Page 50 of Sapphire Spring

A car that meant sobriety.

Freedom.

And making Naser Kazemi happy.

A few hours later, Mason got a texton his phone from a number he didn’t recognize.

It’sNas. I’m outside.

Nas, is he letting mecall him that finally?

Want to come in?

No.

So much for a thaw,Mason thought.

Mason grabbed the printout of his bank statement off thecounter and headed for the door.

Outside, Naser’s Volvo idled.

When he slid into the passenger seat, Mason was startled bythe stark contrast between their outfits.

Naser was dressed like he was ready to go for a jog on thebeach—green gym shorts, a white T-shirt with a bright colorful logo forsomething called the Farhang Foundation, and white plastic-framed sunglassesthat looked like the kind you’d drop in a beach bag without a second thought.Meanwhile, Mason looked ready to go yachting in Newport Harbor. Today was thefirst time in his life he’d ironed a polo shirt, and his jeans were someacid-washed designercrapChadwick had forced them tobuy at a boutique in LA with a name he couldn’t pronounce and a clerk who’dlooked eighteen but talked to them like they were both idiots.

“Good afternoon, Mr.Worther,” Nasersaid with all the enthusiasm of a foghorn.

Mason smiled and handed Naser the bank statement that showedproof of funds.

Naser stared at it without removing his sunglasses. Thetense set in his jaw suggested he hadn’t expected Mason to deliver. Now that hehad, Naser looked stuck. Finally, he nodded, and went to hand it back to him.

“You should probably hold on to that,” Mason said.

Nodding again—nervously this time—Naser folded it up andplaced it inside the armrest, then he went to take the car out of park andstarted to make a U-turn. “Where wegoing?” Masonasked.

“You’ll see.”

“Okay, one sec here.” Mason reached out and gripped Naser’sright arm. “Before we head out, a condition.”

Naser slammed on the brakes. “Nowwe’re going to doconditions?Are you backing out, Mr.Worther?”

“No. I want to be sure you’re not going to lure me into somealley and have your friends come and beat the shit out of me or something.”

“Myfriends don’t beat the shit out of people.”

Mason was tempted to defend himself, point out that his crewhad never technically beat theshitout of Nasereither. But he didn’t plan to spend the next three hours justifying.

“It’s just one condition,Nas.”

He waited for Naser to correct him with his full name. Hedidn’t.

“No alleys?” he asked.

“No broken bones,” Mason answered.

“Fine. No broken bones.”

Then Naser was driving again.

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