Page 74 of Mason

Emily

Life’s a box of crazy when someone on your father’s payroll wants to kill you.

Rather than take me home, Papa sets me up in a swanky hotel in town that doubles as a jail cell while he sorts out the matter. Plainclothes armed guards patrol the hall. Hired help bring in supplies instead of me going out. Food. Physical therapists. A psychologist. A doctor. It’s a revolving door of people I don’t want to see.

Unfortunately, with my mobility limited by crutches for four to six weeks, I can’t run off and find the one person I’d like to see. That leaves me with time. A lot of time. And pain, both physical and emotional.

I’m only allowed to attend Rachel’s funeral, which rips me apart.

Missing the rest of the semester devours my dreams.

Watching people through the window live rather than exist below scavenges what I have left.

The holidays blow through with life still limited to within these four walls. No family visits. Not even Papa. It’s essentially a nicer version of the cabin, except this prison has no one I can really talk to. No one who isn’t paid to listen. No Rachel. No Mason.

He never reaches out. Not for Thanksgiving. Not for Christmas.

But I try, at least.

I text every cell phone number ever registered to Mason Carlyle that I can find online. He’s the only person who understands what happened that night at the cabin. The only one who smelled the blood. Felt the pain. Heard my screams. I just need to see him. Know that he’s okay. Then I’ll know that I’m okay, too.

When my doctor finally gives me the okay to go crutch-free, I know what I have to do when she cuts it away. I’m no one’s prisoner.

I smile and walk her out, going through the motions as we chatter on the way to the elevator. The guards don’t react once I step outside. I don’t look like I’m up to anything in a ridiculously oversized cardigan, leggings, and knit slippers. It’s New Year’s Eve, and it's raining. I’m not exactly dressed to watch the ball drop at a club.

But when the elevator door opens, I slip inside, pressing the close door button rapidly.

The pearl-wearing prima donna of a doctor looks at me with shocked blue eyes. Papa pays her a lot of money to come here, so she knows I’m not supposed to wander out. “What are you doing?”

“I need to visit a friend,” I say with a shrug. I’ve had his address memorized for weeks now after finding it online.

The guards come charging as expected, but the doors shut before they reach us, and the floors chime by one by one. There’s a good chance that some are waiting in the lobby, but now that my leg isn’t wrapped in a cast, I might have a fighting chance at outrunning them.

The elevator doors open to the art déco lobby and I can’t get out fast enough, darting toward the exit. My leg aches at the sudden use, but I ignore the pain and keep running. I have one chance at this. If I slow down, Papa’s paid muscle will haul me inside and stand watch at my door.

This is a spur-of-the-moment thing, so I don’t have a taxi waiting, but as I jog down the front steps and into the crowd of bundled-up patrons dawdling along the sidewalk, I slip my phone out of my cardigan pocket and order a ride share, entering a pickup location that’s two blocks down.

The walk flat-out sucks. It’s freezing, I’m not dressed for the weather, and my leg hurts like hell, but I push ahead, knowing this is my chance to see Mason.

A woman in a green Toyota picks me up, her backseat crowded by a baby seat and duffel bag. I slide in, lean back, and take a deep, shaky breath.

“You okay back there?” the driver asks, eyeing me nervously in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, sorry. I had to take the stairs.” Lying shouldn’t be this easy, but it is. All I care about is that she put as much space between me and the hotel as possible right now. I’ll deal with the consequences later.

The ride is stop and go with heavy traffic that only gets worse because of the rain, and Papa blows my phone up with texts and calls that I reply to with a simple be back soon before shutting it off. I can’t risk him tracking me.

We arrive at the apartment complex just outside of the city in a little under half an hour. I step out into its parking lot that could use better asphalt, taking in the whitewashed brick exterior of the series of two-story rectangles as the car pulls away. They fit Mason. Simple. To the point. No frills.

As my legs carry me toward apartment 233A, the nerves kick in. The ones that scream that what I’m doing is insane. I’m dropping in on my kidnapper. Who the hell am I? What is wrong with me?

But it’s too late to back out now. I’ve come too far, and I’ve dreamed of this moment for the past few weeks. I’m desperate to see Mason again. Desperate to kiss him again. Desperate to see if that one explosion between us was all in my head. If what I felt then came out of loneliness or if he’s someone special. Someone that breaks every mold of what I thought I’d want. What I’m supposed to want. Just like Rachel said.

That curious hunger helps me knock on his door when I start to chicken out. It keeps me planted there waiting when my instincts tell me to run the other direction, that I’m playing with fire when I’m dripping in gasoline.

The silence is deafening.

There’s no television blaring inside. No radio. No moaning that would most definitely break my heart in half.

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