MASON (Billionaire Bastards, Book One)

by Ivy Carter

  “I know you must be feeling raw right now, but--”

  “You don’t know what I’m feeling,” he yells, words almost indecipherable. “You don’t know, Liv. You don’t know.”

  I sit next to him. “I’d like to.” I reach for his hand. He flinches but doesn’t pull away. “Why don’t we talk about it?”

  “Don’t want to talk about it,” Mason says. He pushes the laptop aside. His eyes lift to the movie, and a ghost of a smile forms on his lips. “She loved this movie.”

  “Mrs. Kratky?”

  He nods.

  I squeeze his hand. “It’s a good one.”

  “Stay gold,” he murmurs.

  I stand and grab both his hands, tugging him to his feet. He’s dead weight, slumped up against me.

  “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you to bed.”

  Chapter 28

  I guide Mason from his theatre room to the bedroom. He’s all octopus—arms and legs dangling, roped around my shoulders. His breathe feathers across my neck. “You’re a good girl, Liv. Such a good girl.”

  “Well that’s a new one,” I say, trying to keep my spirits up, even though I want to be the one trying to drown out old memories and feelings right now.

  I ease him on to the bed and slide his shirt over his head, carefully tugging it over his neck. His hair sticks out from the static. It might be cute if he didn’t stare at me with eyes glassed with pain. My heart squeezes with unexpected hurt. “Get some sleep, Mason.”

  He pulls me down onto him as he falls onto the mattress.

  “I should have died that day,” he says, catching me off guard.

  I squish up against him and tuck the blanket around us. “Don’t talk like that.” It’s normal for victims of violence to have symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, which is maybe why I’ve accepted Mason’s need for sexual dominance. But this feels like something else, something beyond my understanding. “You were spared. For some reason, he didn’t kill you.”

  No one would ever know why the man had committed suicide before finishing off his murderous spree. He had enough bullets, but instead of shooting Mason, Lucas, and Holden, he’d turned the gun on himself. My stomach roils.

  “We were supposed to die,” Mason says again.

  I wipe a stray curl of hair off his forehead and kiss his cheek. “Go to sleep, Mason.”

  “You don’t understand,” he says, rolling onto his back.

  The pit in my stomach enlarges. I put my hand on his chest. “Mason…”

  “Stop it.” He jerks away from me and curls into himself. He looks so vulnerable that the last of the ice around my heart shatters into tiny pieces. Seeing him so broken, so lost, hurts like a sledgehammer to the chest, and it’s now that I realize, I’ve fallen in love with him. This man, this complicated man, has wormed his way under my skin.

  There’s a part of me that thinks he loves me too—even if he hasn’t realized it himself.

  I’m willing to wait.

  “I shot him in cold blood…” His voice cracks. “Killed him dead. Bang.”

  My pulse thunders in my ears. “No, he shot himself, Mason.” I wipe his tears with my thumb, and press my cheek up against his. “You’re upset, and not remembering things right. In the morning, it will all be clear.”

  He shakes his head. “We lied.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “That’s the story we fed to the newspapers to protect ourselves. But it was all a lie. We just told them what they wanted to hear.”

  My mind feels muddled. “I don’t understand…”

  The corners of his eyes crinkle. “That’s what I’ve been telling you. Nobody understands.”

  My fingers ache to touch him, but it’s like all of the blood has drained from my body. My hands are ice cold. I’ve memorized the details of that shooting, can name every student that lost their life—Daylight Holdings has donated generously and publicly to their estates. My throat swells.

  “We planned it all out,” he says. “Holden distracted the shooter, and I tackled him. His shot went wide, just missing Holden.” His voice crumbles under the strain of his confession. “I had the gun pointed at his head.” He rolls over to face me and through the mist of his tears, the sheer agony of his pain guts me. The guilt consumes him. “Then once we got him subdued, Lucas and Holden pinned him down while I just stood there, in a pool of blood, the dead bodies of my classmates—my teacher—sprawled out all around me. It was a god damn battlefield, and I was trembling with so much fucking anger.”

  My stomach clenches.

  “We were surrounded police,” he says, breaking up. “All I had to do was wait. But then I looked over at her body…”

  Oh God. My heart is freefalling, spiraling through grief and sympathy, confusion and pain. His anguish radiates from his skin and it makes me almost nauseous with the intensity of it all.

  “That woman was like a mother to me,” he says. “She was my mother, at least in my mind. And when I look back into that man’s hateful eyes, I knew.”

  My throat goes dry. He looks away, but I turn his chin back. “What did you know, Mason?”

  “That I was going to kill him.” He swallows hard. “I lost it, Liv. Completely lost it. There was no way I could let that man walk away, not after what he’d done.”

  “But the police would have locked him up forever and then some.”

  It was an open and shut case. The killer would have gone to jail for life, and maybe, with time, he could have provided answers as to what made him snap.

  “I shot him, and it was premeditated by the time I did it,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. He jerks, as if reliving the moment. “And then, we made it look like a suicide. The three of us concocted a story to explain his suicide, and we made a vow to never tell anyone what really happened.”

  Mason burrows his head in my chest and I pull him close, allowing his sobs to soak through my shirt. I imagine him as the young man who pulled the trigger, his innocence shattered, childhood completely wiped. What would I have done?

  Can anyone really know what they’d do in the same position?

  A man had come in and mowed down their friends and people who were like family to them. He’d wanted to kill the three of them too, if he’d been able to.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I say, quietly, with a conviction I don’t quite feel. Maybe I don’t fully understand it, but one thing is clear. That man deserved to die. “He was a monster.”

  I hang on to that, allowing it to comfort and rationalize, as I thread my fingers through Mason’s hair. “You did what you had to,” I whisper. A tear trickles down my cheek. I sniff it back and close my eyes. “He had to pay for what he did.”

  Mason’s breathing goes shallow and his body goes limp.

  I curl under the blankets, staring up at the ceiling, drifting to sleep listening to his ragged snores.

  Chapter 29

  Mason is no longer cradled in my arms when I wake. Across the room, the tap turns on, off. I listen as Mason brushes his teeth, gurgles, then spits into the sink. My nostrils widen at the scent of coffee floating in through the kitchen.

  The unnerving sense of déjà vu prickles my skin.

  I toss off the blankets and sit upright on the edge of the bed. My t-shirt is wrinkled, and my jeans stick to my thighs, damp with sweat.

  Mason emerges from the bathroom, a cup of coffee in hand, and mutters, “Morning.”

  I try for a smile. “How’s your head?”

  “Nothing some strong coffee won’t cure.”

  His abruptness takes me aback, but I dismiss my own feelings and focus on him. After the night he’s had, he deserves my undivided attention. “How are you feeling…otherwise?”

  He stares at me blankly before finally responding. “I’m fine.”

  Mason is anything but fine. “Okay, can I do anything for you?”

  “Go home.”

  I’m grateful he looks away so he doesn’t see the pain I’m sure is apparent on my face. This emotiona
l tug of war is wearing me thin. “I’ll change and meet you at the office.”

  “Take the day off,” he says. “I’m very busy today.”

  Mason is busy every day, and I’ve managed my workload in spite of his meetings and absences. It’s when he’s gone or distracted that I do my best work, because it keeps my mind off missing him.

  Anger nips at the back of my shoulders. I rub the base of my neck, easing the tension. It doesn’t abate. “I have a lot of work to do myself.”

  He scoffs. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  Now I’m pissed. “Why do you do this?”

  He blinks. “What are you talking about?”

  “This.” I gesture between us. “You let me in, and then shut me out. Just when I think we’re getting closer, you pull back. What the hell, Mason?”

  He all but rolls his eyes, and it only further cranks up my anger. “What, no answer?”

  I’m poking now, trying to egg him on, force some kind of reaction. He doesn’t take the bait. He walks out of the bedroom, disappearing from view. I stew for a second, and then bolt out of bed, chasing after him down the hall. “Seriously!”

  When he doesn’t turn around, I curse. “For fuck’s sake, you cold prick.”

  That gets his attention. He turns, leveling me with a cool stare, and says, “You knew exactly what you were getting into when you came to work for me.”

  That is a bald-faced lie. Mason Wood’s reputation may have preceded him—personally and professionally—but no amount of warning could have prepared me for this. I’m invested. I care.

  Damn it, I’m in love.

  I follow him to the kitchen and pour myself a coffee. After slugging back a generous mouthful, I slam the cup on the granite countertop. “How long are you going to pretend you don’t have feelings for me?”

  He whirls around, eyes steely and gray. “Don’t act like you know me.”

  A response catches in my throat. The truth is, I do know him, and I think that scares him. I get it, I’m terrified too. After my dad left, I thought I’d never trust a man enough to fall in love. Didn’t think I could love.

  I grab his arm. “I’m not going anywhere, Mason. Please, I want to help.”

  Mason’s voice goes dangerously low. “Let it go, Olivia.”

  Tears gather in my eyes. “You’re not the only with shit to deal with,” I say. “I came here last night to talk to you, because I thought you could help me.” The words tumble from my mouth, and it’s not until I stop talking that I realize he isn’t listening. For whatever reason, Mason has shut down, shut me out.

  “Fuck, Mason.” My body trembles. “I thought we had something special here.”

  My gut tells me we’re right together.

  But my instinct has been wrong before.

  Mason’s jaw twitches. “I never promised you a fairy tale. You knew what this was.”

  I want to scream. Stomp my feet. Throw something at the wall. I’m so fucking sick of everyone I care about running away when shit gets hard. Dad, Renee. I can’t stomach the thought of losing Mason too.”

  “Things changed between us.” I move my hand from his arm to his chest, flattening my palm against his heart. “Something happened here. You can deny it to me, but please, admit it to yourself. Before it’s too late.”

  His eyes go gray, and the first inkling of doubt creeps into my soul. Is it possible I’m wrong? That he doesn’t care for me at all?

  I think back to the way his partners treat me, their constant insistence that Mason is different with me. Did I interpret that the wrong way? Am I really that naïve?

  “You’ve misinterpreted this…us,” he says, quiet and solemn, as if reading my thoughts and speaking my deepest fears.

  I almost believe it’s the truth. “I don’t think I did,” I reply.

  “I don’t do commitment. I’m not your white knight.”

  Tears sting my eyes. I blink them back and swallow the knot lodged in my throat. “Don’t do this.”

  He’s breaking up with me. A hollow laugh hovers in my mouth as I realize the irony of the sentiment. We were never together, not the way I thought. Mason has never defined our relationship, never said anything to give me the impression we’re anything but lovers. Not even friends.

  “I think it’s best that you leave,” he says, finally, his voice as cold as his eyes.

  His words slice like a razor blade to the throat, effectively cutting off any lingering hope. I don’t fight it—what’s the damn point? I grab my purse, slip on my shoes, and walk out of his suite without so much as a backward glance.

  I can’t.

  Because if he so much as looks at me with an ounce of caring, I’m terrified I’ll go crawling back—just like my mom did.

  I deserve better than that.

  Chapter 30

  I’ve rehearsed every word I want to say to Renee, every apology, every desperate cry for help. Now, more than ever, I need my sister. It’s not my fault my mother is weak, that our father is a jerk. It shouldn’t—can’t—affect the bond we have, the sibling connection that is my strength.

  I have never needed that more.

  I slip out of the cab and run-walk to the apartment lobby. The elevator takes too long, and so I run up the stairs, taking two at a time, with my black heels dangling between my fingers, pulse racing, heart pounding. I was so stupid to just walk out on Renee.

  Why didn’t I bother to try to make things right?

  I throw open the door, gasping. “Renee!” She doesn’t answer. “Renee?” The room Is pitch black. Silent as a morgue. I feel the emptiness even before I flick on the light, and my breath hitches with grief.

  Renee is gone.

  Her kitchen gadgets plucked from the cupboards, her clothes missing from the closet, her silly mannequins, even her bottle of Merlot—the one she said we’d share over Toscana Soup and fresh buns next week—snatched from the wine rack. There is nothing left of my sister here, not even her stupid polka dot chair. Only the faint hint of her cherry blossom perfume, misting the air like a faint memory.

  I slide into the chair and rest my head on the dining room table, stunned by the by the sheer sadness that pulls at my chest. It’s as if my heart is literally being yanked from inside and still live, still breathing, tossed on the floor for anyone—everyone—to trample.

  In the corner of my eye, I see the notepad, Renee’s neat penmanship carved into the paper with blue ink. I slide it forward and through the haze of my tears, I read every word of her wounded screed makes me feel ill.

  I just can’t live in the same apartment with you after this, Olivia.

  It’s too much.

  I feel angry. At our father. At your mother and mine.

  Even at you. For right or wrong.

  So I have to go.

  --R

  Crumpling the letter in my hand, I curl up on my bumpy old couch, staring out the window where her mannequins once stood, and let the tears fall. I fall asleep sobbing, waking only a few hours later with my landline ringing ominously through my tortured dream.

  I lift the receiver, breathing heavily into the phone.

  “Olivia?”

  I don’t answer my mother. There’s no strength to my voice.

  “We need to talk,” she says. I hold the phone away from my ear, prepared to hang up. I can’t deal with her right now, especially today. “I’m in the city,” she goes on.

  My head snaps alert. “Where?”

  “At a restaurant in Times Square,” she says, speaking slowly and clearly. “And I am alone. I would very much like it if you’d meet me to talk.”

  I lick my lips. “You drove to Manhattan?”

  “I took the bus,” she says. “It was terrifying. The least you could do is hear me out.”

  “Fine,” I say, exhausted. I’m pissed at her, but more than that, I’m hurt. And no one is better at soothing my pain than Mom. “One hour,” I say. “But don’t expect any miracles.”

  Chapter 31

 
My mother is trying to be upbeat, but it’s forced.

  “I thought we could go to your apartment,” Mom says, trying a weak smile. “I haven’t seen it.”

  I’ve always been nervous to show her my modest home, knowing she would feel guilty for all the things she could never provide after Dad left. I’m tempted to drag her there now, to show her what I’ve scraped together without her help. But it would feel like a violation of my personal space now, because even if I forgive Mom, I’ll never allow my father back in my life.

  Not even if he got on his knees and begged.

  “My home isn’t close,” I say, deliberate with my words. With my father back in the house, it’s unlikely my childhood home will ever be more than a distant memory.

  “It would be nice to see Renee,” she says.

  My eyes shimmer. “She doesn’t live there anymore.” I swallow hard. “She moved out. Right after I told her about Dad.”

  Mom folds her napkin and sets it on the table. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Why did you take him back, Mom?” I say, diving in. I drop my voice to a harsh whisper, aware we’re in a crowded restaurant. “After everything he’s done to us…to you. I don’t get it.”

  Mom’s smile slips a little. “It’s complicated, Liv.”

  I toss my napkin on the table and lean back in the chair, arms crossed. “Seems pretty simple to me.”

  She reaches across the table, grasping for my hand. I keep them tucked into my chest, unwilling to give her what I know we both crave—the connection that bound us in hard times. I need her now, more than I can admit.

  My thoughts turn to Mason and another flash of anger goes through me. “Dad left you for another woman,” I say, as if she’s somehow forgotten my dad’s list of sins. “Had a child with someone else, while you were still married.”

  “We got together when we were young,” Mom says. “We were just kids. How could we have known what we wanted back then?”

  I resist the knee-jerk instinct to call Mom on her bullshit. My parent’s origin story is pretty much a fairytale—high school sweethearts, pregnant right out of college, first house, first car. It got messy, Dad left.