Chapter Eleven #2
Maybe I was that something—better left alone with my scars.
“You were a journalist.” I wasn’t sure where Mason was going with this, but it was outside of the normal I wanted tonight. “Do you miss it?”
I turned back to the city lights. In any other city in the world, I would’ve thought the cityscape was beautiful.
I would’ve marveled at the engineering. I would’ve wanted to take the glass elevator up to the top floor of the world’s tallest building.
But the view was spoiled knowing who’d built those buildings and the conditions they’d worked under. The pain and corruption.
“I’ve always loved writing,” I admitted. “My mom used to read my short stories.”
The constant ache of sorrow throbbed in my heart.
Good memories that were bittersweet. Memories I never allowed myself.
They only served to make all the ones after Lili disappeared worse.
My parents had been loving. We’d been happy.
As far as I knew, we were just an average, normal family.
My father had kept his secrets hidden. Maybe I should’ve been angry at him, but I wasn’t.
I was grateful. He’d shielded us. He’d given us normal.
He’d lived with the burden and never let it touch me or my sister.
“Yeah?” he prompted.
“I think I was around eight when it started. ‘The Boy Who Stole the Bike.’” I couldn’t stop my smile.
“It was a mystery. A bad one, as the title gave away who stole the bike. But my mom pretended like it was the best story she’d ever read.
When she was done with the five handwritten pages of junk, she asked me to write her another one.
Once a week, I’d give her a badly written story, and once a week, she’d act like I cured cancer.
“They got longer and longer, I learned how to develop characters. And that’s when I truly fell in love with storytelling.
For a few hours every night, I could be someone else.
I could feel what they felt. I could solve problems that weren’t mine.
I wanted to write mysteries or maybe fantasy.
Create worlds where dragons existed, fanciful beasts with claws and rows of teeth.
Heroes who were larger than life, heroines who were strong—who slayed those dragons.
But I knew being a novelist was a long shot, and I needed to pay my bills, so I went into journalism.
I still got to write, just not fiction.”
Now I lived in that world, where monsters were real and there were no immortal heroes to swoop in and eradicate the villains. I couldn’t bend reality and go back in time and save the girl. I could write every day from now until my last breath on earth, and the story wouldn’t be complete.
Lili’s story had run out of pages. It had abruptly ended in the middle. There hadn’t been a hero to save her. Just The End.
“Not romance?” he teased.
I shrugged away Mason’s question. I’d shared enough. “I guess even back then I didn’t believe in happily ever afters,” I lied.
I had believed.
“I think you’re lying.”
His accusation held no heat, merely calling me out on my bullshit.
If nothing else, Mason was honest.
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last.”
As long as we were on the topic of romance . . .
“Have you ever been married?”
“No.”
“Still looking for the future Mrs. Mason Hughes?”
“Fuck. No.”
Well, that was firm.
“What about you? Still looking for the future Mr. Calista Ventura?”
“Fuck. No.”
I heard him chuckle but didn’t take my eyes off the view. I didn’t want to see him smile. I didn’t want to see how that handsome face transformed when he laughed. I’d had enough for one day.
“Do you ever get tired of your own thoughts?” I asked.
“Come again?”
I could feel his eyes on me. I could also hear the click of Mase turning back into Mason the watcher.
“You’re getting ready to analyze me. I can feel your scrutiny. We’re in a judgment-free bubble, remember?”
“Did you hear that on social media? The ‘we listen, and we don’t judge.’ Hate to tell you, but the faces gave it away—every nose scrunch, every wide-eyed response, every jerk of the shoulders—they judged.
We used to associate judgment with discernment and intelligence.
Somewhere along the way, we’ve changed the meaning.
It’s no longer thought of as common sense and the ability to read a situation and make judgment calls on the outcome.
“If I were to judge you on a good deed you did, and draw the conclusion I thought you were a kind, thoughtful person, that would be okay.
If I saw you kick a puppy and thought you were an asshole who deserved to be punched in the head, some people would think that was okay.
But if I saw someone behaving in a way I found personally abhorrent, that would be wrong.
That would make me the bad guy for passing judgment.
That would make me the dick, even if all I did was distance myself.
“What it is, and what I am, is honest. I could not give the first fuck if someone thinks I’m an asshole.
I don’t give any consideration to what people think of the job I do, how I do it, or their judgment on the matter.
We—you and I—do important work. We save lives, and I don’t give a fuck who judges how I go about doing it.
If they don’t like it, they can get their asses off the couch and do it themselves.
They can breathe the misery. They can listen to the pleas for help.
They can put themselves in harm’s way for a stranger in need.
“Straight up, Calli, I’ve already judged you, and you shouldn’t give a shit about my opinion of you. You should know who you are and what you believe in and that you are good down to your soul. And fuck whoever thinks otherwise.
“So with all of that, explain your question so I can give you my honesty.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted his honesty.
I wasn’t even sure I could articulate my thoughts.
“Never mind.”
“You’re pissed because I laid it out,” he guessed wrongly.
“No. I just don’t know how to explain it.
I’m tired. I’m worn out. I don’t know if I can continue doing this—any of it.
I don’t know if I have anything left. I’m broken.
But in my head, I keep going back and forth.
There are more Kiaras and Miras out there who need help.
If I stop, what happens to them? I’m exhausted, and I’m exhausting myself with all the thoughts that run through my head that I can’t turn off.
” I closed my eyes and sighed. “I’m tired of thinking. ”
“The easy answer is—stop. Recognize the lives you’ve saved.
Remember the two girls who are now on their way home.
The honest answer is—there will always be more.
Whether you’re in the fight or not, there will always be another Kiara and Mira.
You can do this until there is nothing left inside of you, and that will not change.
You cannot break yourself on a quest that will never end. ”
“You’re right,” I whispered. “But I don’t know how to stop.”
I thought of the man who’d taken my sister.
One more.
I kept telling myself, just one more and I’d be done. I could go and find my peace. What were a few more marks when I was already slashed to hell? I bore no physical scars, but my insides were shredded. I was already ruined, so why stop now? There were more people I could help.
I was worthless. They were worth saving.
God, my life was exhausting.
I was floating.
Weightless.
Had I jumped?
I jerked awake and found myself in a pair of strong arms.
Mason’s strong arms.
My cheek was resting on warm flesh with a view of pecs with a dusting of hair.
I wanted to touch it, so I did. My palm went to his chest, and sleepily I brushed over the swell, noting the texture—coarse over smooth.
It was interesting, not how I thought it would feel.
My fingers grazed his nipple. It tightened immediately, as did his entire frame.
Oh. My. God.
“Calli.” I felt the vibration.
My resulting shiver was unconscious and one I didn’t fully understand, but I wanted to feel that rumble again. I wanted my body to tremble. I wanted to feel something other than nothing.
My thumb brushed over his pebbled nipple again. This time I felt his tremor as it worked its way under my hand.
“Sweetness, wake up.”
He thought I was asleep.
I had amnesty. I could explore and there’d be no repercussions.
So I took full advantage and slowly touched everywhere I could.
Down to his abdominal muscles. They jumped and flexed under my fingers.
Unable to go lower with him holding me, I ventured up.
Back over his pec, his nipple, the apex of the throat, over to his collarbone, his shoulder, in and around to the back of his neck.
All the while committing the feel to memory.
If this was my chance to feel a man’s body—no, Mason’s body—I wasn’t going to forget a single moment.
Before I could finish my examination, I was moving again. This time I was falling. My fingers curled tight until my shoulder and hip touched the soft mattress.
Not falling. Mason was putting me to bed. Before he could see I was awake, I closed my eyes as he untangled himself from me. A soft, cool sheet was pulled over my legs. Mason wasn’t putting me to bed, he was tucking me in.
I ignored the sweetness of that and kept my breathing even. The sheet dropped on my shoulder, my hair was brushed away from my face, and warm lips pressed on my temple.
“Faker,” he whispered.
Damn it all to hell.
I felt him move away. I didn’t hear the door close behind him, but I wouldn’t. Still, I knew he was gone.
Only then did I allow myself to smile at a very good memory I would replay so often, I’d keep it alive. I’d never forget the warmth, my shiver, his tremor. It was the closest I’d ever felt to someone, and I’d need that closeness to keep me company.