt from her skin mixes with the rich smell of her hair, and my eyes roll back at the sensory overload. “God, you taste good.”
She holds my head to her neck. “Please, don’t stop.”
I flex my hips, grinding into her body, desperate for the friction on my aching dick. I want to get lost in the feel of her naked body against mine, the warmth of her legs wrapped around me while she whimpers in ecstasy. If I could bathe in her scent, let it wash over me and wear it like skin, I would.
But this is her. What she does and how she gets through life. She’s a master of seduction, and holy fuck is she mastering me now.
I slide one hand from her hair and down her body, palming her breast over her shirt. Full and round, it fits perfectly in my hand, and her hardened nipple rakes against my thumb.
“So perfect.”
“Yeah, well, they better be.” She drops her head back, and I nip and lick at her pulse point. “I paid a fortune for them.”
I pull back and meet her heated stare, eyelids dropped low, and lips parted and pink from my kiss. “They’re fake?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Is that a problem for you?”
I bring my other hand down and cup both her breasts, groaning at the feel of their weight in my hands. “No, they’re gorgeous.” A small grin ticks against my lips. “They feel really good.”
She looks down at my hands on her boobs, and I almost laugh at the awkwardness of it all that for some reason doesn’t feel that awkward. “I had an excellent plastic surgeon.”
“Huh.” I squeeze her breasts, and we both burst into laughter. “Sorry.” I drop my hands and do a quick readjusting of my shorts to alleviate the discomfort.
“No need to be sorry. I’m not ashamed that I have breast implants.”
I shove my hands into my pockets, my palms raging to be pressed back into the softness of her chest. “Occupational necessity I suppose.”
She shakes her head and smooths her hair tangled by my hands. “Necessity? No, but you’re right, being well-endowed doesn’t hurt in my business.”
I push down the reminder of what she does for a living. Feeling brave, I reach and tuck a swirled purple-platinum lock behind her ear. “I like your hair.”
A tiny blush hits her cheeks. “Thanks.” She ducks her chin. “I get bored, so I’m always changing it.” She runs her teeth along her bottom lip, eyes darting to the door. “Listen, um . . . do you still want to come inside?”
Fuck if this shy side of her isn’t getting me hotter.
“I thought you weren’t stupid enough to invite in a psychopath.” I lift an eyebrow.
“I’ll take my chances.”
Silence builds between us for a few seconds before she clears her throat and grabs her purse from the ground where she’d dropped it. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
Trix
This is stupid. I shouldn’t invite him in. His presence alone takes up all the space in my head and the air in my lungs.
He followed me to ask me about Lane, and when I told him the truth, he was jealous. I’ve never had a guy get jealous over me before. Even the men I’ve been intimate with have always understood what I am, what I do. It’s a mutual agreement of no attachments. I’ve never had an opportunity to have a real boyfriend, not that I’d want one. Since the beginning, I’ve been on a fact-finding mission. Relationships are a distraction I don’t need. Not that anyone’s offered me a commitment. I get naked for strangers for a living for crying out loud, not exactly the kind of woman a guy wants to settle down with.
I move through the kitchen, flicking on lights, and hear Mason’s heavy footfalls behind me. He doesn’t say anything, but I catch him checking out the place from the corner of my eye.
My place isn’t a dump; it’s a nice two-bedroom house in a subdivision where all the houses look the same. My furniture isn’t anything to brag about, but it’s comfortable and serves its purpose. But something about having him in my home makes me wish I had things he’d be impressed by.
We move through to the living room, and I click on a lamp at the side table. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
He doesn’t sit, but meanders to the back sliding glass door and parts the vertical blinds to peek outside.
I head to my bedroom and pull open a drawer at the bottom of my dresser. Tucked in the back, beneath my everyday clothes, is a stack of pictures, and I grab it to sort through them until I find the right one.
A questioning voice in my head asks why I’m exposing this part of my life to a guy I hardly know. I’ve had plenty of guys in my home and in my bed, and I’d never dream of opening myself up to them like this. But something about Mason feels . . . different.
When I saw him with the kids at the Youth Center, he seemed genuinely invested. Then came the night at the club, our kiss, and his brief rage of jealousy about me having to go back to work. No one has ever expressed that for me before. And as much as it pissed me off, it flattered me. That he would think I’m special enough to keep hidden from the pervings of other men was sweet, even if his actions right after were just as infuriating.
I find the photo I’m searching for, shove the rest back into the drawer, and head out to the living room.
“You live here alone?” He’s studying a row of DVDs in my entertainment center.
“No, after Gia left, I found a roommate through a girl I work with.” I plop down on the couch, lean on the armrest, and tuck my feet up under me. “She’s a nine-to-fiver, has a serious boyfriend. I rarely see her.”
He holds up a DVD. “You watch cartoons?”
I squint to read the title. “It’s not a cartoon; it’s Disney.”
“Still a cartoon,” he mumbles.
“Animated movie.” He wouldn’t understand what something like Disney means to a young Russian orphan, how Svetlana and I dreamed of becoming the princesses we’d seen in those movies, swept off our feet and rescued by a handsome prince. What a joke.
He studies the cover with confusion etched on his face and tucks it back into its spot. “Strangest stripper I’ve ever known.”
I hold up a finger. “Exotic dancer.”
He scrunches up his face adorably. “There a difference?”
“I think so, and if I’m the strangest one you’ve known, can I assume you’ve known a few?”
“No.” He moves toward me and drops down on the couch, not putting too much distance between us but enough that we’re not touching. He nods to the photo in my hand. “What’s that?”
A sudden unease washes over me. Is this a mistake? Too late now. What am I going to do? Shove the damn thing down my shirt and run away?
I thrust the photo in front of him before I can change my mind. He takes it, tilts it toward the light, and studies it before turning to me. “Are these kids from the Youth Center?”
I lean over, hit for a second by the scent of his cologne and warmth of his leg now against mine. “No, um”—I point to the scrawny girl in the middle, eighteen years old, flat-chested and knobby-kneed with long mousy-blond hair—“that’s me.”
He jerks his eyes to mine, his crystal-blue gaze roaming my face, and then back to the photo. “Wow.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Funny, right?”
“No, you’re cute.” He checks me out again and then goes back to the picture. “Mickey Mouse shirt. I see the Disney obsession started young.”
“Sad thing is I’m eighteen in that photo.”
He chuckles, and the sound soothes my racing heart.
“Was this taken at camp or something?” His fingertip glides along the photo. “Who’re all these kids?”
I worry my bottom lip with my teeth. “Oh, um . . . those are my brothers and sisters.”
Another jerk and his eyes are huge, framed in dark eyelashes that curl up at the ends, and twinkling with interest. “No kidding. That explains why you’re so good with the kids.”
“You’re not so bad either, ya know.”
Is he blushing? “So who’s who?”
I lean closer and point out individual faces. “That’s Isaac, Leah, Zander, Zoe, Aaron, Josiah . . .” I move through them all until I end on the last. “And um . . . that is, or was, my older sister Lana.”
“Was . . .” There’s sadness, a longing in his voice as if he feels her loss too just from that one word.
“Yeah, she died shortly after this picture was taken.” I study the photo with him, and he tilts it more toward the light.
It was just weeks before her twenty-second birthday. She’d followed in the path my parents laid out for us, drawn to ministry and selflessly serving others. I can’t remember a time where she was even in trouble, whether it be school or at home. She was the perfect daughter.
Unlike me.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He clears his throat. “So most of them are adopted.” He runs a finger over the faces that represent almost every color, race, and nationality.
“Not most of us, all of us.”
He grunts in recognition. “You and your sister look like you could be related.”
“We are . . . were, I mean.” I lick my lips nervously and clear my throat. “We were both adopted from an orphanage in Rostov-on-Don.” He peeks up at me in a funny way that makes me smile. “Russia. My parents adopted all of us from different countries, ya know, before Brad and Angelina made it cool.”
He nods and goes back to studying the photo. “What was that like?”
“I don’t remember much from living there. I was too young. Lana was seven, and she remembered it being bad.”
He hands me back the picture but doesn’t meet my eyes. “That had to be hard.”
“Not for me. I always had Lana. She protected me from it all, more like a parent to me than a sibling.” I run my sweaty palms down my bare legs.
“I know the feeling.” His eyebrows drop low as he studies the carpet, and something tells me his thoughts aren’t on my sister or me.
“Yeah?” I’m grateful we’ve managed to skate over the details of her death and focus on him. It’s a morbid story that has the capability of ruining even the darkest moment.
“Drake’s always been a little shit. I swear the guy would’ve been arrested a dozen times if it weren’t for me.” He runs a hand through his hair, the blond waves sliding through his fingers like silk.
I grip his thigh and squeeze, and his eyes dart to where I’ve made contact as if my hand conducts electricity. “You’re a good brother. If he’s anything like me, he appreciates it.”
“I put my ass on the line for him more times than I can count.” Slowly, he moves his focus from my hand, up my arm, his gaze like a caress as it settles on my lips. His earlier, easy expression is now shrouded in worry. “Trix, I—” He blinks and leans away. “Shit, hold on.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. I breathe through the heat of the moment as the device vibrates in his hand. Whatever he sees on the caller ID has him hitting a button to silence it and shoving it back in his pocket.
“New phone?”
He turns toward me, his expression still etched with concern, which he quickly wipes clean. “It is.” We lock eyes as silent seconds tick between us. “My last one was shattered by a magnificent creature exiting a bathroom.”
I fight the urge to grin huge and goofily. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He cups my jaw and drops a slow lingering kiss against my lips. “I’m not.” His eyes slam closed, and it isn’t until seconds later I register the vibration coming from his pocket. “Shit.”
“What is it?”
He pulls away and scrubs a hand through his shaggy blond hair with a groan. “I gotta go.”
“Oh, uh . . . okay.”
He blows out a long breath, either out of relief or frustration, I can’t tell, then tilts his head to peer up at me from beneath this lashes. “Go out with me.”
“Right now? But you said—”
“No, let me take you out. A date.”
“A date?” My voice is high with excitement. I’ve never been on a date. “Like a real date?”
A crooked grin tilts his lips. “No, the fake kind.”
I rock into his shoulder hoping to hide my blush. “Ha, ha.”
“When do you have a night off?”
“After tonight? Not until Tuesday.”
“I’ll pick you up Tuesday.” He grabs my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Seven o’clock.”
Warmth bursts in my chest. “Okay.”
He leans forward and leaves one last kiss on my lips, no tongue, but deeper than friendly. “See you then.” He stands and moves to the front door, turning before he passes through it. “Lock up when I leave.”
“Yeah, I will.” God, I sound so breathless.
“Later, Trix.” He winks and he’s gone.
What are we doing? Kissing without sex, sharing about our families, a date?
If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was the beginning of a relationship. I nibble a fingernail and feel the pound of my pulse in my neck.
Holy shit! I’m in unknown territory.
Mason
After waiting to make sure Trix locked the door behind me, I jump into my truck and hit call back on my phone. He answers on the first ring. “Birdman, what’s up?”
“Drake took off. Took Jessica with him.”
Fuck. “What do you mean took off?”
The sound of a long exhale is followed by a short cough. “Went into hiding ’til all this clusterfuck blows over.”
“That’s probably best. He make sure to get a hold of the shit so I can deliver it?”
And as soon as I do, I’m washing my hands of this, and Drake can face the consequences of his decisions for once in his fucking life.
The heavy press of guilt weighs down on my shoulders when I think of what Trix said earlier: the way she spoke about her sister, the longing and pain that hung on every word. I never want to imagine that kind of hurt. I’ll never be able to just sit by and allow my little brother to get taken out if there’s something I can do to stop it.
“He did. You’ll have what you need.”
“After this is over, if you guys have more than shit for brains, you’ll all get the fuck out of this before it’s too late.”
“Mason,” he whispers, and I can hear the shuffling through the phone like he’s searching for a quiet place to talk. “Things aren’t like they used to be, man. Back then it was parties and chicks, fuckin’ hanging with our bros and dipping into some minor shit. S’not like that anymore and I’m fuckin’ freakin’ out over here.”
“Why’re you guys still involved? You’ve gotta break ties with—”
“I wish it were that easy, man.” I hear his deep inhale and almost have to laugh at the irony of him smoking weed while neck deep in a no-win situation with their drug-dealing hero.
“It is that easy. Get a job, stop going to the parties, and pull yourself out.”
Birdman clears his throat. “They don’t just let you leave. You have to pay to get out. Blood for blood.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Forget it. I gotta go.”
“Bird—”
The line goes dead.
Fuck! I grip my phone in my hand tightly then toss it in the passenger seat of my truck to avoid crushing it.
Blood for blood. So they get jumped out? Take an ass-kicking in order to walk away. Seems worth it to me. Taking the beating and walking away with the rest of your life free and clear sounds like a pretty good fucking deal.