His to Own: 50 Loving States, Arkansas Page 8

  “He might. It’s been three days since the postcard from Seattle. He might be on his way. I looked it up on the laptop. It only takes three or four days to get from there to here,” he pauses, then asks, “Can I go kick the ball in the back when we get home?”

  His change of subject is so abrupt, June nearly says yes. But then she remembers to respond with, “Not until after your homework is done.”

  “Come on, June!” Jordan begs, tugging her arm. “Practicing soccer is the only homework that really counts for me. The Youth Soccer Club tryouts are in two weeks. Please?”

  “Jordan…” she answers wearily. Never mind her thoughts about him being more appreciative than other kids. It’s clear to June that she’s the only one remotely concerned with what Jordan’s academic evaluations have revealed. As personable as he is, his reading is only at a second grade level, and he’s just managing first grade level math. He was supposed to start fourth grade in the fall, but reviewing his test results, the school decided it was best for him to be placed in the third grade.

  But that’s neither here nor there to Jordan. All he cares about is that his new school has a soccer team.

  Lately, June has found herself in the unenviable position of using more words with him than she’s ever had to before. Strong words. The kind that might have come out of her own mother’s mouth in that other lifetime. “Homework first, Jordan, or there won’t be any Youth Soccer Club tryouts.”

  “Aw, come on! That ain’t even right!”

  They end up arguing about it all the way home, which is probably why it takes both of them a lot longer to see him than it should.

  But they both stop when they finally notice the enormous man standing in their dirt driveway, leaning up against an even more enormous Ford 250 truck.

  Dressed in jeans and a simple t-shirt, he’s an all-American classic. But not really. Though his hair is long at the top with short sides slicked back ala James Dean, he’s got dark brown stubble that keeps his face a couple steps away from clean shaven.

  And he doesn’t appear so much cool as patient. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, like he’s been waiting for June and Jordan to arrive for a while now.

  Even after this long observation, June doesn’t get it. In fact, she wonders who this stranger might be and whether or not she should be worried until Jordan shouts, “Mason!” and starts running towards him like a long lost friend.

  It can’t be him. For a second, June wants to call Jordan back. Tell him he’s got it wrong.

  The Mason she knows is a large and intimidating hulk who never takes off his SFK vest unless he has to. But this guy isn’t wearing the familiar vest, and he’s intimidating all right…but not in the way he was before. This man is downright handsome. And he allows Jordan to all but knock him over with a tight hug around the waist.

  Then June gets near enough to see the familiar tats running up one arm, and the raven feathers peeking out from beneath his collar…

  His blue eyes rise to meet her brown ones over Jordan’s head, and there’s no mistaking who this is when that gaze chases her, his chin dipping and eyes following until her eyes are finally brought to heel.

  Forced to acknowledge him.

  Then, and only then, does Mason say, “Heya, June. Good to see you again.”

  And that’s when she knows for sure. It really is him. Mason Fairgood. His probably not ever has turned into right here, right now.

  Chapter 9

  Mason

  Mason hates most shit and most people. But he can’t say he hates the way the kid runs up to him when he sees him. Or the way June looks more surprised than scared when she spots him for the first time in over three months.

  She doesn’t respond to his greeting. But she doesn’t throw any shit at him, either, which is maybe more than he ever hoped to expect after what went down in L.A.

  “That a new truck?” Jordan demands, unlinking his arms from around Mason’s waist and scrambling over to the Ford he picked up in Seattle.

  “Sure is,” Mason’s answers, his eyes still locked on the woman standing in front of him. She did it, he thinks when he sees her familiar uniform. “So you got the job at Cal-Mart! Just like you said you would.”

  June nods.

  “And what about your GED? How’s that going?”

  She seems to be flipping through her arsenal of silent responses before finally giving up and answering, “Good. Thanks for the book. I’m taking the test next month. Paid for it with my own money. Not yours.”

  He hears the pride in her voice. He’s proud of her, too. But he feels compelled to remind her, “It’s all your money, June.”

  “I mean…the money I earned.”

  And Mason wonders how long it’s going to take before she finally believes him when he says, “You earned the money I paid you, June. I didn’t give it to you free. You earned every damn cent of it.”

  She looks away. Obviously embarrassed by his words. Mason might call it blushing if her skin was lighter.

  “Let’s go for a drive!” Jordan’s voice lifts both their heads from their conversation. The kid’s already parked himself in the passenger seat with nothing but a seatbelt between him and the open road.

  “Homework first, Jordan,” June says like it’s an old conversation.

  “Tell June I don’t have to do my homework,” Jordan says to Mason. “Then we can go for a ride right now.”

  Mason squints at the kid…notices, for the first time, that he and June aren’t all rose petals and Sarah McLachlan songs. It’s pretty clear to him that Jordan equates “man” with “someone who controls June.” Mason understands why this is. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to put up with it.

  “She’s in charge of you, kid,” he decides as the words leave his mouth. “June says “do your homework,” then that’s what you better do.”

  “But—”

  “I said git, kid! Don’t make me tell you twice.”

  And…cute reunion is officially over. Jordan grumbles his way towards the house, only stopping to shout from the front porch, “Welcome back! You stink by the way. You need a bath!” Then he yanks the door open and slams it hard behind him.

  It’s true, Mason does need a shower…real bad. He drove balls to the wall from Seattle for three days straight, only stopping to get gas and some sleep in the rear of his new truck.

  But he forgot about his soap-free journey when he saw the two of them coming up the drive. Talking animatedly like normal folks nearing the end of a normal day. She’d changed her hair, he noticed. It’s wide and curly instead of long and straight. And she’s gained a little weight. Plumped out some likely as a result of eating regular meals. It suits her. He likes her big hair and Cal-Mart uniform. Likes that she no longer looks like the girl he bought off Razo.

  Though strangely, June now strikes him as even younger looking than before. Back at the cabin, he’d guessed her to be around his age. Twenty-seven, maybe older. But now, scrubbed clean with a few months of decent sleep removing the bags from under her eyes, she looks like the kind of girl who regularly gets carded at bars.

  They stand together in front of the house for longer than he intends. Him taking her in. Her staring up at him like he’s a ghost come back to haunt her. Which in a way, he sort of is.

  “So…” he says, breaking the silence between them. “What you guys eating tonight?”

  “Leftovers,” she answers. “Chicken and rice.”

  “Sounds fuckin’ delicious. Can I come in?”

  He’s serious, but she still squints up at him. Obviously suspicious about his arrival and wondering what he really wants. But she doesn’t say no, either. Just nods and turns to go up the front steps. Leaving him to follow. Wondering, same as him, what’ll happen next.

  Chapter 10

  June

  “Got something I need to talk to you about. In the bedroom.”

  These are the first words he says to her inside the house, his head dipped low, his voice a gruff wh
isper. Mason glances towards the kitchen table where Jordan is grudgingly doing his homework, his face set in the resigned and miserable look of all kids who would rather be doing anything but this.

  In the bedroom…

  He’s waiting for her answer, and June’s stomach drops. She thinks of that first night in the cabin at Beaver Lake. He promised he wouldn’t. But he also said she probably wouldn’t ever see him again. And here he is. The monster who bought her from Razo. The animal who made the news this past summer.

  Without a word, she walks into her bedroom. Not wanting Jordan to see. Not wanting to disturb his newfound peace.

  Mason follows close behind. Too close. She smells him, just as clearly as Jordan must have when he hugged him. And Jordan was right. Mason stinks. Of sweat and dirt and the faint scent of leather, even though his awful leather vest is nowhere to be seen.

  Then she discovers the ravens aren’t dead. They’re flapping in her stomach like birds caught up in a cyclone.

  As soon as he closes the door behind them in the bedroom, he strips off his shirt. “We need to do this in here,” he says, confirming her worst fears. “Don’t want the kid to see.”

  Oh, God…something in her chest cracks, and her throat dries up, even though she can do this. She can. Look how often she did it with Razo. It was simple. All she has to do is escape to the quiet place in her mind while Mason does his business. That’s all I have to do, she reminds herself, even as she starts to hyperventilate. All I have to do—

  “I want you to cover this up.”

  Mason’s gruff voice pulls her back from the abyss. June blinks when she realizes he’s standing with his naked back to her. Then she blinks again when she sees the tattoo.

  It takes up nearly all of his back, and the image—well, it’s similar to the logo on the back of his missing vest. But it’s way worse. A crude shield with “SFK” in military-style font. Double lightning bolts underlying all of it.

  The image squats there on Mason’s back. It’s a toxic looking thing, vile and rough. Also, it’s definitely one of the worst tattoos June’s ever seen. And she’s spent the last six years of her life covering and embellishing a ton of crappy prison tattoos.

  I don’t want you to look, she recalls him saying back in cabin.

  Now she understands why. And though he’s holding perfectly still, she senses her answering silence is causing him all kinds of anxiety.

  “Cover it up,” he repeats, his voice more gruff than before. “Please.”

  June swallows. Her stomach churns at the thought of touching the thing on his back. But because they are discussing a tattoo, the words come easy for her. “Can I ask why?”

  “I ain’t Razo,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Ask me whatever you want.”

  He turns all the way back around then, but his typically direct stare finds the floor instead of her eyes. “But I got to take a page out of your book on this one, June.” He shakes his head. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay, um…” she struggles, then falls back on the question she used to ask before inking new Hijo recruits. “Do you have any special requests?”

  “Nope. Don’t give a fuck what you do so long as you cover it up.”

  June’s mind is a blank. She has no idea what to put on top of it. Or how she can bring herself to even touch it.

  But, she realizes after a few seconds of panicked thought, she has to try. She has to at least try. “When do you want to me to start?” she asks.

  “Right now.”

  June calculates the time they have until dinner. “Okay,” she says. “But you need a shower first.”

  “That’s cool,” he agrees with a hard nod. “Can I use your bathroom?”

  It’s his bathroom. He owns this place. She wonders why he acts like she has any choice at all.

  But as it stands, he can’t use the shower. “No. It’s not working. But you can take a bath,” she tells him. “I was waiting for my next day off to call a plumber.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Mason asks, his intense blue gaze back on her. “I told you to call if you need anything.”

  She doesn’t have an answer. So she says nothing.

  And eventually, Mason sighs. “It’s probably the diverter. I’ll fix it later. And a bath don’t sound half bad. Mind running one for me, sweetness?”

  An awkward beat passes. And once again, they stand together in silence. Him waiting for an answer. Her trying desperately to ignore the flock of ravens chittering in her stomach. Then a strange thought suddenly appears in her head. That yes, he needs a bath so his skin will be clean for the new tattoo. But she also doesn’t mind the smell of him now. Why is that?

  June agrees to run his bath with a sharp nod, interrupting her strange thoughts. Her dark, dangerous thoughts. Then she all but sprints to the bathroom. Mostly as an excuse to get away from him.

  Chapter 11

  Except it’s not far enough. The bath is ready before she’s ready to stop staring at the water. She’s flipping through the mental rolodex of her current sketch pad, of all the sketch pads before that one…but nothing is coming to her. Nothing she’s drawn or thought to draw seems to be the right choice. And now she’s only a hot bath away from covering up that awful thing and she’s fresh out of ideas.

  June turns the handle to switch off the water. Tests it for warmth. Wonders if he wants bubbles like Jordan did when he was little…

  “Bath ready?”

  She looks up…only to have her brain stutter and come to a screeching halt when she sees him in the doorway.

  He’s naked. Completely. And his body—well, there are no words to describe it. A large slab of stone onto which two huge muscled arms, and legs as big as tree trunks, have been carved. And between those enormous legs…a long, heavy piece of flesh, hanging lewd and shameless.

  Mason’s naked body is a shock. June only ever saw Razo from the waist up. She inked his top half. His bottom half was something he thrust into her in the dark, while his voice whispered, “Take it, puta. Don’t even think about fighting.”

  Not that she could. Even if she wanted to. He always came to her in darkness, when she was most vulnerable. And in those later years, he most often took her after a beating. He’d give her just enough time to fall asleep, to relax, before he’d fall on top of her and enter her bruised body without warning. June didn’t fight. She’d been too dead inside to bother.

  “June, can I take my bath now?”

  Mason’s voice pulls her out of those terrible memories, back to his impossibly large… everything.

  It’s going to hurt when he’s on top of me. Her body, which has grown strong and filled out over the past few months, suddenly feels weak again.

  “You okay?” Mason chases her eyes, but this time she doesn’t let him. Instead, she keeps her gaze locked on the floor as she rises from her perch on the edge of the tub. Her body braces. Waiting. To pay the price for everything he’s given her and Jordan. Because June knows: everything comes with a price. Everything.

  Mason steps closer. And she puts all her effort into staying calm. Into being brave while she quietly endures what’s to come. After all, she’s going to do what she has to so she can provide for Jordan.

  But all she feels is the soft bump of his body passing by her in the narrow room. Then a splash as he steps into the tub. By the time she dares to raise her eyes, he’s gingerly lowering his massive body into the warm water.

  He takes a few moments to settle in, then looks up and asks, “What’s up, June? You okay?”

  This time, his blue gaze grabs on to her and won’t let go.

  She nods. Slow. Unsure. The ravens flapping like crazy as she realizes…. she wants to look at him again.

  June settles for shifting her gaze to the artwork on his arm. “You’ve taken good care of your tattoos,” she says.

  “Yep,” he answers, plunking a large arm on each side of the tub. His head falls back to rest against the back rim, e
yes closed. “Did just like you said,” he tells her. “Kept it covered the first few weeks, made sure to put that ointment on, and became besties with SPF 50, even though wearing that shit makes me feel like a pair of panties.”

  “Good,” she says with a small smile. The ravens are beating their wings like they might burst from her stomach any second now. June can barely think, much less figure out what to do with herself now that he’s in the tub.

  Leave. The answer is obvious. She glances back down at Mason. He’s breathing evenly, eyes still closed. He might even be asleep. He’s so large, he has to bend his legs in half to fit in the tub. Which means the thing between his legs is hidden, tucked away from sight, making her feel safe again. Well, at least safer than she felt a few minutes ago.

  June’s body shifts. It’s time to go. But then she spots the linen closet next to the bathroom door. Wash cloth. He needs a wash cloth. And soap.

  She opens the narrow door and takes out a folded yellow square, along with a fresh bar of soap. I’m not lingering, she tells herself. I’m making sure he has what he needs.

  But when she turns back to the tub, instead of placing the items on the ledge, June gingerly lowers her bottom to the thin piece of acrylic, and seats herself only a few inches from where Mason’s draped one of his tan, muscular arms.

  Without giving it any thought, she bends to dip the washcloth in the water. It’s very warm, almost hot. June figures after so many days on the road, the liquid heat probably feels real good on Mason’s aching muscles. Real, real good…

  She places the bar of soap in the center of the wet square of cloth and wraps it up tight. Then she takes the soapy washcloth and places it on his chest. It’s all muscle—a steel-like construct—with barely any give other than what’s provided by the springy dark hairs scattered across it. Her eyes follow those dark hairs as they trail down to his navel. She struggles to breathe as a warm bolt of electric heat travels up her arm and into her chest.