Page 70 of Mason

Emily

Papa breezes back in my hospital room as I’m stuffing a piece of Halloween candy in my mouth, a bite-sized Snickers that my nurse smuggled to me while he was out taking a walk for a few hours. Like I’m stupid and don’t know that he’s checking on Mason and calling every man on his staff.

I promptly choke on the piece of forbidden candy when Mason strolls in behind him, his arm in a sling with a row of angry-looking stitches stretch across the right side of his face. He’s back in street clothes, unlike me, my outfit from the cabin replaced with a gown that leaves no secrets around back. At least somebody thought to bring him a change of clothes.

“Someone would like to talk to you,” Papa announces, pausing by the door. He looks from me to Mason with hard eyes. “Make it quick.”

Mason nods, and Papa heads back into the hall, his presence still sucking the air out of the room despite the door closing behind him.

Mason looks good, all things considered. He has pink in his cheeks, an upgrade from the pasty white shade earlier, and the blood—our blood—that covered him is gone.

We stare at one another for an uncomfortably long pause until I finally speak up. “Nice sling.”

His feet stay planted in his spot by the door. “Thanks. Only had to get shot to get it.”

“Make it easier on me, please. Come a little closer. I’m working with one eye here.” I point to the ballooning right side of my face, the result of his brother’s pistol whip. The doctor said it’s a broken orbital bone and that the swelling will eventually go down, but right now, I’m stuck talking to the man I crave like water after a stint in the desert while looking like Sloth from The Goonies. It’s not my proudest moment, but I’ll take what I can get. I don’t know when I’ll see him again.

He listens, drifting in and stopping at the foot of the bed until I gesture to the chair Papa vacated before his walk. Patrol, really. He hesitates, but sits when I keep pointing at it like a madwoman.

“Thank you, Mason.” It still feels bizarre to say his name aloud. Mason. I like it. I have the worst urge to hobble over to the whiteboard and write Emily and Mason a hundred times over like a grade school crush.

He reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck with his free arm and wincing in pain. “Don’t thank me.”

“You saved my life.” My life. He deserves a lot more than a thank you, but he needs to wait until I have my own money. I refuse to touch Papa’s now more than ever. Hopefully Rachel’s ready to get that apartment together she always blabbed about in high school.

“I told you, it’s my job.”

Bullshit. He can say it until he’s blue in the face, and I still won’t believe him.

I narrow my functioning eye at him. “Your job was to bring me chicken piccata and kiss me?”

I expect him to volley back, to score a spike at my expense about how I threw myself at him, but he doesn’t. He remains silent, his eyes fixed on the bandage covering where my IV stuck in my hand a little while ago.

“I have bad news.”

Here it goes. Papa probably let him know that he can find him anywhere and make him disappear. He does that with any guy in a half-block radius of me except for rat face Steven.

“What is it? Did my father threaten you? Ignore him. I’m moving out with Rachel. He can pound rocks.”

I won’t tell Papa my new address. I won’t tell anyone. It’s not like Mama or Anna will care, either. Neither of them bothered to show up tonight. And to think I would’ve given anything to see any of them a few hours ago.

His jaw clenches, and he speaks through tight lips. “You’re not moving in with Rachel.”

“Shut up. Don’t you start bossing me around, too. I’ll move in with Rachel and get a job. Maybe you can help me find something. I’ve never had one before.” It’s a little embarrassing to admit at twenty, but embarrassment is already out the window. He’s seen me at my worst.

“Rachel’s dead, Emily.”

I shake my head, sure I’m hearing things. “What was that?”

“Rachel is dead.” He delivers it louder this time. More forceful. More serious.

“You said Papa had her,” I choke out, blinking rapidly. He’s confused. There’s a kink in the information pipeline somewhere. Papa has her, and he’s mixing her up with someone else.

“Grady grabbed them after he let them go. Someone tipped him off in advance. He knew exactly where they’d be.”

“No, no, no, no!” I point at him, rage making my finger shake. “Stop playing around. I can’t take any more of this today.”

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. My heart wants to leap out of my chest and throat-punch him right now. He can’t joke about Rachel. He can’t joke about death. I’ve seen enough for one lifetime today with front-row seats.

His eyes mirror the ache in my chest. “It’s not a joke, Emily. She’s dead.”

Rachel can’t be dead. She’s my best friend. My favorite pain in the ass. My shopping buddy and boy-crazy confidant. The only person who makes me feel human in the Giambelli bubble.

Denial tries to fend it off, but a burst of heat erupts through me, and the tears rain down. This doesn’t feel like my body. My story. My reality. I’m so caught up in it that I didn't see him slip out of the door. Out of my life.

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