Page 99 of Sapphire Spring

He tucked the phone in his pocket so he couldn’t check itsecond by second for his old man’s response. This time when he entered hisoffice, he closed the door. The response he dreaded most was,With who?But if his father couldn’t bring himself to ask that morning, why would he beable to ask now? Maybe the distance of texting would give his old man thecourage.

An hour and a half went by before the response came:

Cancel them.

He knows.Son of abitch,he knows.

Another text came through:

After dinner tonight, you’re taking Avis’s daughterout and showing her a good time. The kind you’re good at.

He’d never met Avis’s daughter Marva, but he’d heard rumorsshe was one of Dallas’s premiere party girls, a fact that wasn’t sitting so wellwith her new husband. The Paris Hilton of the Big D, as her father had calledher during their last meeting, and with an expression on his face like he’dtasted something bitter.

I’m two weeks sober. Taking a party girl on a nightclub tour isn’t advisable for me right now.

The response was quick this time:

Fuck her brains out sober then. She’s your type.Unless your type has changed.

Mason winced.

How was this his life? How had he gone so long with a bestfriend and a father who talked about people, especially women, as nothing morethan opportunities to either get off or make money? The answer—he’d been toodrunk or hungover most of the time to care. Too caught up in feeding his owndangerous appetites to take stock of the moral fiber of those close to him. Infact, he was starting to suspect he’d used their lack of character to feelbetter about his own reckless life choices.

Mason stared at the text. Where the hell was his old mananyway? It was well past lunch, and there were no meetings on the calendar. Washe just sitting in his office, stewing? And texting?

Has your type changed?

Mason’s fingers were shaking when he raised the phone again.

I am not having sex with a married woman to keep aninvestor happy.

And I’m not attending any dinner where that’s theexpectation. Sorry.

A few breathless seconds later came his father’s response.

Seven o’clock. The Montage in Laguna.

Sorry. I have plans.

Silence. And no answering dots on his phone.

Then he heard it—footsteps brushing the carpet outside. Andif it hadn’t been for the carpet, they would have pounded, thundered, echoed.The next thing he knew, his office door had flownopenand PeteWortherwas standing there, red-faced. Theveins in his neck bulged, and the skin on his throat flushed a bright red thatoutlined every razor bump he’d left that morning.

Mason stared back, wondering if he should be ready to defendhimself with his fists. He’d never had to fight off blows from his father. Hisfather had never deigned to touch him at all. But something felt different now.A line had been crossed. Mason had told him something his father wasn’t used tohearing—no.

“What’s his name?”

Mason stared at him.

“The man you haveplanswith this evening. What ishis name?”

Mason shouldn’t have been surprised, but a part of him was.Maybe his father had always known and that’s what the constant verbal abuse hadbeen about, making sure Mason never displayed his alleged sin in his father’spresence. Or maybe someone had reported back that he’d taken a certain specialsomeone picnicking a stone’s throw from the Vistana site. Hell, Mason’sblackouts had been so severe, for all he knew he’d come out to his father andforgotten about it. But now, by refusing to bend to his father’s manipulation,by prioritizing a man he was falling for over his father’s constant control,Mason had committed an unforgivable sin. In Pete’s eyes, at least.

Showtime, Mason thought.

“Naser. And if you ever say it with anything less thankindness and respect, if youeversay it with the contempt and theanger you use to talk to me and everyone here, I will flatten you.”

Pete flinched, but he held his ground. Through the openoffice door, Mason saw heads turn, wide eyes staring.

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