21. Mason
TWENTY-ONE
MASON
“Where the fuck have you been?” Don’s voice is gruff, and my first instinct is to bite back, remind him that I’m not a fucking kid anymore, but I resist the urge because I know he has the right to be pissed.
He’s still technically my boss, after all.
“My bad, old man. I’ve been busy.”
There’s a pause, the line so quiet it makes me shift in my chair. I can picture Don with his slicked-back, graying hair, probably in some tiki bar on the coast while his girl soaks up the luxury that years of working on the edge of the law has provided her.
“Define ‘busy.’”
Sighing, I run a hand through my hair. I grab a toothpick from where they’re stockpiled on the desk in my motel room and shove it in my mouth, the edge pricking my lip. “Just busy. Working. You know.”
“Mmhmm,” he grunts. “You still hanging around the mark?”
“Lily.”
I cringe as soon as I say her name, knowing my slip of the tongue is equivalent to a giant red flag, waving in front of Don’s face.
He groans. “I know her name. For fuck’s sake, Mase. What the hell are you doing? Are you fucking her?”
My jaw clenches, stomach turning. “Don’t come at me with bullshit. I just…I know it looks bad, okay?”
“It does look bad. It makes me look bad. I may not be there in person to run things, but it’s still my name you’re representing. My company that cashes your checks. It’s still me this all comes back to when things don’t get done.”
My teeth grind. “I know.”
“Then do your fucking job.”
Irritation snaps at my back like shark teeth, puncturing my insides until my defenses are rankled. I know that he’s right. I’m not doing my job. I haven’t been since the moment I saw her—the moment I found her and didn’t immediately wrap things up and let her brother know where she was.
“When have you ever known me to not do my job, Don?”
He blows out a breath. “That’s what has me worried. Up until now, you always have.”
“Right. I always have. And I always will, so just let me do things my way.” Guilt slams into my stomach. “This girl…she’s different. I just want to make sure we’re not sending her and her kid back to a bad situation.”
He huffs. “You’ve never cared before.”
“Yeah, well…” My chest pulls tight. “I care now.”
“We don’t get paid to care , Mason.”
Nodding, I roll the toothpick from one side of my mouth to the other, frustration welling up inside of me. It feels almost dirty to talk about Lily like this, like she still means nothing to me.
Like she’s a means to an end.
I know I need to wrap this shit up. Need to make a decision about what the hell I’m planning to do.
“What do you think’s gonna happen here, Mason?” Don continues. “You’re gonna tell her brother where she is and then stick around? Quit working for me and start a brand-new, fresh life less than twenty-four hours away from the one you’ve been running from all these years?”
I run my hand through my hair, tugging on the roots. “No, fuck .”
“You gonna come clean to her then?”
My stomach jumps to my throat. “I don’t—I haven’t thought about it.”
“I’ll answer for you. You are not going to tell her. You’re gonna get your head out of your ass and do your fucking job, or else I’ll come and do it for you.” He heaves a heavy breath down the line, the seconds stretching until they feel like hours, his words sinking into my skin and mixing into my veins, making me nauseous from the invasion.
“You watched the news yet?” he asks.
My brows furrow at his question. This is the second time we’ve talked, and both times, he’s brought up the news. “Not where I’ve really paid attention to it, why… should I?”
“Yeah, Mase…you should.” He pauses. “Listen, sort your shit out, okay? Forget about the job for a second, and just consider the decisions you’re making and the effect they’ll have on your future. And if you can’t do that, then think about hers and her kid’s.”
“Yeah.” My stomach rolls.
“There’s a reason why you came to me ten years ago.”
Nausea teases my throat as we say our goodbyes because he’s right. I’m making shitty decisions. But I just got her. I’m not ready to lose her yet. Still, I know I can’t keep living this lie, so that only leaves one option. I have to figure out a way to come clean. My stomach churns at the thought, anxiety creeping along the edges of my nerves and making them fray.
Maybe she’ll forgive me.
Maybe she’ll let me stick around.
My brain replays Don’s words on repeat as I lean back in my chair, Lily’s taste from earlier still on my tongue, my eyes bouncing from the computer with her files to the TV on the dresser.
You should watch the news.
Something breezes across my back, causing a chill, and I already know that whatever is on there is something I won’t want to see. But Don wouldn’t have brought it up if it wasn’t important. Reaching over, I grab the remote, the sound of the screen flicking to life loud in the otherwise silent room.
My body is tense, every muscle coiled tight, preparing myself for something that, deep down, I’ve been expecting for a long time. The past ten years have been nothing but a waiting game, and I know without even looking that this is it.
The moment I’ve been dreading.
I should have moved out of the fucking country when I had the chance.
Flipping through the channels, I pause when I get to the nightly news, my heart dropping into my stomach like a bomb.
“The presidential race is heating up, and although we won’t be hearing the parties’ official nominees until later this year at the national conventions, there are two names that stand above the rest, being touted as the clear frontrunners. Congressman Ron Damoine for the Democratic ticket. And Senator Thomas Wells as the presumed nominee for the Republicans.”
“That’s right, Diana. Senator Wells has come out strong in the Iowa caucus, and people believe his base of family, faith, and constitutionalism will easily win over the votes needed.”
I turn the TV off, throwing the remote, the cracking sound as it hits the black screen dulled by the pounding in my ears. My fists clench and unclench as I try to rein in the rage that’s boiling in my veins. My body is physically shaking, and the toothpick in my mouth splits in two from the force of my clenched jaw.
Family.
Faith.
Thomas Wells wouldn’t give a shit about his family if it came up and bit him on the ass.
I should know.
I’m his son.