Fighting for Forever

by J. B. Salsbury

  I told myself a few weeks, but here I am almost a week into it, and I’m ready to give up and launch myself into Mason’s arms for good.

  Svetlana’s gone and Mason’s here, alive and wanting me, just as much as I want him. Neither of us deserves this torture.

  As if summoned from my thoughts, I find a photo beneath my clothes pile. Bright shining eyes and her barely there smile. Svetlana.

  I flip it over in my hand. It’s her passport photo.

  She had plans to do missionary work with my dad at the orphanage we were adopted from in Russia. She’d had her photo taken, and days after she died, it was delivered in the mail.

  Giving hope to all those children in the orphanage who feel completely forgotten was something she’d talked about for years. The last known picture of her is a sick stab to the heart.

  Dammit. The senselessness of it all racks my body, and I drop to my knees at my bedside, resting my forehead against the mattress and pressing the photo to my chest.

  “Why, God? Why did you have to take her? You had plans for her, plans that were bigger and better. I know you’re capable of using even the worst tragedies for good, but how, God? How can this ever be made good?”

  I wait, listening with not my ears but with my heart. Waiting for an answer, a divine intercession that would throw me back and help me to see the purpose to it all.

  But I get nothing.

  “So that’s it, huh? Maybe some people aren’t worth your help.” Anger boils deep in my chest. I push up off the ground with my fists balled, crunching Lana’s picture in my palm. Not that it matters. She wasn’t important enough to God for him to save her. I’m not important enough for him to give me direction in all this.

  With a primal roar, I lash out, sweeping my arm over my bed and sending my neat piles of clothes sailing across the room. Why can’t this just be over? A deep sob forms in my chest, but I refuse to give into my weakness. Sadness is pointless. Anger is motivating.

  The low growl of a motorcycle filters in from my open bedroom window. Listening hard, I concentrate as the rumble grows louder and louder. I wait for the sound to reach my driveway, fully expecting it to continue by as the rest of them have these last five days.

  But this one doesn’t.

  Holy shit, he’s here.

  Panicked, I race to the mirror, pinch my cheeks, and practice my fake look of indifference. Good enough.

  I race to the front door just as I hear the motorcycle engine cut off. Crap, I can’t fling the door open right when he walks up. I scurry to my couch, flipping on the TV and trying to look casual just as the knock comes at the front door.

  “Hold on.” With a deep breath, I force my feet to drag. “I’m coming.”

  When I open the door, my heart jumps and quickly sinks. It’s Hatch.

  I yawn and try to act casual. “Hey, you’re in town.”

  His hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and he leans against the doorframe. “You done bein’ a bitch?” His voice sounds like jagged rocks over broken glass, but he flashes a teasing smile.

  I cock my head and force myself to smile. “Am I ever done being a bitch?”

  “Good point.” He doesn’t wait to be invited in, just moves past me and into the kitchen. “I need a beer.”

  Hoping he’d show up eventually, I’ve kept my fridge stocked with his favorite all-American brand, bottles, extra cold the way he likes it. I close the door and move to the couch, trying to remember how the old me—the me who hadn’t completely given her heart away to another man—would’ve acted.

  He’s right behind me and drops to the couch, popping off the cap to his beer and tossing it to the coffee table. The familiar smell of Hatch—wind, desert dirt, leather, and a hint of sweat—permeates the air. His heavy boots clunk hard to the table as he reclines and the creaking of his cut as he makes himself comfortable are so opposite of Mason.

  My Mason is smooth. Everything he does is like liquid, clean and fresh, powerful, beautiful, and peaceful on the surface that covers the raw danger that stirs underneath. Just like the ocean.

  “The fuck you watchin’ here, Trix?”

  My eyes dart to Hatch, who has his glare aimed at the television. “Oh, this?” I grab the remote, hit a few buttons to turn off the DVD player, and put on the racy cable TV network Hatch loves. “The Lion King. There was nothing on, so . . .”

  Fuck. The old me never would watch Disney movies with Hatch around. The last thing I need is for him to get inside my head, and even though the DVDs are on display, he’s never taken an interest in them.

  Never taken an interest in me outside of blow jobs and sex.

  Unlike Mason.

  My chest warms, and a tiny grin curls my lips before I can wipe it away.

  The sooner I get down to it, the sooner I can get back to him. I turn to face Hatch and fold my legs beneath me. “So, how long are you in town for?”

  His eyes dart to me, rake over my bare legs to my cut offs and then to my chest. I rejoice in silent victory that I’m wearing a bra beneath the threadbare tank. Hatch seems to notice then slides his intrusive gaze back to the TV and shrugs. “Got a little business here this weekend. Then I’ll be gone.”

  I chew my bottom lip, wondering how to bring up some deeper conversation without being completely obvious. I’m about to open my mouth when he turns his eyes to me.

  “You busy this weekend? I might be able to use you and a couple of the girls tomorrow night.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug one shoulder. “You have associates”—I use air quotes and lift a brow—“who need entertaining?”

  He reaches out and fists a handful of my hair, tugging my face to his. “Fuck, you’re cute.”

  I do my best to bat my eyelashes and play coy even though I’d rather spit in his face.

  He presses a quick and bristly kiss to my lips. “Yeah, babe. Associates. Important ones. You game? They pay well.”

  I swallow hard, my eyes burning with the realization that I’ve just officially cheated on Mason with that kiss, but I force all that back. “Saturday nights at the club are busy. I have to work.”

  “I’ll make a call. Your boss has never been able to say no to cold hard cash.”

  His grip is still tight in my hair. I pull against him, only to get a tug back, reminding me who’s in charge.

  “Sounds fun. You know I’ve never been one to turn down a well-paying job.” I lick my lips as my nerves get the best of me. It’s not that I think Hatch will hurt me. God knows he’s had plenty of opportunity to do so and hasn’t. But a game that was once easy for me to play has now become complicated as every choice I make revolves around Mason.

  He releases my hair and runs the rough pad of his thumb along my jaw. “Been a long time since I’ve had that mouth.”

  Fuck! No, no, no. I roll my lips between my teeth in an attempt to keep them away from him, but his eyes flare with hunger.

  My body revolts and I sit back, putting distance between us. He glares, suspicion registering in his expression. Dammit, I’m losing him!

  “It’s been a long week. I could use a few drinks.” I give him my most seductive smile, and his wariness morphs back to desire.

  “Grab the six-pack and the Jager. I like how your mouth gets sloppy when you’re drunk on that shit.”

  My stomach twists, but I wink and move toward the kitchen as a plan forms in my head. Jager will be perfect. I’ll be puking before the night’s through and sleeping in the bathroom.

  With the door locked.

  Thirty

  Mason

  I got out of bed on edge. My skin too tight, muscles coiled, and my head screaming.

  Last night was the first night I didn’t hear from Trix.

  I checked my phone every fucking hour, only dozing off in thirty-minute sessions before jerking awake to check it again. And every time . . . nothing.

  She warned me that this would happen. One day that fucker would roll back into town, and she’d text me to let me know, tha
t is, unless he showed up unexpectedly and she couldn’t. I’ve contemplated calling, blowing up her phone with messages, driving by her house, all the things I promised her I’d never do in this situation. I gave her my word that I wouldn’t be a complication to her plan, a chink in her iron-clad mission. I’m re-thinking that. Big time.

  I throw down the dregs of my protein shake and force myself to swallow, worry and anxiety taking up most of the space in my stomach.

  She better fucking be okay.

  I check my phone again and still nothing. It’s six-thirty a.m. Maybe a quick drive by her house on the way to the training center will help to calm my nerves. Chances are I won’t be able to tell if either of them is there, but it’s worth a try if it means setting my nerves at ease. Hell, it’s all I’ve got!

  Today is Friday and she works tonight, so there’s always a swing by Zeus’s later to make sure her ass is safe there. I brace my weight on the counter in my kitchen and blow out a long breath. Never thought I’d see the day where I’d be hoping my girl showed up for her shift at the strip club.

  Never thought I’d all but give her permission to date another guy either.

  Fuckin’ hell. Why did I do that?

  As soon as the question filters though my head, so does the answer.

  She gave me no choice.

  In order to be with her, I had to agree to this. Otherwise, I’d be standing here doing the exact same fucking thing, but she wouldn’t be keeping me in the know.

  Lose-fucking-lose situation if I’ve ever seen one.

  My phone rings, and the speed in which I grab that shit, press “accept” and press it to my ear shocks even me.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, bro.”

  “Drake.” Disappointment settles in my gut, heavy and annoying. “What’s up?”

  “Listen, man . . . I have a favor to ask.”

  “No.”

  “Dude, fuck off. I haven’t even asked yet.”

  “Don’t need to. I’m sure the answer’s no.”

  “Whatever. Listen. I need you to let us crash with you this weekend.”

  “What? Okay, you’re right. I take back my ‘no’ because the answer to that is ‘hell motherfuckin’ no.’ No way. Uh-uh.” I shake my head as if he can see me. “Nope. No.”

  “You finished?” He sounds bored.

  “If you heard me say no and don’t plan on driving that shit home a hundred million times until I concede, then, yeah, I’m finished.”

  “It’s only for two nights.”

  “I don’t have a spare bedroom, Drake. You think I want six fuckin’ guys crashed all over my place? This isn’t a damn hostel. No.”

  “It’s for Jess.”

  Oh . . . well, fuck.

  “I don’t want to leave her in Santa Cruz. She’s been . . . upset, and . . . I’m not headed to Vegas to party. I’m just going to meet with my dad and some of his crew, talk about getting out. I need to put Jess up somewhere she feels safe, and shoving her in a damn hotel room in Vegas ain’t it.”

  “Gotta say I’m semi-impressed that you’re finally takin’ care of your girl.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “Yeah, you two can have the bedroom. I’ll crash on the couch. Only two nights, right? No plans on an extended stay?”

  “Nah, we have a doctor’s appointment on Monday for the baby.”

  Damn, I almost want to make some wisecrack about the grown-up on the phone, but something about the tension in his voice tells me he’s probably not in the best mood for jokes.

  “Alright. I’ll leave a key under the mat. You remember where my place is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m training ’til late. Have something I need to do tonight. Tell Jess to make herself at home.”

  “Sweet, bro. Thanks.”

  We disconnect after grunted good-byes, and I throw some clean sheets on the bed and pull out some fresh towels before snagging my keys to head out.

  There’s a little part of me that’s looking forward to Drake and Jess staying for the weekend. At least it’ll distract me from worrying about Trix. Ah, who the fuck am I kidding?

  Trix

  A firm grip on my shoulder shakes my body. “Trix.” Another shake. “Babe, wake the fuck up.” There’s tension or anger in the voice that I immediately identify as male.

  And not Mason.

  Sadness washes over my body, leaving me heavy with an ache in my chest. I groan and bat at the hand that will not let up its grip. My mind settles back into my head, and I instantly regret it as the throbbing pain between my temples roars.

  Hatch.

  Did we . . .? I take quick stock of my clothes, the aches and pains in my body being in my stomach, neck, and head. If it didn’t hurt so bad to do so, I’d smile at how well my plan to get drunk and pass out in the bathroom worked.

  “Trix, come on. Wake—”

  “Stop—aargh!” I grip the sides of my head and curl into the fetal position on the hard floor. “My head. Shhh.”

  “I’m outta here. I left the shit about tomorrow night on your dresser.” His voice is farther away, as if he went from crouching beside me to standing up. “Bring Angel and that other chick, the redhead.” The sound of a fast-flowing stream of liquid hitting water permeates the air. “These guys have cash, high-roller types. Dress to impress. They don’t—”

  “Are you peeing!?” I curl up into a tighter ball, as if the act could protect me from Hatch’s lack of respect for my personal space.

  He groans, low and raspy. “Didn’t give me much choice, babe. Tried to get you up.”

  “Ewww, get out—ugh! Stop making me yell.” I dig my fists into my eyes and whimper. “Fuck.”

  He zips up his fly and the toilet flushes. “You strapped one on last night. Not shocked you feel like shit today.”

  “Stop. Talking.”

  He grips my shoulders, rolling me to my back, and sets me on my butt. My brain feels like it should leak out my ears at any minute, and I groan as the room sways. He dips to meet my gaze. “Anything you wanna tell me, Trix?”

  What a strange thing to ask? I blink, trying to figure out what the hell he’s getting at. “Um . . . no?”

  “You sure ’bout that? I’m giving you a chance to come clean.” He holds up a finger. “One chance.”

  Oh shit, he must know about Mason. I stretch my legs out, feeling for my phone without making it too obvious. No phone. Dammit. “I don’t know, Hatch. I mean . . . I’m sure there’s a lot we haven’t talked about.”

  “You stickin’ with that?” He lifts his eyebrows, giving me a chance to fess up.

  “You do realize making me think this hard is excruciatingly painful, right?” I close one eye and look at him. “Are you trying to hurt me?”

  I expect him to laugh or at the very least crack a smile, but he doesn’t. He stands and walks away. “See ya tomorrow,” he calls out just before the sound of the front door closes.

  What the hell brought that on? I deleted all Mason’s messages on my phone, so if Hatch did snoop, he’d only read one that must’ve come in recently. I drop my head into my hands. If that’s what all this is about, Hatch can get over it. We’ve always had a no-strings relationship that’s gone both ways. No way he’s allowed to get jealous now.

  Pushing up to standing, I stumble off-balance, bracing myself with my elbows on the sink. My mouth is dry, and as much as I want water, just the thought of drinking has my stomach protesting. I breathe through a fresh wave of nausea, remembering that I never did end up tossing up my liquor last night. Too bad. Probably would’ve felt better if I had.

  Hatch and I drank until . . . fuck, I have no idea. We talked, and with the exception of a few stolen kisses, I managed to get too drunk and avoided having to cheat on Mason.

  Memories from the night trickle back, one at a time. He told me about Mexico, that he was on the run for killing a couple of guys who got too deep in MC business. He swears he didn’t do it, not that it matters now.
A rival MC wasn’t happy about Hatch’s men offing their members and went after Hatch. I guess the rival MC ended up with an indictment and several mysterious deaths. So things mellowed out. Hatch came home.

  I’d brought up the man he started to tell me about before he left—the one who he said, “cut women up for fun.” He’d remembered telling me about him, admitted the dude is bad news, but didn’t give me anything else.

  At least he’s back to talking, and I seem to be on the right track. Getting in with Hatch and his associates can only bring me closer to finding out who this guy is, and tonight’s party is the perfect opportunity to do that.

  I splash some cold water on my face and pull two pain relievers from the cabinet, washing them down with a palm full of tap water. I never did text Mason last night, but by the time Hatch showed up, I’m sure Mase was already sound asleep. If he tried to contact me this morning . . . A red flag fires in my head. That would explain Hatch’s interrogation. What did Mason say that Hatch read?

  Unease crawls through me as I search out my phone. Last time I had it . . . I close my eyes and concentrate, pushing through my painful headache and focusing on what I was doing when Hatch showed up.

  Sorting my drawers. I push from the sink and head to my room.

  My bed is still strewn with clothes, Hatch most likely slept on the couch. I run my hands through and beneath everything, searching for my phone, when my fingers brush across a photo, slicing into my skin.

  “Ouch!” I pull my hand out, sucking on the thin line of blood from the paper cut. Damn, that hurts.

  I shove my uninjured hand into the pile and pull out the photo of my brothers and sisters and me. I grin at my Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and Mason’s response to my Disney obsession.

  Right, Mason. I need to find my phone. I search my pocket. “Swore it was there . . .”

  I race out to the living room, the back patio, and even pull all the cushions off the couch, but it’s gone. Nowhere to be found.

  What the fuck? Where is it?

  I find my charger in the kitchen and head back to my room. Sitting on my dresser is my phone with a slip of paper beneath it. Scrawled in barely legible writing is Car will pick you up at nine. Dress fuckable.