Mason: Inked Reapers MC

by West, Heather

  “Kicking?” Tai uttered from atop his Dad’s shoulders. “Is the baby going to be a fighter like Daddy?”

  This made both Kait and Jasper laugh.

  “Maybe,” Kait replied, “who knows? Both you and your little brother or sister can grow up to be whatever you want.”

  “I want to be a fighter like Daddy!” Tai insisted, excitedly squirming.

  “Okay, well until then how about we go home and have pizza?” Jasper suggested, pulling Tai from his shoulders and placing the little boy inside the car.

  “Yay!” Tai called merrily. “Pizza!”

  Both Jasper and Kait were smiling as the family pulled out of the car park and drove off together.

  The End

  Free Book #2 Miles

  Chapter 1

  Brea took a deep breath, inhaling the scent around her. She loved how the craft store in town smelled, loved how peaceful and tranquil it was within its aisles. Moving slowly she admired all the different shades of paint. They had every color of the rainbow but even more than that, colors she’d never even thought about before. She felt like a kid in a candy store. Brimming with excitement, she placed a few of the brighter colors into her shopping cart along with the artist’s notepad she’d already picked up.

  This was Brea’s weekly release – a time when she could just be herself and be soothed by the world around her. Every Tuesday morning, like clockwork, she’d cycle into town and stop by the large craft store beside the local Walmart. If the sun was shining, it made her trip even better. She’d linger among the aisles for as long as she could before eventually paying for her purchases and cycling back to the home she shared with her brother. The home they had inherited from their parents.

  Checking her paint splattered watch, Brea sighed and pushed a loose strand of dark hair back behind her ear. She’d lingered in the store a little too long. If she didn’t leave in the next ten minutes, she risked her brother, Sylar, getting in before she did and that was never good.

  With quick, urgent steps Brea approached the checkout.

  “Morning, Brea,” Jane, the kind-faced plump woman in the bright red smock grinned at her.

  “Morning, Jane,” Brea smiled back. She wished that she had the luxury of time to partake in their usual morning pleasantries. She’d ask about Jane’s children and they’d discuss the weather from the week before. But time was no longer on Brea’s side.

  “I’m in kind of a hurry today,” Brea told her apologetically as she frantically shoved her items into a paper bag.

  “Oh, honey, don’t you go rushing now. More haste less speed, that’s what my mother always used to say.”

  “Hopefully I’ll have some more time with you next week,” Brea said as she handed the cashier her cash. She always had to pay in cash, never on a card. Any purchases made on a card could be monitored. But any cash she got her hands on was her own to spend as she liked. And she loved nothing more than buying art essentials. On sunny days, she’d just be out in the back yard beneath the weeping willow and waste the day away sketching in her notebook. Lately, it was the only thing which bought her any joy.

  “You’re too young and pretty to let that brother of yours keep you locked up like a prisoner,” Jane clucked, handing Brea her receipt.

  Every week Jane would tell Brea how she needed to get away from her brother, how she needed to live her own life. The whole town had an opinion on Brea and her brother, the poor little kids over on Brixton Road, who lost their parents too young.

  Brea had been twelve when they died, Sylar fifteen. He’d dropped out of school and taken any work he could find. He’d saved her from a life in the foster care system. And now that Brea was eighteen she felt like she couldn’t just walk out on her brother when he’d scarified so much to keep her in school, to keep some normalcy in her life.

  “I’m not a prisoner,” Brea explained with a thin smile. “Sylar is just…strict.”

  “Hmm,” Jane looked unimpressed but her anger melted into a warm smile none the less.

  “Well, you have yourself a good day, Brea. And make sure you pop by next Tuesday to see me.”

  “I will,” Brea promised as she headed for the door. Outside the sun was burning bright as she hurried over to her bike, pleased with her new purchases.

  She pedaled hard and fast back through town, desperate to make it home before Sylar did. He’d been out all night working. She had no idea what he did. He went out on his motorbike at dusk and rarely returned before dawn. She assumed he did shift work somewhere, maybe at one of the factories just outside of town. He made good money. She was always finding wads of cash around the house and on occasion she slipped a twenty dollar bill from the pile to fund her art habit, Sylar didn’t even notice. It was as if he didn’t even know how much money he had.

  Brea cycled through the small town which had always been her home with the wind blowing through her short dark hair. The familiar streets looked shabbier than they had when she was a child. It was as if when her parents died the sheen had come off the entire world and she was forced to see things for what they really were.

  Finally, Brea reached Brixton Road, a street lined with small wooden bungalows, some in better condition than others. She remembered on bright mornings how her father would turn on the sprinklers and let Brea and Sylar dash beneath the spurts of water until they cooled down. Now the lawn outside their house was overgrown and thick with weeds. Sylar was always promising to get out and mow it, but he never did. Their lawnmower had been pawned long ago, back when times were leaner.

  Dismounting her bike, Brea pushed it up towards the car porch and then stopped. Sylar’s bright red motorcycle was parked next to the side of the house, heat still radiating from the engine and causing the air to bend.

  “Dammit,” Brea cursed under her breath. She was too late. She’d failed to beat her brother home. She considered hiding her shopping in a nearby bush. The bag was in her hand and she was about to stoop down and conceal it when the mesh door of the house clattered open revealing Sylar behind it. Brea instantly straightened and remained frozen before him, like a deer caught in headlights.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he snarled angrily at her. Brea could feel eyes upon her as neighbors pulled back their curtains in the hope of witnessing a heated exchange. She refused to give them such a show. Pushing back her shoulders she confidently approached the house and pushed past Sylar.

  Inside, the house was dark and cool thanks to the ceiling fan which was forever rotating above the small lounge. They’d once had a proper air conditioning system but that, like the lawn mower, had been pawned long ago.

  “I said where have you been?” Sylar reached for her shoulder and spun her around to face him.

  Like his sister, he had dark hair and bright blue eyes which were vivid even in the darkness of the house. But he stood a good foot taller than Brea and he looked down upon her now with anger distorting his chiseled, handsome features. Brea was about to respond when she noticed the dark bruise clouding around his left eye.

  “Hey, what happened?” she pointed towards it and Sylar flinched. “You get in an accident at work?”

  “Yeah,” he replied gruffly, turning away so that she could no longer see the bruise. “A box fell on me.”

  “Want me to take a look at it?”

  “No!”

  “Seriously, Sylar,” Brea strode away from him and slung her shopping bag down onto the sofa.

  “You’re always getting hurt at work. Last week it was that cut on your hand, before that you broke a rib. I swear you should just take out a lawsuit against your employer. No job should be this hazardous.”

  “Just drop it,” Sylar ordered briskly. “Where were you?”

  He was back on his mission of interrogation.

  “I went shopping,” Brea sighed. It was hardly as if she’d committed some terrible crime which was how Sylar was trying to make her feel.

  “Shopping?” he echoed incredulously.

  “Ye
s, shopping,” Brea gestured angrily at the bag containing her art supplies. “I needed a few things so I cycled into town. I don’t see why you’re getting so worked up about it.”

  “You’re supposed to stay at home,” Sylar declared through clenched teeth. “How many times, Brea? You stay here!”

  “Like a prisoner?” Brea shrieked, clutching her bag tightly against her chest. Suddenly she wanted to be as far away from Sylar as possible which meant either retreating to the yard or her small bedroom. She chose the yard.

  She started stomping through the open plan living room and kitchen towards the sliding doors, which led out into the modest backyard. Here the lawn was more tamed than the front yard thanks to Brea’s backbreaking efforts with some garden shears she found in the garage. She lacked the stamina to do both lawns.

  “Brea!” Sylar boomed her name with such force that some of the glasses in a nearby cabinet shook.

  “Sylar,” she sighed as her shoulders slumped and she turned back, one hand resting on the handle for the sliding doors.

  “I love you. I love everything you’ve done for me. But I’m eighteen, it’s about time I started having some sort of life.”

  “Don’t I care for you?” Sylar demanded angrily. “Don’t I buy you food, keep a roof over your head?”

  “Yes,” Brea admitted. “But I’m not a pet dog. I need more than food and shelter. You should let me go out and find a job, that way we’re both taking care of the house you’re not shouldering the burden alone.”

  “I’m managing just fine!”

  “Are you?” Brea cried heatedly. “Because you’re always beaten up and in the foulest of moods.”

  “You’re being ungrateful!” Sylar barked. “Do you have any idea the lengths I go to in order to keep us safe?”

  “Safe?” Brea repeated the word, frowning. “Safe from what?”

  Sylar sighed in frustration and kicked at the sofa.

  “Safe from what?” Brea repeated. In recent years, Sylar seemed to be scared of his own shadow. Each time the doorbell chimed or the phone rang he jumped ten feet in the air and went as white as a ghost. The front door was covered in a dozen different bolts and locks, same for the back. Sylar became obsessed with securing the home as though he feared that there was going to be an imminent zombie apocalypse which only he knew about.

  “Just…” Sylar ran his hands through his dark hair. He smelled of petrol and cigar smoke. Brea was becoming increasingly determined to follow him to work one night and see what kind of a factory he was actually working at.

  “Just trust me,” he eventually conceded. “I’ve always looked out for us, haven’t I?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then just trust me.”

  “Trust goes both ways you know,” Brea told him as she yanked open the sliding doors. The dense heat of the day came tumbling in around her, challenging the overhead fan which continued to spin in its never-ending orbit.

  She stepped outside and breathed in the hot, clean air. Behind her, she heard a door slam as Sylar finally abandoned the argument to go and lick his wounds. Brea failed to understand how he could worry about her so much. Sure they lived in a slightly dangerous part of town, but nowhere was without the risk of petty crime. She was basically an adult now and she couldn’t go on with Sylar insisting on treating her like a child.

  Brea lay her head against the thick trunk of the willow tree in the yard and reached into her bag for her new sketch pad and paints. She took a deep breath and let her mind clear. And then she started to draw. She drew ornate skulls adorned with flowers and jewels, she drew magical fairies who danced across the garden on luminous wings. She filled pages and pages with her drawings and she only stopped when a shadow spread across the page. Squinting up against the sun she saw Sylar standing above her, holding a fresh glass of iced tea. Condensation clung to the glass as the ice cubes swirled noisily within the amber liquid.

  “I thought you might want this,” he handed it to her. “Especially if you’re going to insist on spending the day outside.”

  “Thanks,” Brea smiled up at him in gratitude.

  “I’m heading to bed for a bit,” Sylar told her. Dark circles had blended with his blooming bruise to make his eyes appear hooded and sinister.

  “Promise me you’ll behave while I rest?”

  “I promise,” Brea told him sweetly. “And I’ll even stick a pizza in the oven for when you wake up.”

  “Thanks, sis,” Sylar sauntered back towards the house, his shoulders slumped. Brea watched him with a heavy heart. She knew that she couldn’t let him keeping supporting them both. Whether he liked it or not, it was high time she got a job of her own and started paying her way.

  Chapter 2:

  While her brother slept Brea poured over the local newspaper, determined to find herself a reasonable job. Sadly, there wasn’t much work available for her skillset. Most of the jobs posted required some sort of relevant experience which Brea didn’t have. Pretty much the only thing she really excelled at was her art. Beyond that, she could cook and clean but no one was hiring a surrogate sister or mother.

  Leaning back in her chair Brea sighed, feeling deflated. She glanced sadly towards the bedroom door beyond which Sylar was sleeping soundly. A part of Brea knew that there was more to his damaged eye than he was letting on. There had to be. He was always getting strange and mysterious wounds and she kept turning a blind eye to them.

  “What do you do at night?” she wondered aloud, still staring at the door. She feared that perhaps Sylar was getting involved in the seedy underbelly which had slowly rotted their once wholesome town. Back when their parents were alive, it was the kind of place where you could leave your front door unlocked at night and let your kids play out on the front porch. But all that had changed during the last decade. Now if you walked home alone at night you kept your steps fast and your head low. Their town was no longer safe and was Sylar possibly contributing to that?

  No. Brea shook her head. She wouldn’t believe that Sylar was doing anything dishonorable. That wasn’t like him. He was the protective older brother who had been there for her, who had helped raise her. He could never hurt someone.

  With a sigh, Brea looked back down at the paper. It was slim pickings for jobs. There wasn’t even any waitressing work ads. Groaning Brea scrunched up the page and pushed it aside. It was useless. As bummed out as she was, she went back outside to work on some more sketches beneath the willow tree and clear her mind.

  When Brea drew the world around her, she disappeared and she became lost in her art. The process consumed her. She’d learned early on that drawing was a great way to get away from all the pain and sadness which haunted her day to day life. With a pencil in her hand she could get away, she could draw beautiful castles or strong, powerful animals capable of carrying her off on their backs. And her pictures were good, she was sure of that. Whenever she plucked up the courage to show them to Sylar, he was always full of praise.

  “Wow, Brea, those are amazing,” he’d gush proudly. “Clearly you got all the talent in the family.”

  Brea would blush modestly, secretly warmed by his words. If Sylar liked her pictures, then they must be good. Yet no one else had ever seen them. Had her parents still been around she’d have showed them but beyond them, the town of Harlow was cut off from most people. There was nothing like a tragedy to show you who your real friends were. Those that did stick around had recently left town for college, leaving Brea well and truly isolated with only Sylar for company.

  She realized that she wanted a job for more than just financial reasons. She longed for companionship. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d met someone new. In her town people only ever left, no one new ever showed up.

  Placing down her artist’s pad Brea saw that the sun had started to dip in the sky. She wasn’t sure of the exact time, but she sensed that it was late afternoon. Sylar would be waking up soon and her plan had been to ambush him with her idea of getting a job. He
was always most receptive to change when he was fully rested. But if she went to him with only an abstract idea he’d never go for it. She needed something concrete if she was going to win his approval.

  Standing up Brea dusted herself off and headed back inside. A quick glance at the clock told her it was four o’ clock. She had little over an hour until Sylar awoke. Brea stood in the kitchen and debated what to do. She knew that she had to cast her net a little wider to find a decent job. The newspaper had been a dead end which meant that really, she needed to look online. Only her house didn’t have internet. Sylar was bizarrely dead set against having it. Brea paced around the small table, debating what she should do.

  An hour, that was all she needed. If she left now, she could cycle into town and use one of the computers at the library to access the internet. But if Sylar found out he’d be pissed, and that’s putting it mildly. Not if he never knew, not if she was back in time. Before Brea could talk herself out of it, she was heading out of the front door and reaching for her bike. Despite the lateness of the day, the air still felt hot and humid. Pressing down on the pedals Brea started to cycle and was soon leaving her street and heading into town.