Page 4 of Mason

At least I can count on him to always be the first in line on Spencer’s shit list, too.

Travis shrugs, rubbing his hand over fresh ink on his forearm, a topless zombie mermaid that fits in with the rest of the undead body art that decorates him from head to toe. “I thought he was with Thomas.”

“He’s not here?” I freeze, keeping a tight leash on the worry pulling at my gut. There’s a simple explanation. There has to be.

Travis shakes his head, grimacing as a fresh helping of port air invades the open shipping bay facing the Mississippi River. “I haven’t seen him all day.”

Grady’s hand stops halfway to his mouth for the next drag of his cigarette, his eyes shining with the concern burning a hole in my chest.

I reach for my phone, holding up a hand in pause before all hell breaks loose. Spencer’s reliable, sure, but he’s not a saint. Maybe he’s banging a chick and didn’t feel like dealing with Dad. We’ve all been there.

I select his name from my contact list and press the phone to my ear, studying the men shuffling around the building while waiting for the call to connect. The service down here is a little sketchy, much like the characters that frequent the area.

But the phone doesn’t ring, bouncing directly to voicemail instead.

“Hello. You’ve reached Spencer Carlyle. For all business inquiries, please direct your calls to Carlyle Automotive; otherwise leave a message after the tone. Thanks.”

I drop my hand, and Grady moves with me in sync to leave. There’s no need to speak. He knows. We’ve always been able to communicate with a look.

If Spencer is dicking around with his phone off, I’ll take a bat to him myself. We might not be as regimented as other crews, but our system works. All phones must be on at all times, even if left on silent. It’s a lifeline between Carlyles. Severing it is as forbidden as ratting.

Once outside, Grady looks to me, genuine fear painted across his face. “Why would he tell Dad he’s at the docks?” His voice is low, keeping the pertinent details between us.

My mind whirls with impossible scenarios, none of which make any sense. No matter how it looks, Spencer isn’t the type to fuck around off the radar. “Would Dad lie?”

My question floats between us, and Grady’s shoulders slouch. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I don’t know why he would. Unless Dad has him working a line out there.”

I don’t want to consider it. If I can’t trust my father, I can’t trust anyone. For all his failures as a parent, he’s never lied to me. He delivers truth with unmatched brutality. It’s an art form, really. “Let’s drop by and see if he’s getting his beauty rest. Maybe he took that new girl from the bar out for a spin. Jessica”

Grady snickers as we head to our vehicles, and this time, I let him lead the way. I even spare him from riding his bumper as we carve through the city toward the cookie-cutter neighborhood on its outskirts.

Spencer has tastes as polished as his looks, and his newly built home is no different. Situated in a manicured community, it’s the last place you’d expect a gun-toting criminal to live, yet Spencer has inserted himself like a goddamn catheter.

This has to have a simple explanation. We’re freaking out over nothing, panicking because Dad was an ass about the Giambelli meet. We’ll probably pull up and find Spencer watching Oprah reruns in his boxers.

Sure enough, as we pull in the craftsman's paver driveway, Spencer’s Cadillac sits outside the garage, a fresh coat of wax leaving it glistening under the midday sun.

“Don’t you just want to take a shit on the hood?” Grady grumbles, waving at the shiny red car when I hop out. “That fucker had us shitting a brick, and he’s probably inside bottoming out a bar hag.”

“I’ll castrate him.” With all the craziness going on between us, the Italians, and the Russians, he knows better than to go off the radar.

Grady chuckles as he steps toward the house, almost crushing one of the solar lights lining the driveway with his boot. “You can have him after I take a nipple for my troubles.”

I move to join him as he reaches the porch. “Just a nipple?”

He nods, opening the screen door and pressing his ear to the one behind it, the mahogany carved with fleur-de-lis in typical flashy Spencer fashion. “I don’t hear any moaning, so at least we won’t walk into an eyeful of balls and assholes. Knowing Spencer, he probably bleaches his.”

I block the image out before it can even conjure up in my head. “At least we know it’s not Jessica. She’s loud even when she’s sleeping.”

“Oh yeah? She slept at your place after? You’re a gentleman. I fucked her in the bathroom at Travis’s party and called it a night.” He reaches into the soil of the potted bush beside the door to fish out the spare key, and I grit my teeth. I’ve bitched Spencer out for that hiding spot countless times.

“I know,” I remind him. “I couldn’t get her out until almost noon the next day. She moans in her sleep.”

I heard their entire fling, including when she called him my name. Twice. I would’ve preferred a similar encounter to his, honestly, rather than the one I’d had. Now she knows exactly where my apartment is and likes to stop by whenever she sees my car in its slip.

His face scrunches as he fumbles with the lock. “Becky from the coffee shop is a moaner, too, except she does it when your dick is in her throat. Hottest shit ever.”

I run my fingers over my face as he pushes the door wide. “Too much information.”

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