Chapter Thirteen
Mason
Wanda wouldn’t let me take Millie to school this morning. Said I’d terrify the poor kid if I showed up bloodied and bruised the way I am. I don’t know what she thinks I’m going to do between now and the end of the day to fix the problem—as far as I know, cuts and scrapes take a little longer than an afternoon to heal—but there you go. She sent me on my way, and a part of me felt guilty about heading straight to work. I felt even guiltier when I realized I was singing in the car.
Mac nearly drops his coffee when he sees me. “Holy fucking hell, boy, what happened to your face?”
“Fought at French’s,” I mumble through my split lip. No point in lying to him. Mac knows everything, has his finger in so many pies. Wouldn’t surprise me if he actually made some money off my ass last night somehow.
“So you’ll fight in a stinking basement but you won’t earn three times the money driving a car across the city for me, is that it?” he says.
“Pretty much.”
“Well, whatever. I hope the other guy looks worse, I guess. Though, I don’t see how that would be possible.”
The morning goes fast. I can’t wait to head over to the gym after work and train. I need to stretch out my muscles, make sure I don’t completely lock up. If I want to fight again in six days, I have to make sure my whole body isn’t completely jacked from not doing anything with it.
I spend the day working on Kaya’s beater of a car. The old Chevy is fucked, needs scrapping entirely, but I just do what I’m told and go about fixing the damn thing. Late in the afternoon, when I jump in to turn the engine over, the interior smells just like she did yesterday—like flowers and jasmine. My dick stirs in my pants at the scent. So fucking inappropriate. I’m not supposed to be thinking about her let alone fantasizing what it would be like to be on top of her, to feel like I’m wrapping myself around her, slowly pushing myself deeper and deeper inside of her.
I have to sit in the car for an extra five minutes before my hard on eventually goes away.
Mac, the asshole, keeps me back half an hour to finish up a rushed job that comes in late. That cuts into my gym time before I need to collect Millie, but whatever. Something is better than nothing. I’m jogging across the street, gym bag in hand, when a sleek black Audi rolls up out the front of the gym. The window buzzes down and a stern looking woman with bright blonde hair and cold blue eyes is staring straight at me. For a moment I think she’s about to ask for directions out of this sketchy part of town—people get lost here all the time—but then she does something that makes my stomach drop through the floor. She pulls out a badge.
“Agent Lowell,” she says. “DEA. You’re Mason Reeves, right? Got time to have a little chat?”
A million things immediately flash through my head, paralysing me. I manage to keep my face a mask of calm, however. “Not really. I kind of have somewhere I need to be.”
“That’s a pity. See my colleague here was just telling me that we should come over to your place, investigate a tip off we had.”
“What kind of tip off?”
“Apparently, you’re involved in a little drug running for your boss there.” Agent Lowell gestures to Mac, who is just pulling down the roller shutter on the building behind me. Mac sees Lowell and his eyes go wide. Slowly, carefully, he lifts his right hand and flips her off. “Awww. Mac remembers me,” Agent Lowell says, smiling.
“I don’t run drugs for him. I work on the cars, and then I go home. End of story.”
“Oh?” The woman frowns up at me, tilting her head to one side. “And what’s with the face, then? You get those bruises from fixing cars?”
“No. I was in a fight.
“French’s, right?” Lowell grins. “Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about the place. That’s Seattle PD’s domain normally, but could be there are drugs there, too, right, Agent Cooper?”
The guy next to her sitting at the wheel grunts, squinting at me from inside the car. “Could be.”
“And even if there aren’t any drugs, participating in an underground fighting ring’s pretty dangerous, wouldn’t you say? Not to mention illegal. Would CPS consider a young guy involved in blood sports is a fit role model for a little girl?”
My blood runs ice-cold in my veins. “Don’t fucking threaten me.”
“Oh, come on, now. I’m not threatening you. I just want to ask you a few questions. Won’t take a moment of your time.”
“What about? I’ve told you, I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“It’s not you we’re interested in, Mr. Reeves. I can promise you that. We’re actually more interested in what you know about Zeth Mayfair.”
Zeth? Well, now that makes a little more sense. I’m not completely stupid, though. I talk to this woman about Zeth Mayfair and I’m going to end up in a ditch somewhere, missing body parts. “Look, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what you heard but I don’t know anything about Mayfair. I go to his gym sometimes. That’s it.”
Lowell shakes her head, her lips pulling into a taut line. “Don’t be foolish, Mason. Everyone in Seattle knows something about Zeth. You want to know what I know?”
“Not particularly.” I look away, toward the gym, hoping against hope that the man himself hasn’t seen me out here talking to a federal agent. I’m shit out of luck, though. He’s leaning against the wall inside the gym, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed solely on me as I shift from foot to foot.
“Don’t worry about him,” Lowell says. “Zeth’s headed back to Chino any day now. He just doesn’t know it yet. See, we found a body last week up in the mountains. The body of a young woman. Gun shot wound.” Lowell glances over at Zeth, still leaning against the wall. She shoots him an unbearably sweet smile, and then waves.
“The girl was murdered, Mr. Reeves,” she says, still smiling. “And guess who’s DNA was all over her.”