Mason's Run

by Mellanie Rourke

  I found out that victims of human trafficking were often held captive by more than just visible chains. They generally had no money, no means of transportation, no way to escape the life, even if they found the courage to try. They might be addicted to drugs or alcohol or have their own mental health issues that could be keeping them from seeking help.

  Slowly, over the weeks and months that followed, I began developing a loose network of friends and acquaintances—Uber and Lyft drivers, private drivers, chauffeurs, truckers, anyone who was willing and able to work together to get victims of human trafficking to safety.

  I finally found a good use for the money Mack had left me. I was actually considering creating a non-profit foundation to support victims of human trafficking, but I didn’t know shit about public relations, marketing or anything like that, so I was limited in my scale and reach.

  My contributions to date were small, a couple of hundred bucks here or there to buy gas, a hotel room, clothes, whatever someone needed to help escape the life. Occasionally, I got taken advantage of, and only found out after the fact, but the way I figured, if even one of the people I thought I was helping made it out of the life, then it was worth every penny.

  It may not have changed the world for everyone, but it changed the world for the ones I was able to help.

  I’d kept track of Mason for a while via the internet. I tracked him for a few months, long enough to know that he was recovering and safe. Once he turned eighteen, though, all record of him vanished.

  I figured he had moved, changed his name, or gone into some kind of witness protection program. I could have investigated further, hired a private detective, something like that, but I decided he didn’t owe me anything. Hell, I actually owed him.

  So I left Mason Malone to his own life, until he had waltzed back into mine as “Mason Cameron”, and turned it upside down.

  Shit. I needed to figure out what I was doing.

  I got Mason into the house and tucked into bed. It had been a bit of a struggle to get him out of the Jeep and inside, but I’d managed it with only a few choice words. One heart-stopping moment had made me freeze. I’d been supporting most of his weight as I struggled to get my house key in the door lock, when he’d stumbled and accidentally brushed up against me, and my traitorous dick had responded. I bit back a groan at the heavy weight of him against my body, but forced myself to focus on getting him into my bed. Into the bed, I corrected myself. Fuck.

  When I got him to the bedroom, he’d collapsed onto the bed and was out almost immediately. I shut the bedroom door behind me, and brought the rest of the luggage in.

  I puttered around in my game room for a while, keeping a cautious ear out in case Mason woke in the middle of the night. I tried sleeping on the couch – which was actually as comfortable as my bed, but no dice. Sometime around 3 a.m. I gave up the fight and wandered into the living room. Outside, the night was inky black, the light on the front porch the only illumination.

  I grabbed some books from the coffee table and stepped outside, quietly shutting the door behind me. I really didn’t want to frighten Mason by waking him in the middle of the night in a strange place. The thought of him being frightened sent my heart racing. I reasoned to myself that he had dealt with enough fear in his life, I didn’t want to add to it.

  I took a seat in one of the old wooden rocking chairs on the front porch, and just listened for a while. The sound of crickets and locusts hummed through the night. I could hear the occasional owl and the flap of bat wings.

  The state frowned on broad usage of insecticides this close to the park, so I'd built a couple of bat houses for the side of the cabin. I didn’t know that they really made a measurable difference in the mosquito population, but I liked seeing them fly across the moon when it was full.

  This far away from city lights, the stars were like handfuls of glitter scattered against black velvet. I decided to try reading in the vague hope of growing tired. I looked at the books I'd grabbed and either the universe was fucking with me yet again, or my subconscious was working overtime, because I’d grabbed a copy of Mason’s most recent graphic novel. The twins had lent it to me when they’d signed him for the event, but I’d never gotten around to reading it.

  I figured this gave me the perfect chance to get to know a little bit more about the man Mason had become, so I settled in to read by the porch light. I’d assumed it would be a fast read: most comics were entertaining, but not necessarily thought provoking. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  This book was not light reading. The storyline dealt with some pretty dark events affecting the main characters, and I couldn’t help but see Mason had included some autobiographical moments in the story.

  The last few pages of his novel made my throat constrict. It was fairly accurate to what I knew of Mason’s life, with a touch of fantasy added. Instead of being attacked by his pimp, the main character had been attacked by a vicious group of mercenaries looking for treasure. Instead of recovering for weeks in a hospital, wounds were healed by magic potions. I read and re-read pages, trying to figure out just how much of the other parts of each was autobiographical and how much was fiction.

  But it was the final pages of the last book that threw me for a loop. The eponymous “Dark Angel” showed up, with a cane in one hand, and a mystic gun in the other.

  6

  Mason

  I woke to the sound of someone’s phone going off. I scrambled at the side of the bed wondering what the hell Lizzie had done to my ringtone this time. She loved sneaking off with my phone and resetting my ringtones. This time it was making a tapping noise and chirping at me like some damn bird. It took my foggy brain a few seconds of stabbing stupidly at my phone to realize the noise really was a bird.

  It cocked its head at me through the bedroom window. As I watched in confusion, it reached over and tapped on the window a few times with its beak. The first time it did it I jumped – damn, that thing was loud!

  Having lived in urban areas my entire life, I wasn’t very familiar with wildlife. Except pigeons, of course. Pigeons were everywhere. Everett called them rats with wings. This little guy was no rat - in fact, he didn’t look anything like the pigeons I was familiar with. He was so tiny and delicate! He cocked his head at me and tapped on the window a few more times, before flying off.

  I sat up in the unfamiliar room and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. The room itself was… interesting, to say the least. If I had to label it, I might use words like “conservative geek”.

  The walls were painted in dark blues and grays. Professionally framed copies of eighties movie posters hung on the walls throughout -Terminator, Top Gun, The Empire Strikes Back, a little bit of everything. The floor was a beautifully finished light wood. I had no idea what kind it was. Not Nature Boy here. There were a couple of soft throw rugs placed strategically throughout the room.

  The bed I’d slept in was king-sized and I appreciated the length. With my height, my feet tended to hang over the edge of smaller beds. There were tables on each side of the bed with matching lamps and an alarm clock. Heavy drapes hung from the two large windows and a sliding glass door led out to a small deck that ran along one side of the house.

  For all of the room’s beauty, it felt strangely empty, like a guest room that had gone unused too long. My suitcases sat inside one door and another door led to what I assumed was a bathroom.

  Light flooded the room from the sliding doors and the clock on the bedside table told me it was still fairly early, but I felt too awake to go back to sleep. I threw the bed covers back and stood, realizing I was still wearing the clothes I’d worn to travel. Ugh! At least my shoes were on the floor next to the bed.

  The sight of my shoes, slightly muddy and with bits of grass stuck to them, reminded me of everything that had happened the night before. Fuck. Embarrassment overwhelmed me and I had to move.

  I stood, my knee brushing against the bedside table, sending the drawer one way, the lamp and the t
able the other. I snagged all three and juggled everything in an attempt to keep them all from falling. They came to rest in my arms, the drawer pressed against the table, the lamp gripped in my hand.

  As I set everything back in their places, I noticed something rattling in the drawer. Shit, I hoped I didn’t break anything.

  I looked inside the discombobulated drawer and saw one of those tri-fold photo displays, gold metal frame half open, glass fortunately unscathed. The first photo frame was open to a photo of Lee Devereaux seated on a man’s lap, both of them balanced precariously on a wooden rocking chair.

  Lee’s arm was wrapped proprietarily around the shoulders of the other man and they were both laughing. My curiosity got the better of me, and I opened it to look at the remaining pictures.

  The second picture looked like an engagement photo, the same men again, this time both wearing suits, and Lee down on one knee, holding a ring box in front of him. The look of adoration on his face as he looked into the other man’s eyes made my throat tighten.

  The final photo was a photo of just the blond man, his short hair dark with water, tiny droplets caught in the stiff bristles on his head and a few droplets making their way down his unshaven face, past beautiful grey eyes.

  I realized suddenly that I was looking at something that was probably very private for Lee. I gently closed the photo frame and put it back in the drawer before sliding it shut. I felt bad for invading his privacy.

  The push of my bladder made me realize it hadn’t been just the sound of the damn bird waking me up. A couple of doors led out of the bedroom and it took me only a minute to figure out which one led to the bathroom.

  Someone, Lee, probably, had thoughtfully left towels out on the sink. I took care of business and decided a shower was in order. I didn’t know for sure when the meet and greet was, but figured I needed to be ready.

  While I showered, memories of the night before continued to replay in my mind and I groaned. I vaguely remembered Devereaux “helping” (more like “carrying”) me into the room from the car. I also remembered the feel of his strong arms around me, his hands holding me against his muscled form, one arm pressing me to him while unlocking the door with the other. Just the memory of his body next to mine made goosebumps pop up on my arms, and an unfamiliar heaviness fill my groin.

  Water spattered off my chest as I stared down at my cock as it stiffened, and I was thoroughly confused. I mean, I knew, theoretically, that this was what was supposed to happen when you were attracted to someone, but it had never really happened to me. Not when I'd been with any of my customers, and never in the years since I'd escaped from Ricky and Dreyven.

  I’d seen enough men with erections, and I knew, again in theory, what seemed to make them happy. I tentatively poured soap into my hand and considered the raging hard on that was now pointing dramatically at the shower wall. Drama Queen. I certainly wasn’t a novice, after all, I’d pleasured plenty of men in my life. Porn sites and personal experience had taught me what I was supposed to do, but the thought of actually stroking myself had always been unbearable, memories of all the men who had used and abused me haunted each and every stroke.

  In the early days of my escape from Milwaukee, I’d been downright revolted at the thought of having an orgasm. As I’d grown older, and gotten more therapy, I’d been able to at least acknowledge that having an orgasm was a perfectly normal biological function and I’d had them from time to time. Just never when I was awake, or when I was thinking of someone else.

  My breath drew faster as I soaped my body, my hand straying tentatively between my legs to gently stroke my balls. I groaned at how good it felt as my fingers tightened around my shaft, the memory of Lee’s beautiful green eyes foremost in my mind. They’d sparkled and glinted, like I imagined emeralds would look like.

  I remembered the feel of his hands as he’d stroked my hair back from my face, and how safe I'd felt in his arms after my panic attack. The solid feel of his muscles against my body, the way they’d rippled under his shirt, and the not-inconsiderable feel of his own cock as he had been pressed up against me. Surely, I hadn’t been dreaming that part.

  “Gnnngh!” I cried out, belatedly trying to stifle my cry as I painted the wall of the shower with white stripes of cum. The unexpected orgasm seemed to go on forever, but in reality, probably only lasted a few moments. By the time my body stopped spasming I was leaning over, hands on my knees as I struggled to catch my breath, water pounding my back. I watched in confusion as the shower washed away the evidence of my surprise release and I slowly began to recover my strength. Fuck.

  What the hell? Why was I so attracted to this man? I mean, he was handsome, but he was no Tom Hiddleston. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what it was about him that made me react so strongly to him. I’d seen a lot of beautiful men in my life, but something about him just… resonated… with me.

  I remembered the feel of his body as he’d held me up while he unlocked the door. My brain boggled as my cock, which had started to soften after my mind-blowing orgasm, began to harden again. I so could not deal with this right now. Determined to ignore the formerly-malfunctioning piece of my anatomy, I quickly finished up my shower. Using one of the towels I dried off, then wrapped the other around my waist as I rummaged through my suitcases to find the gunk for my hair Lizzie insisted I use. While I worked the product into my hair, I tried to remember more about the drive back.

  I knew I’d fallen asleep in Lee’s car coming back from the motel. I was always exhausted after a panic attack. My therapist said it was something about all the adrenaline my body produced during an episode, the whole “fight or flight” thing.

  I vaguely remembered getting inside. It had been dark, and I didn’t recall much about the house itself, but I did remember standing outside in the cool air, hearing the sounds of crickets as Lee struggled to get the door unlocked. As we’d stood there, I’d looked up into the sky and been amazed at the number of stars I could see. I also remembered the feel of Lee’s firm, warm body pressed up against mine. I remembered snuggling up against him. Oh god, no. I’d snuggled.

  I shook my head at my actions and quickly dressed in some jeans and a t-shirt from one of my favorite bands, Crossroads Gin. I decided that the best option was to push the whole issue to the back of my brain. I couldn’t deal with it right now, so I’d be all Scarlet O’Hara and think about it tomorrow. Right now I needed to focus on today.

  I knew we had the meet and greet at the bookstore today, but I couldn’t remember when. I’d missed the one yesterday, so I was determined to do whatever I could to make up for it. The store had paid good money to bring me out here, and I really wanted to make sure they were happy. I was still nervous, though. I'd never done one of these before. Oh, individual interviews, or the occasional recorded event, sure, but I’d never done a no-holds-barred in-person signing.

  I had just finished tying my shoes, a pair of bright red Converse High Tops Zem got me for Christmas, when I noticed my hands were shaking. I took a moment to run through a couple of the grounding exercises Sarah, my therapist, had taught me.

  Dammit, Lizzie was supposed to be here to help me through this. My increasing anxiety at least had the effect of taming my “Mason-Gone-Wild” reaction and I was able to button my jeans up without much trouble.

  I dragged my phone out of my messenger bag and glared at the black screen. It was dead, of course. If I’d been exhausted enough to snuggle with the hunky bookstore owner, I certainly had been too tired to think about charging my phone. I rooted through my things until I found my charger. As I plugged it in to the wall to recharge, I smelled something…something amazing.

  I opened the door to the hallway and the smell got stronger.

  Bacon. Definitely, bacon.

  I was hesitant to step out, unsure of the boundaries in this situation, but my stomach chose that instant to rumble loudly, and decided the matter for me.

  I followed a long hallway that I only vaguely rem
embered from the walk in last night. The hall opened up onto a large open room. To the left was a kitchen with a dining nook and what looked like a door leading to a larger dining room. To the right there was a large living room with a gorgeous stone fireplace and vaulted ceilings. Both rooms were dominated by large windows, the living room floor was a honey-colored wood. The floor in the kitchen was a dark grey slate with splashes of dark copper and dusty blue throughout. The overall effect was warm and inviting.

  Lee stood in the kitchen, his eyes focused on the food he was cooking on the stove top. It looked like bacon and scrambled eggs. I certainly hoped it was for both of us, because I was starving.

  “Hey,” I said, waving slightly to catch his attention.

  Just as I waved and Lee looked up, I felt more than heard the loud rumble of a semi-tractor trailer going past the house. I wasn’t sure if it was the noise, my presence, or something else entirely that startled him, but Lee jumped and the skillet of bacon in his hands sloshed, hot grease pouring over his left hand.

  “Shit!” he growled, gripping his left wrist as he stared down at his grease-covered hand.

  “Fuck!” I said, rushing forward. Lee seemed frozen, staring dumbly down at his hand, the skin turning bright red at an alarming rate.

  I grabbed the skillet out of his hand and tossed it back on the stove, turning the burner off. I shoved him sideways toward the large stainless-steel sink, flicked the faucet on and thrust his hand and wrist under the cold water, holding it there under the flow for several minutes. My worry just increased as I saw small blisters starting to form on his hand. Lee just stared at it numbly. He didn’t even seem to feel the pain the burn must have been causing.

  “Mr. Uh… Devereaux?” I said, my fingers still keeping his hand under the cold water. He turned his head and looked at me, but his eyes were distant, unfocused. Shit, that wasn’t good.