by V. F. Mason
SHANE'S TRUTH
V.F. MASON
Copyright © 2017 by V.F. MASON
All Rights Reserved
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Hot Tree Editing
Cover Design: Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Photographer: Lindee Robinson Photography
Formatting and Design: L.J. Anderson, Mayhem Cover Creations
Cover Models: Dustin Oprisiu and Kelly Kirstein
To first love. However crazy, awesome, fun, dramatic and painful they may be.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Contact Me
Moonlight Rose, Texas, 2015
Shane, twenty-three years old
“So, you’re a football player?” Ren asked as he made one more turn, which opened onto the narrow road leading to the ranch. A big sign said Rising Star, and fuck if it didn't make my heart beat faster and my hands sweaty. I couldn't believe I was finally there. “Dude?” he asked again, bringing me back to the conversation.
“Yeah, at the University of Houston.”
Ren whistled loudly. “That’s great, man. Good enough to go pro?”
“I’m still thinking about it.” I was the star quarterback and had offers, but I wasn’t sure professional was for me. Great way to have a good, comfortable life, but to make any final decisions, I needed to come here first.
Ren nodded and opened the window more, allowing the breeze to slip in, and a moan of pleasure almost left me. The hot Texas summer was making me sweat like a pig, and the car had no air-conditioning. How people survived without it here was beyond me.
“It’s an important decision.” I was surprised how talkative the guy was with a complete stranger. He and I met just two hours ago in the town’s small airport. No transport went to the ranch directly, but luckily for me, Ren offered to give me a lift; as it turned out, he lived and worked there. The guy didn't shut up about how great nature, horses, and everything else having to do with ranching were, which I didn't give a shit about. Mostly, I just nodded or said a word here and there.
Maybe I should be more friendly and grateful to him. Talking was better than thinking about what awaited me in a few minutes. “What about you?”
Ren laughed and shook his head while he wiped some of the sweat from his forehead. “No, never had the desire to go to college. Love everything about ranching, and besides, I’m getting married soon.”
My eyebrows rose at his words. The dude was my age and already wanted to tie the knot? Was he insane? As much as I liked to have fun with the opposite sex, no way in hell did I want to cuff myself to one of them and live happily ever after. Who needed that shit when they were young?
“As long as you’re sure, man.” My voice held zero enthusiasm.
“Oh, I’m sure. Knew she was the one since high school.” He looked at me with warmth in his gray eyes. “We’re each other’s one and only. Proposed last year, and the wedding is in a few weeks.” Fuck, the dude only had one girl in his entire life? That just convinced me more he was out of his fucking mind. How could you decide someone was for you if you had never been with anyone else?
Unfortunately, I couldn't keep my mouth shut.
“And you never wonder what it’s like to be with someone else?”
His hand tightened on the steering wheel as he blushed. “No,” he muttered.
Yeah, right. Okay then.
“So you’ve worked on the ranch since high school?” A change of subject was the best option in that situation.
“Actually, I grew up here. My parents died in a plane crash when I was ten, and their friends, Hawk and Beth, took me in. Maggie and I were childhood friends, and they made me part of their family.”
My hands tightened into fists at the mention of Hawk and that he’d raised someone else’s son. Based on Ren’s tone and happiness about ranching, they did a good job of welcoming him into the family. I swallowed down the resentment burning inside me. “Maggie?”
Ren furrowed his brows at my tense voice. “Yeah, their only daughter. She’s away in college now. Should be back in a week for the wedding preparations.” It didn't escape my notice how his voice hitched at her name, but maybe I was reading too much into it.
Finally, the truck stopped. Ren took out the key and turned to me. “We’re here.”
“Yeah, we are,” I replied, opening the door and praying to God I wasn't about to make the biggest mistake of my life.
One Hour Later
The front door shut loudly behind me as I quickly went down the steps and cursed, only then realizing I had no means to run away. What the fuck would I do?
“Shane,” Hawk said behind me, and everything froze. I shut my eyes, trying to block it. This reunion wasn’t going the way I had planned in my head.
The word nightmare seemed more fitting for the whole fiasco that happened inside the house.
“Forget it. I’m sorry I came here.”
“I didn’t know,” he said regretfully. “Please stay.”
Shaking my head, I finally turned around, struck once again by the resemblance between us. “I can’t.” I swallowed the bile in my throat. “Not after what happened in the living room.”
His eyes darkened, remembering his wife’s tears and screams. “I need time to think. I had no clue… I just had no fucking clue,” he finished, not really knowing what else to add. He ran his hand over his face, and took car keys from his pocket.
“Take the car. There is a motel in town. You can do whatever you want, but promise to come tomorrow and talk. Please.” His eyes pleaded, and part of me, the part that always wanted to know him, almost listened and stayed. The other part wanted to get the fuck out of that town and forget I ever learned about his existence.
But he was right, I needed to come and talk. Otherwise, it all would have been for nothing.
My hand caught the keys, and with one last glance at him, I climbed into the truck and made my way to the city.
What have I done?
New York, New York, 2013
Serena, nineteen years old
“Mommy?” I called gently, entering the hospital room, my backpack heavy on my shoulder and hands busy with the canvas straps of my art portfolio.
“Hey, pumpkin.” Her voice was raspy and groggy, but she smiled and opened her arms for me. I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat. Her pale skin glistered in the sun, making even the smallest veins visible, and her bald head was covered by the hat Dad bought her. She had lost weight and was only a shell of the woman she had onc
e been.
I hated seeing her like that and in that place. The private room was one of the best in the hospital: a comfortable bed with various massage buttons, a flat screen TV, a navy-blue couch, a coffee table, and a sizable bathroom. A huge-ass window allowed the sunshine to enter and made the room glow sometimes, which gave fantastic afternoon light I could use to draw my mom’s face or anything else on my mind. Multiple machines monitored her health for any changes. Without waiting a minute longer, I ran to her, threw my things on the couch, and hugged her as gently as possible. Unfortunately, her condition didn't allow for more.
Mom’s scent washed over me, the smell of hospital and medication, but underneath it was the familiar fragrance of my mom, the best woman in the world.
My eyes closed for a second, and I held the tears at bay. Sometimes it all was unbearable. My head rested on her shoulder while my hand hugged her waist as the other hand supported all my weight against the bed. Her hand gently patted my back, and I knew it was a signal to let go, so I leaned back and plastered a smile on my face. I sat on the bedside chair and grabbed her hand, needing any contact I could get from her.
“How do you feel, Mom?”
She wiggled her brows. “Better than yesterday.” Although she tried to play the happy mask, sadness slipped through it and my heart sank. We never talked about it much. Mom hated being the sick person who everyone came to see. She had been a strong, vibrant woman who traveled all over the globe.
Until cancer happened, destroying the world as I knew it.
“I want to hear all about your day. Tell me!”
Her words brought a smile to my face and snapped me back to reality and the reason for my joy. I stood, grabbed my portfolio along with the letter, and brought it to her. “My art professor is impressed with my work and even told me he can display some of it in his gallery. His favorite is this.”
Taking out the white sheet from my canvas portfolio, I showed her a painting of a lonely girl with a doll in her hand, standing in the middle of a busy street in New York. She wore a white dress torn at the hem. With dirt layered on her feet and tears running down her cheeks, she gripped her doll, which almost touched the road.
Mom looked at it closely, and then something shifted in her face, but it happened so fast it was hard for me to catch it.
“She’s beautiful, honey.” Her fingers traced over the girl’s face. “I’m glad to know your professors at the university aren’t fools who don't recognize talent.” She didn't even try to mask the pride in her voice, and my eyes rolled. Mom was the biggest supporter of my art since day one, and she could be quite a mama bear if someone made a comment about my “talent,” as she called it.
Secretly, I always enjoyed it but preferred to act annoyed.
“I’m excited myself, but more for this.” I handed her the letter and her glasses from the bedside table, and she started to read it. Slowly, another smile appeared on her face. She raised her beautiful green eyes to mine, happiness shining brightly.
“They invited you to work with Zano? The Zano, one of the best contemporary artists?”
“Well, it’s not an invitation. It’s a recommendation letter for me to participate in his workshop this summer.” My cheeks heated up with excitement, as my heart beat rapidly against my ribcage. Being able to learn from such a master was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Mom folded the letter, put it on the bedside table, and wiped tears from her eyes, making me instantly worried. “Mom?”
She shook her head, giving me a shaky smile. “I’m just so proud of you, baby girl.” She grabbed my hand. “Always remember that, okay? You have an amazing talent, and this life is so beautiful. Never forget it!” Relief washed over me, and I leaned down once again into her arms and closed my eyes.
There was no better place in the world to be.
New York, New York
June 2016
Serena
“Dad, please.” I wasn’t above begging, which, with my dad, I almost never did, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He just couldn’t do it to me.
“I warned you, Serena. I told you I was sick and tired of your antics.” His voice was low and angry, as disappointment marred his face.
My screw up was big. If I had just taken a little bit of time to think, instead of acting out, I wouldn't have been in a mess. However, I knew my father would never intentionally try to hurt me. He let me get away with pretty much everything in life. I was his one and only baby, and the knowledge allowed me to do whatever I wanted without fear of it biting me in the ass someday.
Hey, look who was wrong.
“Dad, I’ll do whatever you want me to do to fix this. I’ll talk with Alice and apologize. I—”
He stopped me with his raised hand. “Not this time, Serena.” The steel in his voice didn't sit well with me.
“You can’t take away my chance at the Milan fashion week because of one small mistake!” If that weren’t on the line, I wouldn’t have fought my dad so hard. His usual way of punishing me was the silent treatment, which lasted for a few days, and then he’d take me out to explain the error of my ways while I promised to never do it again. That was why his current harshness made little sense, if any, to me.
I was a Devlin of the Upper East Side. My family went back to the first Irish descendants who decided to build a new home in America. They’d accomplished a lot, first with fabrics, then with ice cream. Our Irish surname of Devlin was an Anglican rendering of the Gaelic surname O’Duibhlin, meaning the ones who come from Dublin, which I found quite ironic, because I’d never been there and my family didn’t speak the language. The traditions didn’t stay with us much. Each generation adjusted to the already big money and tripled it. That was the trick to the success, probably; each generation had only one son to give the empire to, so there was never the complication of dividing it.
Well, at least it used to be, because, right then, I was the only girl ever born in the seven generations of the Devlin family, which meant the whole legacy was left for me unless my dad had another child. But since he was a widower, that was highly unlikely.
I was used to the fact we were the elite, though I didn’t use my wealth much ‘til my mom died. She didn’t like spending so much money while we could do something useful with it, like charities and traveling around the world to fight for someone else's rights.
But all that seemed like another life, and I was no longer the girl who followed her mom everywhere. That part of me died along with her on that disgusting hospital bed.
“Yes, I can, and I will. I won’t waste a fortune on something you consider your personal toy of the week.”
The sharp pain in my heart was hard to ignore. My fashion dream wasn’t a game or toy for me. It had allowed me to survive when my entire world crashed down. “I have almost everything ready, and I—”
He didn't let me finish. “I spoke with Carol. She told me she wanted additional drawings from you, but you never provided them. Is that the truth?”
Crap, it was hard to keep anything from him. All those people respected Dad, and of course, they would tattle on me. “Yes, but I like my designs just fine, and I think—”
A humorless chuckle escaped his mouth. “You think what? That when an editor of an elite magazine tells you that you have potential but need to change the collection you know better than she does? That only your opinion matters?” he yelled, and I winced, because, well, that was exactly what I thought.
“Dad, I believe in what I do, and I want to present a collection in a certain way. Carol doesn’t see my vision.”
He blinked and then stared at me as though he couldn’t believe the shit I was saying. “It’s about the fact you don’t value anyone’s opinion but your own, just because you think you can have anything you want, and that is my fault. I spoiled you too much.”
I had nothing to say to that; it was the truth. There were moments when I didn’t recognize myself or what I’d become, but those moments were rare.
&
nbsp; Dad sighed, sat down on his black leather desk chair, and put his right hand over his eyes, while his left hand tapped on the table. I knew that gesture; he was trying to find a way to fix it but didn’t know how.
He finally raised his eyes to me, giving me a calculative stare. He changed from the loving father in front of me into a ruthless businessman measuring his opponent. Uneasiness ran through me as I anticipated my verdict.
“You want fashion week in Milan? Or let me say, you want me to pay for establishing your fashion line?” he asked slowly, narrowing his eyes. Getting credit from a bank with the Devlin name was impossible in New York, so everything depended on my dad’s good mood. No one would go behind his back.
“Yes, Dad, I do. I promise it will be amazing and—”
“Prove to me you really want it,” he interrupted again and waited for my reaction.
My brows furrowed. What kind of proof did he want, anyway? Wasn’t it enough that I attended every fashion show, had my drawings, and knew every designer there was? Not to mention my three-month summer internship in Milan, which taught me how to make different kinds of coffees in five minutes.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Dad,” I replied carefully.
“I want you to draw a different collection. Twenty-five new pieces of clothing and use them, not the ones Carol has already seen. You might not care for her opinion, but I do. After all, those will be my investments.”
The request made me grit my teeth. Carol wasn’t the nicest person and had an old-fashioned take on the modern fashion world. I didn’t agree on lots of things she said and had no desire to change my design to fit her vision, but really, what choice did I have? Dad cared about her opinion, so there would be no convincing him to let me have my freedom. There was also the small fact that the inspiration wasn’t really coming to me and I felt stuck.
Or maybe it’s not really what you want to do, and you know it. When was the last time you actually took the brush into your hands and painted something on canvas? When you felt butterflies flutter in your stomach at the thought of creating some beautiful piece of art?
