Page 45 of Mason

Mason

Iavoid any more dances with the devil the rest of the morning, keeping temptation away like my life depends on it.

Because it does.

If I touch Emily Giambelli, all bets are off. I’m a dead man.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.

It also doesn’t mean that I don’t jack off in the bathroom while she takes a nap, picturing Emily bent over the tub in front of me, taking every thrust with that big fucking mouth of hers crying out so you can practically hear her in Jackson—and come harder than I have in ages.

By afternoon, I cuff her in the bathroom, her body wrapped in the blanket and my button-down. I check every square inch for anything she can try to pick the cuffs with first, and once I’m sure Houdini can’t wiggle free, I leave. I can’t stay trapped in this cabin a moment longer. I need air.

The walk to my car is worse than it usually is. The rain turned everything to thick sludge, and I’m not convinced I’ll be able to drive out whenever I get there.

But with the grace of God, a truckload of colorful swears, I do.

Using the GPS, I find a general store that’s only a half-hour away, navigate the barely touched roads there, wander the aisles, and spend too much money on random shit to stall driving back. Antiseptics. Ibuprofen. A family pack of Band-Aids. Toothpaste. Soap. I even grab a pair of cheap leggings and a frumpy sweatshirt that says Biloxi. I don’t have a goddamn clue if either will fit her, but it’s better than looking at her wearing my fucking clothes.

Seeing a woman wrapped up in pieces of me never stirred anything before, but those women weren’t Emily. She’s unlike any woman I’ve met, a fire-breathing beauty with a spirit that I don’t want to break. I crave more of it. A constant surprise that keeps me on my toes. I feel alive when I’m with her, volleying insults and seeing what makes her bite.

As I pull out of the pharmacy’s parking lot, my phone rings.

I’m a little surprised no one’s called sooner, considering how things went yesterday at the docks. I half-expected Dad to call me to the house to rip me a new asshole over shooting the trespasser. He might’ve privately fumed that he wanted us to do just that, but now that I was the one who pulled the trigger, I know he’ll have a change of heart.

“Hey,” I answer, driving slowly as I scan the names of old, weathered storefronts. The rural strip of buildings is a mishmash of clashing colors: red, yellow, green, gray. I passed a hardware shop somewhere along it on the way into town, and I need to stop in and grab firewood and supplies to keep my escape artist better contained.

“Are you alone?” It’s Dixon.

“Yeah. I’m in around the place.” I spy the familiar peeling sign of Doon’s Hardware. I ease to a stop and flick on my turn signal to pull in the lot, relieved the small-town road is better than the clusterfuck near the farm. That shit gave my SUV a fucking workout.

“Checking on the princess?” he asks, a hint of humor to his voice.

I grip the wheel a little tighter than necessary as I pull into a parking slip. “I had to make sure she didn’t drown.”

He laughs, and I hear his turn signal going in the background too. “Aw, you’re getting attached, Mason? Remember, we can’t keep her. If you’re a good boy, I’ll buy you a puppy.”

“I’ll pass. I don’t need another responsibility.” This latest one is proving to be more of a challenge than I imagined. She’s also sucking up my time. Time that could be spent looking for Spencer’s killer. I can’t let my dick get in the way of that. She’s just a woman. A Giambelli.

“I saw Anthony at the funeral with his entourage. Scary son of a bitch, huh?”

I bump up the heat and relax into the seat, partly because the holes in my pant legs let in a chill against my flesh and partly because of Dixon’s words. “Yep. Nice wig, by the way.”

Anthony isn’t someone I want on my bad side, but it’s looking like the rich son of a bitch is determined to stay there. Talking about Dad and recordings on the day of Spencer’s murder is more than suspect.

“Hey, it’s all I had,” he defends. “I owed it to Spencer to be there. I love that pretty bastard. I hate that I didn’t get a chance to see him over the years. With Thomas and all…”

“I know.” Dixon’s family. Mom is his mom as much as she’s mine. He belongs with us, especially now that Spencer’s gone. If Dad wasn’t such a mule of a man, things might be different. But without thing’s changing, Dixon is a lone wolf.

But Dixon doesn’t linger on the subject. He’s seen enough heartache to power through just about anything. Dead mother. Drunken step-father that deep-throated a shotgun in his childhood bedroom. Father who fucking shot him in the arm. Every sensitive spot has imploded. “So did you get there yet? How’s Giambelli’s little firework? Still popping off?” he asks.

Oh, yeah.

“Like a goddamn powder keg.”

“She can be a sweet talker, too.” He chuckles. “Don’t let her wrap you around her little finger, Mason.”

“No worries about that,” I lie, knowing damn well what a threat she is. She might not be as lethal as her father physically, but there are glimpses of the power he possesses in her. Anyone else would’ve faced my wrath after the stunt she’d pulled, but one look at those petrified eyes had me swaddling her like a goddamn baby.

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