Chapter Three
I wasn’t sure who I wanted to kill first: Atlanta or Tom.
The unfortunate truth was, I was used to Tom screwing me over.
Another unfortunate truth was, I needed him.
Tom Washington was nothing more than a means to an end.
And that end was near. It was so close I could taste it.
Like that first lick of the tart cherry ice pops my mom used to make when my sister and I were kids—the flavor exploding on my tongue, sour and sweet and cool and refreshing.
Something to be savored on a hot summer day.
The taste was nearly identical, but instead of sour, there was a blend of bitterness with that sweet.
Bitter memories that damn near consumed me the closer I got.
Bitter reminders that no one had been able to save my sister.
The bitter reality that my beloved mother might still be living and breathing, but she was a ghost—totally lost to me.
The only sweet that would come from this story’s end was vengeance. But that was saccharine—fake, false, manufactured. Not that I wouldn’t take it, and glory in the punishment I planned to unleash.
Nothing would ever bring my sister back to life.
Revenge wouldn’t make me miss her less nor would it erase the horrifying things that were done to her or the way she’d died.
The bottom-line truth of it was, my sister was discarded like a piece of trash on the side of the road after she was brutally used and abused—and someone was going to die as penance.
And I knew who that someone was. The last thing I needed was too-hot-for-his-own-good Mason and his buddies screwing it up. I didn’t need backup. I didn’t need counsel. I didn’t need opinions. I needed to focus.
“Speaking of Tom.”
I leveled Mason with my best bland stare and waited for him to say more.
“When was the last time you spoke to him?”
That was not where I thought Mason was going. “Why?”
“Call me curious.”
“Call me uninterested in satisfying your curiosity.”
Piercing green eyes locked with mine. This was better. This was something I excelled at. This was something I could do all day. I loved a good stare down. And it would seem by Mason’s unflinching gaze, he did as well.
It took five seconds—yes, I counted—for the silence to break. However, it wasn’t Mason who broke it, it was Fallon. “Are you two really going to stand there and have a staring contest?”
Mason arched a brow. I remained still with my face carefully set to bored.
“Fuck. I hate games,” Pete muttered irately.
With my eyes still fastened on Mason, I matched Pete’s irritation when I told him, “So do I, and I hate being toyed with.”
“Good, we have that in common. Mase asked because when he called Tom—”
“You called Tom?” I asked Mason, forgetting about the stare down.
The ass smirked before he answered. “I got your text. Tried to call, your line was disconnected, so hell yeah, I called Tom. He told me not to worry and you’d probably check in with him soon.”
Meddling asshole.
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and kept them there while I attempted to get myself under control before I lashed out and gave away too much.
“Are you counting?”
I rolled my eyes back to Mason. “What?”
“Counting. I heard some people count in their heads to find self-control.”
I hadn’t been counting, but now that my patience was slipping further, maybe I should’ve tried that. “I could count to a hundred and still want to dick slap you.”
Mason tipped his head to the side and smiled. “Dick slap?”
“It’s like a bitch slap except what you give a dick.”
That smile turned wicked. “Kinky.” He winked.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m not saying I want to smack your dick. I’m saying you’re a dick and I want to slap you.”
“You’re the one who brought my dick into it.”
Good God, why was I engaging?
I flipped him a middle finger to concede the conversation. I’d rather discuss Tom than Mason’s dick. As disturbing as that was, I wasn’t going to dissect why speaking about a man I loved to hate was better for my mental health than thinking about Mason’s boy parts.
“Now you’re just trying to turn me on,” Mason quipped.
“If you two are done with the Al and Peggy show, maybe we can get down to business,” Pete suggested.
That sounded like the best idea I’d heard all day.
But first . . .
“I’ve got better hair than Peg Bundy,” I pointed out. “And I’m not nearly as rude.”
Mason’s lips quirked. “But you admit you’re rude.”
I closed my eyes and did that counting thing Mason suggested. I got to six and abandoned the useless recommendation.
“You’re enjoying this,” I noted.
With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he made no reply. Which I guess was his reply, just the nonverbal kind. He was having fun talking me in circles and would gladly stand there all night and continue the annoying banter.
I had better things to do. That was, if showering and crawling into bed without dinner was considered better.
“Listen, I’m sure you all are tired after a long travel day, and I’m exhausted. How about we meet tomorrow for breakfast and I can properly apologize before you catch a plane back to the US. Like I said, I’ll make sure your travel expenses are covered.”
“Good you brought that up again. We booked the Royal Suite,” Mason shared. “It’s like the Presidential Suite, but with four private terraces instead of three.”
Goddamn Tom and Atlanta.
“Let me guess, you flew here first class too?”
“Do I look like I fit in economy?”
No, he didn’t. But I would love to see the big dumbass squished into economy.
With his broad shoulders and tree-trunk legs, it would be an uncomfortably tight fit.
Hopefully it would cause him back pain that lingered for days.
The kind that made it hard to sleep. And a charley horse.
Yes, there would be something so satisfying about seeing big bad Mason Hughes with a charley horse the size of a Clydesdale.
“Why are you smiling like that?” Fallon asked.
I hadn’t realized I was.
“I was imagining Mason scrunched into a tiny airplane seat, wondering if it’s true a long flight can cause a blood clot, hoping it does,” I partially lied.
“Vicious.” Fallon chuckled and stood. “I like it.”
At least someone appreciated my sense of humor.
Pete followed Fallon and took his feet. “Breakfast. Nine.”
I made the decision to allow Pete to get away with his grunted directive in the interest of getting the three hulking beasts out of my room.
“Sure,” I fibbed.
Mason’s eyes narrowed on me, but he kept his trap shut for once.
I told myself I wasn’t disappointed the sparring match was over as I watched them walk to the door.
What could I say, I was as good at lying to myself as I was to other people.
It was easier that way. Nothing good came from telling the truth.
Truth was like sex—the root of all evils. It was a weakness.
Sex had killed my sister.
The truth had stolen my family.
Now if I could just get Mason and his crew gone, I could get on with why I was in the UAE.
Vengeance.
It was mine.
Finally.