Page 72 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

“For one thing, we need to decarb the engine first and foremost. Too early to think about paint. But when the time comes, that will be your decision, not mine.”

“What?”

“Can’t you see, kiddo?” He laughed, and seemed his old self again. “This isn’t my car. It’s yours.”

I awakened and stared up at the ceiling. Red gold light gently splayed shadows across the tile. My alarm had not yet gone off. In those situations I usually rose and turned it off manually. But a deep sense of melancholy pinned me to the bed. Lethargy, something I’d always thought myself immune to, crept into my limbs.

I miss you, Gramps. I miss your laugh, and the way you could make anything better—but most of all, I miss your advice.

I was anxious about my attempts to purchase the portrait. I had begun to think I should have been honest with Megan as soon as I found out the portrait belonged to her.

I wasn’t sure how she had come across it. Maybe someone in her family had painted it, or perhaps it was an heirloom or a keepsake. In the end, I had chosen to work through proxy instead of being direct. I feared that decision would come to haunt me.

When you run a multinational corporation, you don’t have the luxury of doing everything yourself. Believe me, I’ve tried. And failed. You have to work through proxy on occasion. The only thing is, that means choosing the proxy is an incredibly important decision.

Always surround yourself with good people, Gramps used to say. I tried to make that a philosophy in my life. It had worked quite well, and I’d become successful beyond my wildest dreams.

But Brian was not good people. I was certain of that. He was always looking for a better deal, always looking for a way to shine the spotlight a little bit brighter upon himself. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be successful, or even wanting to be famous or admired.

Brian Schrauth’s problem was he thought he was entitled to being admired and adored. When people didn’t act that way, it made him upset and angry, and he was too self-centered to turn the judgmental pendulum to swing his own way.

Such a man can’t be a good proxy. I felt as if I had little choice, so long as I wanted to keep Megan in the dark about my involvement with the portrait.

My fear was perhaps understandable. If she found out I was not only trying to get the portrait, but I had been after it for some time, Megan might think that I was only using her to get close to the portrait. It didn’t seem like random chance could produce such a thing.

I rose and went about my morning routine. Crunches, sit-ups, squats, followed by a shower and a shave.

I dressed in one of my better suits, and chose a cheerful green tie to help improve my mood. I didn’t want to dwell on my melancholy dream.

The morning and afternoon flew past me in a blur. I remember working hard, I just didn’t remember what I had been working on specifically. I was distracted, and my dream had stirred up memories of my grandfather’s last days.

Those had not been all pleasant. There came a time when he wound up in hospice care and degenerated to the point he could no longer recognize his own grandson. I try to remember the good times with my grandfather, but the last two weeks of his life had been… trying.

Just FYI, dying people in real life don’t act like they do in the movies or on TV. They don’t get happy and spiritual and become so beautiful they die. There’s ugliness as the mind and body break down that don’t make for good viewing on the Hallmark channel. I won’t go into it, but trust me that I had good reason to be in a rough mood when Megan called.

Which is probably why things went so far south after that fateful phone call.

Chapter Thirty-One

Megan

Immediately after my shift ended, I went to my apartment without slowing down or looking at any other person. My phone rang a couple of times, but I didn’t bother to look at who was calling.

I shoved in the door of my apartment and stood there as the door closed behind me. I knew what was coming next. My grandfather had said we Scotts had a volatile temper, and boy, was he ever right. Just because I kept it tightly under wraps and had learned—for the most part—to express my anger in more productive ways didn’t mean I still didn’t have the rage.

I threw my head back and screamed. I knew I had neighbors downstairs and to the side of me. I didn’t care. I ripped my apron off—and I mean that literally, tearing the seams rather than untying the drawstrings—and hurled it across the room. It struck the cheap plastic art deco knock-off Tiffany lamp I’d bought near the pier. The lamp collapsed with a tremendous clatter, punctuated by the sharp hiss of the lightbulb exploding.

I had just enough self-control not to vent my fury on my art supplies. When you’ve gone hungry for lack of work you’ll understand why. Instead, I threw myself at the sofa and grappled it like a pro wrestler. I head-butted the cushion in a repeated, furious fashion that probably would have been quite comical to watch.

I buried my face in the cushion and screamed. I screamed and screamed until I started to feel at least somewhat less angry.

I started to see the bright side. I could break from Brian once and for all, and this time—THIS time—I would make it permanent. If he showed up outside my door, I’d call the police and have him removed from the building. If I saw him in public, I would resort to running away to avoid him.

I picked up my phone and called Mason. I needed to feel appreciated, and as stupid as it might sound I wanted someone to pat me on the head and tell me everything was going to be all right.

“Megan,” he said, his voice a little tense.

“Is this a bad time?”

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