22. Julian
CHAPTER 22
JULIAN
T uesday morning finds me at my desk, sifting through old contacts and social media accounts, trying to piece together the whereabouts and activities of my former brother in arms, Mason Phillips. The knot in my stomach tightens with each bit of information I uncover—facts that paint a troubling picture of the man I once called a friend.
I discover that Mason was discharged from the military around the same time I went home: immediately following the incident. I didn't get the full story at the time, but I knew enough to assume things would go badly for him. The official record shows a dishonorable discharge, a confirmation of my long-harbored suspicion.
A year following his discharge, Mason’s name pops up in a police report involving vandalism and arson. Again, not many details. The charges were dropped due to lack of evidence, but the disturbing similarity to what we've been dealing with has me on edge, my every muscle tense.
Even more unsettling is the revelation that Mason lived here, in this very town, for a year or two after his discharge, and I never knew. He never contacted me, never reached out. This proximity, this connection to my current life—my gut is telling me it was intentional, deceptive.
Unfortunately, I can't find any information on where he might be living now, and this unknown only adds to my growing unease.
Could Mason really be behind the threats and sabotage at the Langford Building? I don't want to believe it, but there's too much evidence to ignore the possibility. Knowing Mason has been here, his history of violent behavior, plus everything that went down between us—it all paints Mason as the likely culprit behind the hell we've been through lately.
Mind swirling and heart racing, I head outside to the construction site, determined to find out if any of the crew might have crossed paths with Mason during his time here. As I step outside, a chill runs down my spine, and I have the unnerving feeling of being watched. The perimeter of forest that once seemed to protect this building now appears dark and menacing, the perfect hideout for someone intent on doing harm.
My radar is up, my training kicking in, though I don't immediately notice anything suspicious. I decide to take advantage of the quick break occurring at the site, gathering the guys, and trying my best not to alarm anyone.
"Did any of you ever know a guy named Mason Phillips? He might have lived here a couple of years back." I watch their faces carefully, looking for any sign of recognition.
The guys exchange looks, shaking their heads. "Never heard of him, boss," one of them finally says, and the others agree. As far as I can tell, they're all being honest. While it's a comfort to believe none of my crew are involved in the sabotage, it's still another dead end.
Questions pound against my skull, my ears ringing. What the hell was Mason doing here? Why wait to strike until after he seemingly disappeared? Or—and this is the most frightening of all—is he still here?
Back in my office, I sink into my chair, feeling the weight of every new piece of information. Maybe Jack had the right idea, perhaps I need to reach out to some of my old contacts who might have kept in touch with Mason, or at least followed his downward spiral more closely.
The possibility that Mason could harbor enough resentment to target me after all these years is not something I had ever wanted to consider. The memories of that operation—and the following consequences—are painful enough without the added responsibility of Mason's hatred.
But the truth is, I can completely understand why he would hold me accountable. I was the one who reported him, after all. Of course he would blame me.
I pull out my phone and start drafting messages to some of my old military buddies, asking if they have any recent information on Mason or if they've been in contact with him.
I pour over my emails, trying to figure out my next steps, when my gaze is drawn to the window overlooking the construction site. There, I spot Gabriel, standing off to the side. He’s on his phone, deeply engrossed in what appears to be a heated conversation. His body language—tense shoulders, a hand running through his hair—is the complete opposite of his usual chipper, ‘can-do' attitude.
I’m about to step outside and remind him to focus on the job when the office door opens. Natalie walks in, a vision in her pink, oversized shirt. Our paths didn't cross at all yesterday, and only now do I realize how alone I've been feeling without her company. The energy inside the office changes dramatically at her appearance. The room feels bigger, the air lighter.
But as Natalie approaches, I notice that she looks pale, her gait unsteady. Concern flickers through me as I observe the slight tremor of her hands, the bag she's holding crinkling. Is she sick? Has something else happened?
Before I can ask her what's wrong, she offers me a small, tired smile, though it does little to ease my worry.
"I brought some lunch," Natalie says, setting the bag down my desk. "Figured we could both use a break."
I nod, grateful for the distraction. "Thanks, beautiful. That was thoughtful of you." An adorable flush dusts her cheeks as I help her unpack sandwiches and drinks from the bag, but she still seems unsteady, her movements slow. “Are you okay?"
She pauses, her brow creasing ever so slightly as she meets my gaze. "I'm fine, just tired. It’s been a long week already," she replies, attempting to brush it off with some light humor and a nonchalant shrug.
I'm not convinced. The usual vibrancy is missing from her voice, and her eyes lack their typical spark. "Nat, it’s only Tuesday. If you need to take a break or anything…" My voice trails off, not wanting to push her again after our previous argument about this.
Natalie smiles weakly, appreciating the concern but quick to reassure. "Really, I’m okay. Just a lot on my mind with the project and all. You know how it is." She busies herself with setting out the food, perhaps a bit too eagerly, as if to prove she's perfectly capable.
We sit down to eat, and I keep the conversation light, talking about minor updates from yesterday’s work, but my eyes often return to her, watching for any more signs that she might not be as well as she insists.
Despite her assurances, I can tell that there's something off, something she’s not saying. Maybe it's my own paranoia lingering from this morning's research, but I haven't seen Nat look this haggard since that night at the diner. She's always been strong, resilient, so the shadows under her eyes give away what must be a mountain of unspoken stress.
Things are still a bit fragile as we recover from our argument, so I don't want to overstep. But as I watch her picking at her food, only eating one small morsel of bread at a time, my concern gets the better of me, and I decide to push a little further.
"Nat, if there’s anything else that’s bothering you, you know you can tell me, right? Whatever it is, we can figure it out together."
She meets my gaze, and for a moment, it seems like she might divulge more, but then she smiles, a bit more genuinely this time, and shakes her head. "I know. It’s nothing important."
I nod, accepting her words, though the protective part of me remains alert. At least she admitted to there being something on her mind, even if she's not ready to talk about it yet. This is an opportunity to show that I respect Natalie, that she can trust me to keep her boundaries. And I will be here for her whenever she decides she's ready.
With my meal finished—and Nat's wrapped and saved for later, she assures me—the conversation lulls. It's a quiet moment, just the two of us hidden away in this office, and there's an interesting sense of security in it. I hope she feels the same reprieve from the world when she's with me that I do when we're together.
"How's Aria doing, you know, with everything going on?" Natalie's voice is soft, and my heart leaps, remembering how gentle and endearing she was with my daughter.
"She's fine, thankfully," I answer, grateful for the incredible sitters I've found that make up our tight-knit little village. We even arranged a sleep-over tonight so that she'd have another distraction from the situation. I know she's safe at her friend's, and the normalcy provides her with comfort. "She's mostly oblivious to all the complications here, which is for the best."
Natalie nods, her eyes scanning mine, perhaps looking for the strain I try so hard to shield Aria from.
Then, somewhat impulsively, she leans over the desk, bridging the gap between us with a tenderness that catches me off guard. Her hand reaches out, touching my face gently, and then she kisses me. The touch of her lips is soft but insistent, sparking a warmth that quickly spreads through me.
The kiss deepens, becoming more heated as the initial restraint gives way to a profound urgency. I wrap an arm around her, gently pulling her closer, up and over the desk, guiding her onto my lap. Suddenly I'm reminded of the last time we were here—when she straddled me, kissed me without restraint, removed her clothes and gave all of herself to me.
The feeling of her against me now—the scent of her hair, the taste of her lips—it all converges into a moment of intense connection and desire. I can feel the need building, the hunger for her skin, the urge to lift her onto the desk and bury myself inside her again.
But just as quickly as the moment escalates, Natalie pulls away, off my lap completely. The sudden absence of her warmth leaves me disoriented, my arms still poised in the air where she had just been. She looks at me from the other side of the room, her breath heavy, her eyes strained.
"I... I'm sorry, Julian," she stammers, straightening her shirt as she stands. "I shouldn't have—I mean, we’re at work..." Her voice trails off, the unfinished thought hanging between us thick with implications. At least I wasn't the only one feeling it.
The room feels suddenly colder with the distance between us. I nod slowly, understanding yet disappointed. "It's okay, Nat," I manage to say, though part of me wants to reach out, to pull her back, to not let the moment end so abruptly.
She gives me a weak smile, then turns and leaves the office without another word. The door closes softly behind her, and I'm left alone with the echoing silence and a heart racing with a cocktail of emotions—desire, concern, and a frustrating sense of dissatisfaction.
Sitting back in my chair, I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm she's left in her wake. The brief flare of intimacy has thrown my already messy feelings into further disarray. The project, the threats, our personal histories—it's all so much.
Did I do something wrong? Is she still angry with me about our previous argument? Maybe that's what she wasn't really to tell me—that she's rethought everything and decided she doesn't want to be with me.
As difficult as it is, I try to drive the doubts from my mind. Natalie has always been an enigma to me, her strength and independence clashing with moments of vulnerability that appear then vanish just as quickly. I'm never going to be able to sort out her actions no matter how hard I try, so there's no use torturing myself.
Pushing Natalie for answers now will only drive a wedge between us. Given the tension already threading through our interactions due to the project and its myriad of problems, I decide it's best not to press her. She needs space, and maybe I do, too.
With a deep, steadying breath, I stand up, the need to refocus on work pressing against my thoughts. There’s too much at stake with the Langford, and any distraction could prove costly. I head outside, hoping the fresh air and the buzz of the construction site will help clear my head.
As I step out, I notice Gabriel joining the rest of the group. The image of him earlier on the phone, isolated from the others and engrossed in what seemed like a serious conversation, flashes back to me. It’s enough to pique my concern again—his behavior slightly off, a deviation from the norm that I can’t afford to ignore given the current circumstances surrounding the project.
I approach Gabriel directly, positioning myself between him and the rest of the group. “Gabriel, who were you talking to earlier?” I ask, keeping my tone casual yet firm enough to signal that I'm not just making small talk.
Gabriel looks up, and I just barely catch a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he masks it with a neutral expression. “Oh, it was nothing, just a personal call,” he replies, his voice too nonchalant.
I'm on high alert, relying on my instincts and training, trying not to give into my mounting agitation. Founded or not, something tells me not to let it go so easily. “Remember, no personal calls on site. It’s important to stay focused. We can’t afford distractions, not with everything that’s going on.”
“Understood, boss,” Gabriel says, a bit too quickly, his eyes shifting away from mine. He nods and turns back to his work, but the quick dismissal and his avoidance of my gaze lodge a seed of doubt in my mind.
I watch him for a moment longer, the unease settling heavier in my gut. My nerves are tangled, all my worries and emotions and traumas jumbled together into one inseparable knot. I know I'm fixating on Gabriel, but I'm not sure why. His actions today, possibly innocuous, now seem suspect in the light of recent events. But is that fair? Or am I desperately grasping for any foothold, any tiny sliver of control in the torrent of chaos?
Either way, I have nothing more to go on at the moment, so I force myself to return to my own tasks. The project demands my attention, and if I don't center myself somehow, I'm going to lose it again.
The last thing I want is to hurt one of the few people I know I can trust. Not again.