Page 29 of Sapphire Spring

But a few seconds later, he and his date were gone.

Then Chadwick’s car roared like a dragon and wheeled offinto the night, probably awakening everyone on Capo Beach who’d gone to bedearly.

As silence fell, Naser started to shake all over, a tremorthat emanated from his bones. Chadwick’s departure had done little more thanrelease the dam of tension that had held Naser’s panic in place, and now itthreatened to drown him in a single wave.

He took a deep breath through his nostrils and was about tolet it out in a long, comforting exhale when he tried to turn the handle andfound it was locked.

The door was locked.

From the other side.

And on this side, the handle held a keyhole.

Cursing under his breath, Naser found a light switch on thewall next to him. He’d been right—this was a laundry room. And on the lowerportion of the door, he saw fading scratches that didn’t reach any higher thanthe knob. So that’s why the handle was the reverse of what he would haveexpected. Someone, possibly Mason, had kept a dog in here at some point. A dogthat must have excelled at escaping its crate.

He went for his pocket and realized that in his rush toreturn Mason’s phone, he’d left his own in his car.

“Mason!” There was so much panic in his voice, hefelt instantly ashamed of his cry. He rattled the door loud enough to rivalChadwick Brody’s sports car.

Silence greeted him.

He was trapped.

He was being punished by the universe for the dangerous,voyeuristic curiosity that had led him to bring Mason’s phone to his house. Hecould have just called Fareena. Or taken Mason’s phone to the lost and foundand been done with it. But no, he had to see how thebastardlived.

And the whole scene was dreadfully familiar to the one he’doften used to shield and comfort himself back in high school. As a teenager,when the pain of each day had become too much, Naser would put an extra layerof walls between his mother and the sound of his nocturnal tears by sinking tothe floor of his bedroom closet and wrapping his arms around his knees. On aregular basis, he’d gone to sleep there, waking in the morning curled into aball on the carpeted floor. He sank to the same position now, as if old scarshad programmed the habit into his joints.

Would the tears come now?

The reunion with Mason might have been manageable.

The sudden forced proximity to Chadwick Brody had been anightmare come true.

Mason had been bad back then. Chadwick had been worse. Wayworse.

He knew he should get up, search the room. Look for a hiddenkey.

But the exhaustion that followed the adrenaline dump ofpanic had seized him. It was paralyzing, but compared to the terror of momentsbefore, it was also a comfort. All he wanted to do was breathe again. Slowly.Carefully. He managed a few good ones before he passed out cold.

9

When Mason woke, feeling like aspike had been driven through his temples, he was sprawled atop the covers.

What had happened to his suit and tie? He was in jeans andan old fraternity T-shirt he couldn’t remember putting on, surrounded by hisfamiliar pillows and satin bedspread. He rolled onto his back. The sun hit hisface like a bucket of cold water. He’d stupidly left the drapes open, theheadache-inducing signature of yet another bender. Now his eyes felt like theywere about to burst from his sockets.

Muscles got stronger the more you traumatized them at thegym. Shouldn’t the same thing be true of hangovers? Shouldn’t your body getbetter at handling them over time?

No.They’re getting worse because I’m gettingworse.

The comforter around him was blanketed in a cologne hedidn’t recognize, but when he sat up, he saw his bed was sex worker-free.

To keep his head from throbbing, he took the stairs slowlyand carefully. It was no use. Halfway down, even the most careful steps provednauseating, so he gave up and descended the rest of the way full speed, onehand to his forehead, already fantasizing about aspirin and a beer.

At the base of the stairs, the unfamiliar cologne hit himwith its strongest wave yet. It was coming from the laundry room. He unlocked itand pulled the handle. For a while, he stood there blinking, trying to convincehimself he wasn’t hallucinating. Naser Kazemi—an older, brawnier, more beardedversion of him—was asleep atop a pile of Mason’s dirty laundry he’d formed intoa pallet on the exposed concrete floor.

But even in sleep, with his hands folded delicately againsthis chest, he looked like he was deep in thought. And wasn’t that always thecombination that had done things to Mason’s insides—Naser’s strutting, sassyenergy mixed with a seriousness that made him seem wise beyond his years? It’swhat had inspired the nickname his buddies had said with derision, but whichMason had always used with a fair amount of repressed desire.

Prancer.

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