Page 100 of Sapphire Spring

“You better watch your fucking mouth,son,” Petegrowled.

“Or else what?” Mason was suddenly eye level with hisfather—he’d stood up from behind his desk without planning to. “Or elsewhat?I’m not the one who clings to you like an old blanket I can’t stand the smellof but won’t throw away. Three weeksin tothosecrybabymeetingsand I’ve already got more people in my life, more people I cantrust, than you’ve racked up in a lifetime. You want to kick me to the curb forbeing bi? Go ahead. I’ll land. You think I’m going to miss this plum gig? Beingsubjected to your abuse every day?”

“You might miss your house,” Pete snarled.

“It’s not my house. It’s an oldfuckpad where you took women you were paying not to have an honest opinion aboutyou.”

Pete whirled and slammed the door to Mason’s office so hardthe window rattled in its frame.

“No son of mine is—”

There was a fierce crash that made Pete jump and whirl, and that’swhen Mason realized he’d picked up a glass picture frame housing a baby pictureof him and his mother and thrown it at the wall a few feet from where hisfather stood. Thrown it hard enough to dent the wood and shatter the glass intoseveral chunky fragments and a diamond-like spray of smaller ones across thecarpet. The stunned look in his father’s eyes, the singing pain in Mason’sthrowing arm, these things might have silenced another man. But a rage coursedthrough Mason’s veins that felt powerful. Delicious. Intoxicating.

“Don’t you even,” Mason growled. “Don’t even start with somebullshitspeech from some pamphlet for a church you’venever attended in your goddamn life. You can kick me out of that house. You cankick me out of a job. But you can’t shame me. I don’t respect you enough forthat.Sotake your pick,Dad. Fire me or getout of my office.”

The last time PeteWortherhadlooked like this, Mason had been ten. They’d been on a rare bike ride throughthe mountains together. Pete’s front tire had slammed into a rock in the middleof the path, hurling him to the ground. The wind had been knocked out of theman, and there’d been several panicked seconds of young Mason watching his big,burly dad, down on all fours, white-faced and wheezing. But in that long-agomoment, he’d shouted questions at his dad about how he could help, convincedthe man was having a heart attack, and his dad hadwavedhim away with one hand. Even when his body was singing with pain, the prospectof his son’s touch repulsed him.

This time Mason didn’t say a word.

This time he wasn’t afraid. He was relieved.

He’d done it, finally. Cut the cord. Said too much, lost hisshit, served the man more truth than he could handle.

His dad would fire him, for sure. The short-term resultswould be gnarly and complicated, but the long-term result would be somethinghe’d craved for years—his dad would finally let him go. And there would be noglittering temptation for Mason to come back to. No house, no cash, no cars. Nohate-tinged gifts.

Just freedom.

But his dad didn’t even give him that. He turned and leftMason’s office instead.

Call Shirley,he thought as he reached his car.Yourhands are shaking. Call Shirley.But he didn’t want to slow down. Sittingin the feelings would only make them worse.

Naser,he thought, as he sped home.All I needisNas.

But as soon as he walked through his front door, he starteda perpetual swipe, refreshing his emails and texts, braced for someofficial-sounding termination letter from his dad or a gussied-up evictionletter from his dad’s lawyer. Something official sounding and especiallydickish.

Hours passed. The sun sank into the ocean, painting the sandorange and pink as it went. His phone stayed silent.

If his furious words hadn’t done the job, should he drop theax himself and quit?

He lost track of time until he heard a car engine outside,followed by a light, familiar knock on the front door, and when he opened it,there was Naser, redolent of the same spicy cologne that had turned Mason’sbedsheets into a passport to bliss the night before, dressed in tantalizinglytight dark jeans and a dark blue band-collar tee that exposed the invitingbrown expanse of his neck.

When Mason looked into his beautiful eyes, his first instinctwas to tell him everything. Tell him how he might have justfuckedhis life up royally, but he’d loved every damn minute of it. And that he’d doneit for him. Forthem. But Naser’s expression was a mixture ofvulnerable and hungry that joined up with all of Mason’s fantasies of the momentto come. Fantasies of what Naser would look like writhing beneath him. What itwould feel like to grab his luscious, meaty hips with fingers slick with lubeas he drove himself into him from behind. What it would feel like to close hishands around Naser’s throat with just the amount of pressure he craved.

So instead of spilling out his truth, Mason grabbed Naser byone hand and pulled him inside.

“Waited long enough,” he managed to get out before hebrought their mouths together. Naser let out a surprised grunt as their lipsmet, then he was lost to the kiss. The kitchen had played host to enough oftheir hurried pleasure. It was time to return to the bedroom, the site of theiroriginal undoing.

When Mason threw Naser to the bed, his eyes brightened asfiercely as they had when he’d guided Mason’s foot to his throat. And thenMason was on top of him thinking,Finally.TonightI finally make him mine.

And then a car horn started blaring.

A familiar carhorn.

He knew full well it was coming from a bright orangeMaserati that had to be parked right outside his front door. Because stupid,messy Mason hadn’t given Chadwick the guest code for the gate when he firstmoved in: he’d given his own. Now, if he wanted Chadwick barred from theirprivate drive, he’d have to petition the HOA to change the code for all theresidents.

But maybe this was perfect. Maybe this was how it wassupposed to be. Maybe there was a twisted kind of justice in ignoringChadwick’s latest plea for attention while joining his body with Naser’s.

The horn continued to blare.

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