Chapter 30 – Mason
Chapter
Thirty
MASON
Iwake up to a notification that I have a voicemail from King along with a whole fuckload of guilt and regret. Why is it that he can act like a prize jerk, but I’m the one who feels like shit about it?
I’m not a lovesick teenager who’ll come running because he flashes that killer smile.
I glare at the phone screen while I make my morning coffee, refusing to listen to his excuses.
No doubt that whatever he has to say will piss me off and set me up for a shitty day.
As if I don’t feel crappy enough about him running out of here like the apartment was on fire.
Not to mention the fact that I lay awake for hours after his drunken visit, feeling like a complete asshole for not letting him in. For not letting him use me. Again.
I glance at the notification time stamp.
The voicemail was left at 5:37 a.m. He’s either had a chance to sober up or spent the night getting more wasted.
I’m not sure which of those options would be better.
Regardless, I can guarantee his voicemail will ruin my day.
I should delete it and pretend I didn’t see it.
So, why can’t I? Why are my fingers twitching to play it?
Making the decision to put myself out of my misery, I press play, leaving it on speaker so I can listen to his pathetic excuses while I finish making my coffee.
“Hey, Mase.” His voice is quiet, and my heart jumps into my throat.
“I’m sorry I left.” Silence. “I’m sorry I came to your place after I’d been drinking.
I know you think I was drunk, but …” More silence.
I lean on the counter, staring at the phone.
Excitement, anticipation, dread—they all bubble up from my stomach.
“I wasn’t that drunk, Mase. I meant everything I said. ”
Holy fucking shit. My knees buckle, and I brace myself on the counter. Is he still drunk?
“This is me—stone-cold sober—telling you that every word was true.”
Frantically, I rack my brain to recall every word he said.
The order he said them in. Whether I misheard or filled in a blank.
Because he couldn’t have said the things I think he did and meant them.
He’s playing with me. Messing with my head.
For what? Some sick joke, like back in high school?
Except we’re not in high school anymore.
And King isn’t the same fucked-up asshole he was back then. Is he?
“I’d really like to say it all to your face though. Can I see you tonight? My place at seven? I’ll text you the address. Please … Please give me a chance.” The voicemail ends, and I blink down at my phone. Confused, elated, suspicious. Nervous as fucking hell.
Last night after he left, I was clear. I was cutting King out of my life for good. Now, I have no idea what the fuck I’m going to do.
I knock on the half-open door of Elijah’s office before popping my head in. Instead of my brother, Amber is inside with her feet crossed on his desk, revealing the distinctive red soles of her pumps.
She spots me before I can duck back out unseen.
Our relationship is a complicated one, and while it’s infinitely better than it was, she’s not a person I’d ordinarily seek advice from.
But I’ve played King’s voicemail at least twenty times today, and it’s driving me to distraction.
I need to talk to someone about it. Anyone … including Amber.
“If you’re looking for Elijah, you’ve just missed him,” she says. “He stepped out to get us dinner.”
Since they were remarried a few months ago, Elijah has made a conscious effort to reduce his work hours and pay more attention to his wife.
Seeing how happy that change has made him, I really don’t want him slipping back into old habits.
Out of concern for him, I step fully into the room. “You’re eating dinner in his office?”
She returns my frown with a smile and slips her feet off his desk. “Yes. He’s helping me write a bid.” She nods to the paperwork in front of her. “And we’re almost done, so we figured we may as well carry on here until it’s finished.”
I blow out a breath and nod, relieved.
“Did you need him for something?” she asks, her brown eyes locked on me like she’s trying to read my mind—or steal my soul. Could be either with her.
I could really use some advice. But Amber? “Is there anything I can help you with?” she says now, and damn if she doesn’t inject a little of that Southern honey into her voice. The kind that could make a serial killer feel at ease in a courthouse. She would have had an incredible career in the FBI.
I’m not sure if it’s her charm or sheer desperation that makes me say, “You any good with narcissistic commitment-phobes who are far too handsome for their own good?”
She sits up straight and flashes me the sweetest smile. “I’ve handled you for the past twenty years, haven’t I, honey?”
I set myself up for that one, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of confirming I’m that self-aware. It would ruin my carefully curated shallow-as-a-puddle image. Instead, I drop into the seat opposite her and run a hand through my hair. “You think I’m handsome?”
She wrinkles her nose, but her sparkling eyes belie her feigned disgust. “Too handsome for your own good. You James boys all look alike. Those looks are wasted on someone with such a …” Pausing, she hums. “Disappointing personality.”
That garners a snort of laughter from me, and she smiles again, still pinning me in place with her curious gaze. Leaning forward, she rests her chin on one hand. “So, what can I help you with? Please tell me it’s man trouble.”
She’s teasing me, a fact which is confirmed by the look of surprise that settles on her face a few seconds later when I haven’t replied to tell her that no, of course it’s not man trouble and to stop being so ridiculous.
And it is ridiculous—I can admit that. Never in my adult life have I sought the advice of my brothers over “man trouble.”
And technically, I’m not now either. I’m seated across from my sister-in-law. A person who has historically been one of my least favorite people. And here I am, about to spill my guts like we’re besties at a sleepover.
King Blackthorn, what the fuck have you done to me?
“There’s this guy …” I wait for her reaction, half expecting her to do the whole clapping her hands and squealing thing for dramatic effect, but she simply watches me, waiting for me to go on.
“I knew him a long time ago, back in high school, and he hurt me. Not like a teenage heartbreak, I mean he really …” My adrenaline spikes from thinking about it, but Amber is still staring at me, so I swallow down my anxiety.
“He really fucked me over. And it kind of fucked me up for a long time.” Again, I anticipate a remark intended to cut me off at the knees, something about how I’m still fucked up, but none comes.
Still, I can’t bring myself to tell her any more about what happened.
“You were together in high school? You and this guy?”
I nod. “We didn’t go to the same school though. And he was in the closet. Like so fucking far in the closet he could have sold package tours to Narnia. Still is.”
A smile flickers over her lips, and I’m sure it’s thanks to the C. S. Lewis reference. Amber’s a big reader like me. “And he’s back in your life now?”
That’s a complicated fucking question. One I’m not sure of the answer to. “Maybe. Kind of.” I shrug. “I guess he could be, but …”
“He’s still in the closet?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the issue. Not the whole issue, anyway. I mean this isn’t a long-term, settle-down-and-have-kids kind of gig, you know? I can live with him keeping his sexuality a secret.”
Her brow furrows.
“What?” I ask.
She gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “It’s just that you’re so open about who you are—as you should be. I assumed that dating someone who isn’t would be a deal-breaker for you.”
I shake my head. “Not everyone has it as easy as I did. I came out when I was thirteen, and it was no shock to any of my brothers or my parents. Unfortunately, not everyone’s family is as supportive as mine. His certainly isn’t.”
“No, I suppose you’re right.”
“So I can live with that, but it’s …” I run a hand through my hair. For a man who makes a living off saying the right things at the right time, I’m sure as shit no good at it right now.
She waits patiently, her gaze never leaving my face. I pull at the collar of my shirt. Is it hot in here? “What if he doesn’t deserve to be forgiven?”
She presses her lips together for a moment before responding. “I suppose that would depend on what he did. Did he physically hurt you?”
I clench my jaw and can still recall the ache in it that night when I lay alone in my room.
But that part had nothing to do with King, and I’ve never told anyone except my therapist and the guys at the support group.
As much as I surprisingly trust Amber to keep my secret, I’m not going to tell her either.
“He didn’t lay a finger on me. But what he did hurt more.
He walked away, Amber, like I meant less than nothing.
” His words—and the hurt they cause—are as fresh today, nearly twenty years later.
There is no we, asshole. It was fake. Every cringeworthy, painful second of it.
I don’t even fucking like you. Now leave me the fuck alone.
Go beg some other dirty little fuck to let you suck his cock.
Amber’s soothing voice pulls me from the painful memory. “So why does he deserve a minute of your time now, honey?”
“Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? All I can say is it was a long time ago. I think he’s different now. He says he’s sorry, and I almost believe him.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Only almost?”