Mile High

by Ophelia Bell

  12

  Mason

  In the three years Booth has been my handler, I never learned what a style whore he is. Browsing through tuxes at an upscale tailor shop, I’m tempted to disparage his sexuality, but I don’t because I can hear my older brother giving me shit about it.

  But then he bombards me with a slew of questions, including whether I want a shawl collar or peak lapels; barrel cuffs or French cuffs; a pleated bib front or plain front shirt; and a cummerbund or vest. Finally overwhelmed by all the options he throws at me, I blurt out, “Buddy, I know it’s never come up between us, but are you even straight?”

  “Man, I’ve been celibate for three years, thanks to you, so I don’t even remember. Why? Are you offering?” He lifts an eyebrow at me.

  “Jesus, seriously? Why? And no. You’re handsome and all, but I’m not into men.”

  “Because I’m a professional. Getting that close to anyone in Mexico City would’ve risked the op, and I don’t do prostitutes. You’re the only one of us who got lucky.”

  I clench my teeth when I take the proffered collection of shirts, jackets, and pants he hands to me to try on. I wasn’t celibate during those years. Not by a longshot.

  “You know I had to,” I say, hating the defensive note in my voice. I shouldn’t have to make excuses. I was the one with his ass on the line. I am the one with his ass on the line, and everyone close to me too.

  “I’m not judging you, Mase. I know you could’ve said no when Rafael and Emilia asked for that favor, but I don’t blame you for agreeing. It was strategically a win for your position in the organization, even if it complicated things. Tell me this, though: If Amador hadn’t attacked, would you have left when the op was over?”

  I’m stepping into the dressing room as he asks, and the barrier of the door clicking shut between us gives me a reprieve, but the answer is simple. The burning sensation in my chest at the memory of when I’d come to the conclusion that I planned to stay is far from simple, though. But Booth has been my confidante for years, so I’m used to unleashing raw honesty on him when he asks.

  “No, man. I think you know I would’ve stayed. Not for Rafael and Emilia, but for Zoe, if only to make sure something like this never fucking happened to her.”

  “Even though you know it was your presence that put her at risk to begin with? When are you going to face the facts, man? You wouldn’t have stayed for her. Not really.”

  I know what he’s implying, and it hurts to admit it. I’d have stayed for me. To be close to her, to see if I could learn to become something I’m not sure I’m capable of becoming, not in any way that really counts.

  “What I’m doing now is for her. I don’t have a choice. I have to be a . . .”

  I pause, my mouth somehow unable to form the word. Instead I examine my reflection. I look like a fucking joke. I’m in black tailored pants, a fancy white shirt with a fucking bib, and a black jacket with a satin collar. The pants even have a matching satin stripe up the side. It’s more comfortable than my dress blues were, but it still feels strange to wear something other than jeans or fatigues and a T-shirt after so long. And it looks ridiculous, considering my hair and beard are almost a week past needing a trim.

  But despite how unkempt I am, I can’t help but see him looking back at me through those steely eyes—the bastard who beat and belittled me and my brothers for the bulk of our teen years, who put his own wife into a coma. The very word feels like profanity to even think it.

  Father.

  Booth’s voice comes through the door again, lower this time. “You can’t even fucking say it, can you? Man, your dad really did a number on you. But you have to own it: You’re Zoe’s father. Your very blood ties you to that little girl. I know you only agreed to be a sperm donor for Rafael and Emilia, but things changed. They’re dead, and she needs you. We’re going to get her back, but you need to be good and ready to own up to who you are now. To what she is to you. She deserves that much.”

  With a curse, I shed the ridiculous suit and haul my own clothes back on, then step out of the dressing room, shoving the pile of expensive garments at Booth. “These are fine. I’m fucking done shopping.”

  I’m out the door and halfway down the block by the time he catches up to me, his breath a white cloud puffing into the chilly air. He just falls into step beside me in silence, and I glance over, slowing when I take in his empty hands.

  “Change your mind about the tuxes?” I ask, a spark of hope igniting inside me. Maybe we can skip this stupid party and go straight to the senator on Friday.

  “They’ll deliver everything to the hotel. I had to guess your shoe size, though, so I hope I picked right. Fourteen, right? Because of what an enormous dick you are?”

  I huff a laugh. “I’m not that big a dick. Size thirteen and a half.”

  He flashes that shining white grin at me and fishes out his phone. While he calls the tailor to revise my shoe size, I keep walking, and my gaze catches on a sandwich board on the sidewalk up ahead. The word “tattoo” is rendered in decorative lettering, and beneath it are the names of the artists. I have few vices besides sex and alcohol, but getting inked is one I’ve spent far too long abstaining from.

  Booth isn’t paying attention when I turn to go into the shop, and I have to grab his shoulder and redirect him. He looks up, startled.

  “I caved to your agenda today. Now you owe me,” I say.

  “Hell no. I’m not getting a tattoo.”

  “I didn’t say you had to. I need this just as much as you need to get laid while we’re here. Three fucking years, man, for real?”

  He glares at me, muttering, “I’m not digging into the last time you got laid, asshole,” as we step into the shop.

  A round-faced girl with a pierced lip and purple hair greets us at the counter with a nod. “Can I help you?”

  “Just here for some ink,” I say. “Nothing complicated, but I’ve got time.”

  “I think Alyssa’s finishing up. Give me a second.”

  I scan the place. It’s a narrow little storefront with folding massage tables for the customers, rather than a fancy adjustable chair like my brother has. Past the typical Ed Hardy-style flash art on the walls around the counter, more detailed original art hangs above each of the stations. The girl who greeted us is speaking to a busty, black-haired woman with colorful full sleeves cleaning up in a far corner.

  “This is something you just do, isn’t it?” Booth asks. “Like going out for drinks? You get a rush from it?”

  “It’s a rush, sure, but I don’t do it without forethought. Every piece of ink on my body means something.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “You’ve never seen me with my shirt off, have you?” I ask. It never occurred to me that over the past three years, our brief check-ins and heart-to-hearts were always fully clothed. Not that we’d had reasons to disrobe, but in the Navy I spent so much time bare-ass naked in the presence of other men that I wasn’t even surprised when I learned Maddox had gotten hot and heavy with his CO. If there was ever a place to discover latent desires like that, it was in the Navy.

  As close as Booth and I are, it’s easy to forget we didn’t serve together, so the most he’s seen of my ink are the bottom halves of the dark half-sleeves covering both my upper arms.

  I don’t exactly go showing it off, either way. My tattoos are my most identifying feature, so being under cover it seemed reckless to take my shirt off more than necessary. I’m not taking it off today, either.

  “No, I have not had the pleasure,” he drawls. “Not that I’m asking, mind you, but if you ever wind up dead and disfigured, it might not hurt to be able to identify the body.”

  He’s only half-joking, but I roll my eyes at him when Alyssa smiles and beckons us back. “You’ll have an easy way soon enough.”

  “What can I do for you boys?” she asks.

  I slip out of my jacket and roll up my left sleeve. “Just a bit of script here,” I say, pointing
at the unmarked expanse of skin inside my forearm.

  Alyssa nods and reaches for a binder on a nearby shelf, which she hands to me. “Pick your font and write down what you want. Is he getting one to match?” she asks, nodding at Booth with a grin.

  Booth blanches. “Hell no. Keep your needles to yourself.”

  “Come on, man. This could be such a bonding moment for us,” I taunt. Opening the binder, I flip through until I find the delicate scrollwork lettering I want for this tattoo. Then I print the name in clear block text on the piece of paper Alyssa hands me. She disappears into another room to prep the transfer.

  Booth settles on a spare stool nearby, eyeing me critically. “You’ll tattoo her name on you, but you can’t even call her what she is, can you?”

  “Don’t push me. It’s been four fucking days, man. Four days since the two people who were supposed to be her parents died. This is just my promise to myself that I’m not going to stop until she’s safe.”

  He sighs and shakes his head, looking entirely out of his element in his suit with his overcoat neatly folded on his lap. “This is your thing, and I get it. Maybe someday I’ll work up the nerve, but that’s not today. But I will make you a deal.” He lowers his voice, looking over his shoulder, then back at me. “You admit that thing you can’t say, and I’ll get the same tattoo. It’ll be my promise to you that I’ll be her backup if you fail her. I know you won’t, but if it helps knowing I’m here to get you over that hurdle, I’ll do it.”

  “You didn’t see my mom lying there in that hospital bed, Booth. Knowing he did that to her made me snap. I almost did something I’d have never come back from. Something that would’ve made me no better than him. I’m not worthy of owning that word yet, not as long as I still feel that rage. I’ll move heaven and earth to protect Zoe, to bring her home, but I just can’t say it when it feels like I’m still fucking cursed with that bastard’s blood.”

  Alyssa comes back on the tail end of my speech and says, “What word? Hope you don’t mean you’re backing out.” She holds up a sheet of transfer paper with the name exactly how I envisioned it.

  “He means the F-word, and not the four-letter one,” Booth says.

  Alyssa’s sharp gaze flicks to the transfer, then she nods as if she’s made the connection. “Ah, that F-word.” She positions my arm to press it where I’d indicated, then gives me an inquiring look. “That what you want?”

  I nod, then lie flat on the cushioned table at her direction.

  As she starts setting up her machine and ink cups, she says, “The best thing my dad ever did for me was just being there when I needed him. He was strict, but he always let me have the space I needed to become whatever I was meant to be. I don’t intend to have kids, but I might change my mind if I find a man I respect as much as him. Believe it or not, they’re hard to come by.”

  She gets to work, and the first stinging bite of needles digs into my skin. Adrenaline floods me, and I close my eyes to enjoy the rush before it eases back. It’s been too long since I’ve done this. But it’s not a large tattoo, so in less than half an hour, I’m staring down at Zoe’s name on my arm.

  I take a deep breath. I still can’t even say the word in my head. She was only ever supposed to know me as her Uncle Mason. That arrangement was ideal, because I knew Rafael and Emilia would make amazing parents, and I wouldn’t have to be more than the girl’s protector if she needed one. I could keep my distance, but still be part of her life.

  But I will have to figure out how to be the man she needs, and this tattoo is the first step toward becoming him.

  I tear my eyes away from the tattoo and look at Booth. “It’s a deal. When this is over. If I’m there—and I sure fucking hope I am—then it’s your turn. But that’s the end of that subject. We need to have a talk about this self-imposed celibacy of yours. Alyssa, you single?”

  The curvy tattooist snorts and raises both eyebrows, looking between us as she reaches for a roll of plastic wrap to cover my tattoo. “You two are some impressive specimens, I’ll give you that, but I think I’ve heard way too much information to sign on. You guys sound complicated, and I don’t do complicated right now. I wish you all the best, though.”

  She pats us both on the shoulders. I hand her the cash for payment, then we say goodbye and head back out into the cold.

  “I can take care of my own sex life, you know,” Booth says, steering us across the street.

  I shrug. “I figure we have time to kill. May as well enjoy ourselves.” Though I don’t think any woman would measure up to the doc.

  “Are you sure this quest isn’t for your own benefit? It’s been a while for you too, hasn’t it?”

  “This isn’t about me anymore, dude, remember? Just keep an open mind this week, okay?”

  What he thinks he knows is that I haven’t had sex since the night Zoe was conceived. I’m not sure I want to disabuse him of that idea, either. The reminder sends me inward, though, where I’ve been far too often lately thanks to all the down-time on this trip.

  It would have been enough to befriend Rafael as it was. We bonded over our love of classic cars and the restoration I offered to help him with. It took the better part of a year to fix up the old Mustang, during which I spent the bulk of my free time effectively working him to get closer, to gain trust. I’ve always been good at earning people’s trust. I’m a friendly guy; it comes easy.

  It helped that I genuinely enjoyed his company, as well as his wife’s. He had the same level of loyalty as my brothers for the men he worked with. As Zavala’s head of security, he gave a shit about the men he commanded in a way Zavala never would. Rafael served as a bulwark between us and our brutal boss, and in our free time he confided hopes and dreams to me. One of which was to be a dad.

  I knew he and Emilia had been trying for several months. Then one day Rafael was in a foul mood during our circuit of Zavala’s properties in Mexico City, snapping at the men and generally being more of a hard-ass than we were used to. Later that night I finally pressed him and got him to admit that he’d learned the day before that he was infertile.

  It made him feel like less of a man, he said, that he couldn’t give his beautiful, artistic wife the baby she wanted. I remember handing him another beer and telling him fatherhood was overrated anyway, that too many kids grow up hating their dads, so why would he risk that?

  He would have done anything for Emilia, though, which I soon realized when he approached me later and asked if I’d be willing to go into their doctor for some tests, and to donate my sperm if all the tests came back with good results. The thought terrified me. I’d sworn years earlier that I wouldn’t ever be a father and risk winding up like my own dad.

  But Rafael pressed. He insisted it would be different. He would be the baby’s father, not me, on paper and in practice, if not by blood. Soon I saw it as yet another way to ingratiate myself to them.

  The night the tests came back favorable, they wanted to celebrate. Emilia had her appointment for the procedure, but during that drunken night, it became clear that the artificial insemination route wasn’t good enough for Rafael. He needed to be a part of it somehow. His crazy, irrational thought was that if we both fucked Emilia at the same time, there’d be just enough question for him to ignore that the baby wasn’t his. He could at least pretend his virility wasn’t the issue.

  It was strange, to say the least, but also weirdly touching to be part of their lovemaking. Emilia was shy at first, hesitant enough that I almost backed out, until she finally said with utter certainty that she wanted it. That she would do anything to make Rafael happy. All I wanted was to make it good for her from that point on, though it became clear halfway through, with my cock inside her alongside his while she rode him, that I was only there for one reason.

  The bond they had was too strong for my brief involvement to come close to damaging. The next day, when I woke in the same bed with them, they showed no regrets. It was as if nothing had changed. I was still their fri
end, but nothing more. I’d been a means to an end for a single night.

  I think part of me hoped it would happen again, because even temporarily being invited within their intimate little bubble had felt amazing, despite understanding there was only room for two inside it. Three, once Emilia learned she was finally pregnant.

  Everything was business as usual afterward, but when the baby was born, they asked me to be there. I was at her christening too, unable to take my eyes off the tiny beauty, yet every moment sure it was for the best that she was theirs and not mine. By Christmas, I was finally getting comfortable with my role as “Uncle Mason,” just in time for it all to come crashing down around me.

  Their deaths are on me. Zoe is probably too young to remember her first Christmas, which is a blessing, but I’ll have to find a way to tell her everything when she’s old enough. I suppose it’s a small consolation that Rafael and Emilia will never have to know how I betrayed them.

  Booth nudges me out of my thoughts, asking if I’m cool with the restaurant he stops at for lunch. I agree and we sit down at a table, but I’m uninterested in food and just order what he does.

  He remains quiet, staring at something on his phone while I people-watch. Then we eat our meals in relative silence, only commenting on the quality of the food, which is good enough that I get my appetite back and order dessert.

  I appreciate that Booth doesn’t dig into my broody mood, but he’s already heard the whole story. He also lost friends thanks to Amador, though I doubt any were quite so intimate as mine.

  He goes back to staring at his phone while I polish off a slice of pie, then under his breath he murmurs almost too low to hear, “We’ve got company again.”

  My neck prickles and I look at him. His gaze remains on his phone, then he snaps a photo and turns his screen to show me, as if he’s sharing some nonsense from the internet and wasn’t just using it as a cover for spying.