Chapter 20
MASON
“Excuse me, sir?”
I tense at the hesitant voice behind me because I know what the crew member is going to say.
“Yes?” I force the word out.
“She refused to accept it again, sir.”
I sigh. Burned bridges are aptly named for a reason.
It’s why I took steps to ensure mine are well and truly burned by leaving Keely alone in my house with nothing but a Dear John note penned with a dash of senseless cruelty.
At the time, I’d no doubt whatsoever that I was doing the right thing.
The specially crafted gift was the full stop that should’ve punctuated our brief, hyper-charged association.
By her not accepting it, things feel unfinished.
I grimace at the barefaced lie I’m force-feeding myself.
It feels unfinished because I’m suspended in a limbo of my own making.
By sticking around, and not heading straight to the airport once my setup on the yacht was done, the hooks I ripped from what remained of my tattered life are finding me again, like parasitic magnets seeking freshly mangled iron.
“What exactly did she say? Repeat it, word for word,” I demand as I stare unblinking at a far distant shoreline receding in the darkness.
I hear an uncomfortable shuffle, but I care very little for the crew member’s sensibilities.
I grip the railing and stare into the dark churning waters that trail the IL Indulgence .
All I care about is finding a balm to this insane gnawing in my stomach.
Even if it’s through second-hand words that’ll no doubt attempt to put me in my place.
“Are you sure, sir?”
I remain silent.
“Umm… she said, umm…” He clears his throat.
“‘Tell that motherfucking fucker to take his motherfucking parting gift and shove it up his motherfucking ass. And if he tries one more fucking time to return it, I’ll personally make sure the chef serves him arsenic in his next fucking meal, so I can fucking watch him die a miserable fucking death.’”
Laughter barks out of my chest. I turn around and lean against the railing. Daniel, the guard and crew member assigned to me, is standing in my master suite’s living room with the black box in his hand and a chagrined look on his face.
“Right. I guess after six attempts in three days, I should take the hint, huh?”
He looks embarrassed for me and shuffles some more. “I guess…”
I nod, despite feeling the twist of the knife. “Thanks, you can leave it on the table,” I say.
He hurries to place the box on the console table near the cabin door, then pauses. “Same time tomorrow, sir?”
I shake my head. “No. I think it’s time for a more… personal approach.”
He nods eagerly, even though he looks puzzled. “Okay. Well, if you need anything else, sir, just let me know.”
He hurries out and my gaze swings to the box Keely left behind four days ago when I all but kicked her out of my house in Monte Carlo. I burned the note after discovering it on the floor the next day, even as I reeled with a tinge of guilt for the nastiness I glazed the note with.
That lingering guilt alone should make me rethink this doomed path. That and the fact that I woke up in a cold sweat next to another human being for the first time in almost six years, and then proceeded to open myself up to the lethal cocktail of rage and grief.
I should be making a swift and decisive retreat.
Because if those reasons aren’t enough, as of yesterday, there’s Cassie.
And my mother. Gluttons for my brand of punishment.
Or architects of their own special strain of Stockholm syndrome.
A fucked-up type of delusion, which makes them think that letting me—and the vileness that inhabits my soul—get close enough to them will somehow heal all of us.
It doesn’t matter how many times or how many ways I demonstrate my singular lack of care for what they think, they always come back for more.
My gaze lingers over the black box as my mind focuses on the one woman who’s holding fast to her decision not to come back for more.
I finger my phone with the full knowledge that I should accept her decision. But I know I’m going to ignore the warning flashing in my brain. I draw it from my pocket.
Subject: My Gift
Got your message. Shame on you. It’s not polite to refuse a gift.
—Mason
I goad because I’m certain it’s the only way I’ll get a response. Her reply pops into my text box a few minutes later.
Subject: My Gift
It is when it’s from a self-confessed asshole. Especially one who refused to see me when I returned to the boat on Monday. I got your message loud and clear. So here’s my gift to you—Fuck off.
—Keely
PS—Happy to arrange for the message to be delivered in sign language for the seventh and (hopefully) final time, if words and their meaning elude you.
I lean back against the railing and consider my answer before I reply.
Subject: My Gift
Full disclosure: I wasn’t in a good place on Monday. Accept my gift, and I’ll consider accepting yours. I’m heavily into sign language.
—Mason
I hit send, knowing I’m exploiting that vein of compassion I glimpsed in her tough armor back in my kitchen. She may fight it, but ultimately, Keely Benson is a curious and compassionate creature. I stare at my screen until her message pops up.
Subject: My Gift
Full disclosure: I shouldn’t have stayed. Being horny made me greedy. But you were still gone when I woke up. For both our sakes, stay gone.
—Keely
Thoughts of Cassie and my mother recede as the challenge of how quickly I can dominate this situation heats up my blood.
Subject: My Gift
I can’t. We’re on the same yacht. Besides… you’re different. Also, greedy and horny work for me. Let me make it up to you.
—Mason
Subject: My Gift
We’ve managed to avoid one another for four days. If you ask me, we’re doing brilliantly. Also, in what way am I different? (Not that I care, of course)
—Keely
Subject: My Gift
In all the ways that shouldn’t matter, but do. In all the ways that matter, but shouldn’t.
—M
PS—Happy to repeat that in Pig Latin. I hear that turns you on.
She doesn’t reply for almost five minutes, and I wonder if she’s still annoyed at my overhearing her Pig Latin confession to Bethany back in Montauk. When she eventually replies, my eyes narrow at her answer.
Subject: My Gift
It doesn’t. I have to go. Goodbye.
—K
I let her go for a minute. Five minutes. Ten. My fingers tremble as I ponder the abruptness of the last text and fight against the screaming instinct that urges me to let this be.
My soul craves the calm wildness of Roraima.
My gaping heart howls with the rage of loss that has never dimmed.
I’m a walking razor blade. The odds of her not being hacked to pieces just by being around me are ludicrously low.
I already know she’s caught a glimpse of the seething mess beneath.
She caught a glimpse, and I responded by kicking her out of my bed and my house.
Logic dictates I should let her go before I risk turning her into another Cassie.
But no. Keely will never be a Cassie. She’s her own unique brand of titanium-plated strength and kitten-soft weakness.
Both are lethal in their own way. Both shimmer with a mesmeric compulsion that keeps me tethered to this time and place.
So I choose to fuck logic in the ass.
I call up Seven’s app and get Keely’s exact location. Keely probably won’t be happy to learn I’ve known her exact location at every moment since she entered my house last Saturday, but I’ve never claimed sainthood.
I swap my T-shirt for a dress shirt and tug on my leather jacket.
When I leave my suite, my set jaw and lack of eye contact with other guests ensures I’m left alone.
Even though only a handful of the crew know I’m still on board, word has a way of getting around, and I don’t intend for anyone to get in my way of reaching Keely asap. Head down, I text as I walk.
Subject: Reconsider.
I haven’t spent nearly enough time taking care of your pussy.
Come be greedy all over my cock.
—M
I smile when she answers almost immediately.
Subject: Reconsider
For someone who claims to have lived under a rock for years, you’re quite adept at sexting. The answer is still no, btw. And please stop contacting me. I have work to do.
—K
Subject: Reconsider
My big brain makes me a quick study. I also have a very big cock that wants very much to get to know you better. Re: Work. We’re sailing. You work when we dock. Sailing time can be fucking time.
The advantage of having been the previous owner of the super yacht is that I know the quickest way to get from A to B.
In this case, I need to reach the Pleasure Deck Bar three floors up without being forced into conversation by anyone I know.
And from the guest list I’ve seen, at least half a dozen people on here will recognize me if they spot me.
I walk past the adult entertainment lounges, absently satisfied when I notice that all the rooms are in full use. Zach is certainly earning his money.
Keeping an eye on the little red dot that’s my destination, I avoid the plush guest hallways and head past the crew quarters to the private elevator I installed when I first bought the yacht.
Back in the day, it’d been a good escape route for when I needed to board my chopper and leave before anyone knew I was gone.
Now I use it as the quickest way to get to Keely and try not to be ticked off that she hasn’t responded to my text in five and a half minutes.
Or that it’s coming up to midnight and she’s still in the bar.
Exiting the elevator, I immediately find her. She’s leaning against the far corner of the bar, staring down at her phone. The dark blue sheath dress she’s wearing molds her ass and thighs before stopping a touch too short at mid-thigh level.
Her hair is tied in an elaborate up-do. The slender line of her neck and the way she arches her body as she balances on her heels sends the blood roaring straight to my cock.