Page 9 of Mason

He pushes me away, brushing his suit jacket as if I left remnants of trash on him. “Go to your room.”

* * *

If Papa hoped to scare me into submission, he failed.

Miserably.

I’m his daughter, and like him, I rise to the occasion when faced with an obstacle. I’m not meek like Mama or Anna. He woke the lion inside. I can't retaliate with a physical strike back, but I can rebel in my own way. I always have.

The hours alone in my room drag by, and our chef, Lisa, brings me supper while I’m in the middle of Tax Accounting homework. I eat the tomato bisque slowly, biding my time. The sun sets while I thumb through a chapter on investments. Night settles as I finish editing an essay.

Papa hasn’t come to apologize. Not that I expect him to. In fact, he rages by my door screaming at Mama, ranting that she raised a problem, and that problem is me.

I smile at that. I—his daughter who barely reaches his shoulder—am enough of a problem that he has to run around shouting like a maniac.

I wait until after nine to get ready quietly, leaving my long waves down and pairing old pajamas with sneakers for the walk to Rachel, who’s meeting me a few blocks away in her car. Makeup covers the red handprint on my cheek, though I add a little extra smoke to my eyelids to pull attention away just in case.

Heading out dressed in club attire isn’t the best idea, so I stuff heels and a black minidress into a backpack before doing a final twirl in the mirror to ensure I look perfect for Dorian. Like a prize for a prince. Irresistible. Ready, willing, and able to make him happy.

I scrounge around for the last minute details, molding a dummy in my bed with a lump of clothes, the cheap extensions Rachel insisted I buy at the outlet over summer making a fabulous stand-in for bedhead in a pinch. Perfect.

Pulling my jacket close to avoid touching the frame, I ease a window open and slide out onto the copper roof tiles, our Mediterranean-themed home more fitting of Italy than the southern suburbs. Gently, I lower the window down to leave barely a crack open—just enough wiggle room for reentry later, but not enough for anyone to notice if they peek a head in to check on me.

The height makes me a little dizzy at first, but as I have countless times before, I inch along the home’s stucco exterior, keeping low to avoid attracting any attention. My toes almost touch the gutters, but I look up at the stars rather than down. It always makes this part a little easier.

The journey is slow, but once I reach the section of open roof leading to the rear porch, I crouch, bear-crawling toward freedom. My backpack jostles, functioning uncomfortably like a turtle’s shell as it heaves and hos. But it’s a necessary evil unless I plan on wooing Dorian in my pajamas.

When I near the edge, I reach for the pergola, only to snatch my hand away as Papa’s voice booms from below. “I need more than just hearsay, motherfucker! I need cold, hard facts. Words from Thomas’s own mouth. Do you have a recording?”

Shit.

Puffs of smoke drift up with the scent of cigar, and though I can’t see him, I know Papa’s lounging in a chair overlooking the backyard. It’s one of his favorite spots to scream into his phone.

“I don’t give a fuck what you heard. I need more than that.” I’m not sure who he’s talking to, but whoever it is must be shitting a brick.

Scanning the roof, I crawl to the side, careful to lift my feet and not drag an inch over the tiles to stay silent. If Papa catches me, I’ll have more than a few weeks of lockdown to worry about. I can kiss school and everything else goodbye. I might as well write my vows to Steven too and get ready to have rat-faced babies.

With a shudder, I venture to the side of the house that’s easiest to navigate. It faces Mama’s gardens, while the opposite drops off by the main gate that’s usually staffed by at least two guards. The choice is obvious.

Papa’s voice grows more fractured along the way. All I can tell is that he’s furious by his snarls. It isn’t all that out of the ordinary. Papa is always angry at someone. It comes with the territory of ruling part of a city. Not everyone listens. I’d know.

Dipping onto the side porch’s roof takes me down another few feet, the veranda outstretching to overlook Mama’s prized flower garden. She loves those plants more than her own family. The only thing she may value more is money.

I listen for anyone lurking below but hear nothing. I wait another minute and once I’m certain the coast is clear; I search for a way down, feeling blindly around the edge of the roof.

The only feasible option is a column which I’m not thrilled about, but it’s the safest and fastest escape, so I clamp my legs around the stone and shimmy down, grateful that my pajama bottoms protect my skin from scraping. It’s a thick column, so it’s a struggle, and I almost lose my grip at first. Thankfully, my legs save me, and with some readjustments, I inch down.

When my feet touch the patio tile, it’s a mad dash to the gardens across the freshly mowed lawn. The dense lilac bushes provide cover, easing the panic in my belly. It isn’t my usual route, but I improvise, scaling the wrought-iron fence at the yard’s edge thanks to the metal drum that Mama uses for composting—gardening the only thing she allows to dirty her hands.

That also means I plummet to the earth on the other side of the fence, landing on my hands and knees in grass and old leaves. Lovely.

I make it to Rachel in under ten minutes, but she frowns when I slide in the passenger door of her sedan. “You smell like grass clippings.”

“Look,” I grumble, unzipping my backpack to extract my dress and heels while huffing and puffing from the jog. I probably look crazy with my hair standing on end, but at least my ass is in her seat. “I had a rough escape from Alcatraz.”

She laughs, already decked out in a slinky number of her own that has enough glitter to see from space. “The warden that tough on you, huh?”

I shrug out of my coat to change. “You have no idea.”

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