Beautiful Dark (Beautiful Rivers Book 3)

by J. L. White

  I only have a bra and panties on when my phone dings. About 30K people. It feels like a smaller town though. There’s not much here aside from the mall and a hoity toity private college. But Uncle Billy’s Bakery makes it all worth it. Their spinach bread is like crack.

  I laugh out loud, thinking of the cauliflower crack back in Swan Pointe I never did get around to. I swear, those negative scans make me get lazy about my bucket list. I’ve needed a dealer for spinach bread. Now I’ve got my guy.

  I wonder if “my guy” sounded weird.

  Mason: I’ll hook you up with their cheese sticks too. But I charge extra. We have to smuggle those over the border.

  Wow. Chatty and playful? I like this side of Mason. Me: What’s a cheese stick? I’m imagining string cheese or something, which doesn’t exactly seem like a bakery item. But what do I know about what they eat in Illinois.

  Mason: It’s a long, twisty bread stick that has bits of cheddar cheese sprinkled in the dough, plus a little more shredded and melted on top when it bakes. It’s a diet killer for sure.

  Me: That’s okay. I don’t start my diet until January.

  Mason: You don’t need to diet.

  I roll my eyes. Don’t tell me I need to gain weight cuz I’m sick of everyone telling me that.

  I’ve always been thin-boned, but I’m a tad thinner than I was before chemo. A lot of people gain too much weight post chemo. I haven’t gained enough. My body’s never seemed to recover all the way, as far as that goes, and I have my suspicions why. But I do have my energy back and can still help Lizzy kick the boys’ asses in beach volleyball, so I’m not going to worry about my weight too much. My doctor can tell me to gain weight if he wants to, but everyone else needs to shut the hell up.

  Mason replies. I wasn’t going to. I think you look fantastic.

  Wow. That compliment zings right through me. Even though he maybe said that just to appease me, I get warm and buzzy as I read his words again. Thanks.

  I’m not sure where to take the conversation next. It’s bound to end eventually, but as I finish getting dressed, I try to think of what I can say to keep it going.

  My phone dings and I pick it up a little too eagerly. I’m disappointed by his first words. I have to go, but thanks for the chat about porn and drugs.

  Me: That’s what I’m here for.

  I figure that’s it for today, but his final message puts a smile on my face: And congratulations on your two year anniversary.

  That was something like twenty posts ago. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s been trolling the other one’s feed.

  Chapter 8

  Mason

  Corrine Rivers has persistently invaded my thoughts since Thanksgiving Day, in spite of my best efforts to exorcise her. I know I shouldn’t be talking to her. But I guess by the time I saw her friend request I was worn out from fighting it. I spent far more time than I meant to examining her Facebook feed before accepting, and the next thing I know we’re chatting each other up.

  I guess there’s no harm. She’s clear in California, her cousin Rayce isn’t breathing down my neck this way, and without her right in front of me—tempting me—it doesn’t feel as dangerous.

  As long as I don’t repeat today’s mistake of checking out her many pictures, I should be fine. Yeah, she’s beautiful and sexy and intriguing and makes me want to put my hands all over her. But she’s out of reach—literally and otherwise—so what harm is a little chat really going to do?

  The next day, our subscription to Hot Rod Magazine comes to the shop, with a spread of a gorgeous 1933 Ford Phaeton. I snap a picture and send it to her with the caption, Nice new shiny porn has arrived.

  Hey, it’s no big deal. I’m just being friendly.

  I head back to the shop and get ready to start on the Honda Odyssey that needs a new door lock actuator on the passenger side. As I’m grabbing the new part, I get a picture back. It’s a gooey-looking brownie on a little white plate. She says, My food porn is better than your car porn.

  Yes, I text back, I’ve noticed your food addiction. That girl posts about food every other day. They have facilities for that you know.

  Corrine: I can’t help that I have a sweet tooth, I was born with it. Blame my parents.

  Me: The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.

  Corrine: Says the guy with a whole magazine full of car porn.

  That evening she sends me a picture of her winning hand of gin.

  Me: Who are you playing? Your eight-year-old friend?

  Corrine: Haha. My roommate, who happens to be very good at it.

  Me: Really? How many times has she beat you?

  Corrine: A few.

  Me: Well then how good can she be? Maybe you only think you’re good at Gin, but now that you’ve met the master... I hope I didn’t just go too far. I don’t know if her three-streak loss is still a sore spot.

  Corrine: I still want a rematch.

  Me: That’s kind of hard to do over Messenger.

  Corrine: You’re just afraid I’m going to beat you.

  Me: Hardly. Okay, how about Chess? We could do that online. Do you play?

  Corrine: Not very well. How about Scrabble?

  Me: That’s a no. I hate word games.

  Corrine: You’re just being difficult now.

  Me: I try.

  A few minutes later she sends me a link to online Reversi with friends. Do you play this much?

  Me: No.

  Corrine: Me either. So it’s fair game.

  Me: Was Gin not fair? I got the impression you’re the household expert.

  Corrine: Never mind that, smarty pants. You want to play or what?

  The next several days we take to playing the game in between my work and her classes. We text more too. I learn she’s a senior in college even though she’s 24, because she lost some time when she was getting her cancer treatments. She’s had to fight it twice, something I hadn’t gone deep enough into her timeline to learn. I wonder about the likelihood of a recurrence—an idea that strangely gives me a hollow pit in my stomach—but I don’t ask about that. It seems too personal, and I’m trying to make sure we don’t go there.

  Besides, I’m afraid of the answer.

  She tells me she’s an unenthusiastic Psychology major and hasn’t decided what she wants to do after college yet. I admit I only have my Associates Degree. School’s never been my big thing. I care less about writing college essays and more about the tranny on a Shelby, something I’m better able to learn about on the job, through YouTube videos, or in books.

  She said she was impressed that I’m largely self-taught in terms of restoration work, but it’s not like I had a choice. I don’t tell her about the job offer in Swan Pointe, or what I decided to do with the house. (I didn’t want to mess with renovations, even the simple ones the realtor said would make for a higher sale, so I just put it on the market as is.) We don’t talk about any of that.

  But we have talked about the merits of curly fries over straight, and regular wings over boneless. She did, however, nearly blow the whole thing out of the water when she claimed to be a Steelers fan, but then admitted she was only teasing me, so I let it slide.

  Corrine

  There’s a little white and brown terrier at my feet, wagging his tail and sniffing my hand for treats. I pet him with one hand and snap a picture with the other. He sniffs hard against my hand, letting me know his feelings about the lack of treats.

  “Okay. Here you go.” I grab the little bag sitting on the bench next to me and toss him a goodie.

  I send the picture to Mason with the caption, Meet Alvin Von Shithead.

  I feed the little terrier a couple more treats before he wanders off with a haughty little trot.

  Mason: Is that your dog?

  Me: No. I’d love a dog, but if I did have one it wouldn’t be him. I’m at the dog park.

  Mason: Aren’t you supposed to be finishing an essay young lady?

  It’s finals
week at Hartman. Only five days to go then I’ll be back in Swan Pointe for Christmas break. I’m putting off making corrections to the final draft of my Adolescent and Adult Development essay, so I walked down here instead.

  It’s one of my favorite haunts. There’s never any shortage of dogs wrestling with one another, and running around with happy faces and happy tails. It makes me happy just to watch them. I come here often enough that I know some of the regulars here.

  Me: Just taking a break. You know what those are don’t you?

  I’m teasing him because it seems whenever we chat he’s working on one car or another. I swear, it sounds like he’s spending his entire inheritance on an old Impala he’s restoring to its former glory. I know he doesn’t work all the time, but it’s fun to poke fun at him anyway.

  Mason: I’m ignoring that. If you’d love a dog, why don’t you get one?

  Me: The dorms don’t allow it.

  My stomach twists a little, as if I’ve just told him a lie. But I really couldn’t keep a dog in the dorms, anyway.

  Mason: Alvin Von Shithead looks small enough that you could sneak him in and out in your purse.

  Me: He’s too ornery. You should hear some of the stories his owner tells me. Why do you think he has the nickname he does?

  Mason: That’s not a nice thing to call someone else’s dog.

  Me: Dude, it’s the owner who gave him that nickname.

  Mason: LOL.

  I smile. My favorites are a trio of Havanese dogs, Erin, Abby, and Opal. If I could have a dog, I would sneak one of those home in my purse.

  Mason: I want a picture.

  Me: I can’t. They’re not here today.

  A new arrival comes through the far gate, a big black lab with named Rocky, and his owner.

  Mason: Are there any non-purse sized dogs there? If I had a dog, it would be a German Shepherd or a Lab. Something manly.

  Me: Or a retriever?

  Released from his leash, Rocky runs into the field, tags jangling. Approaching a little Cocker Spaniel mix, he and his new friend sniff each other’s rears in greeting, then run off to play together.

  Mason: That’s big enough to be a real dog, so yes. But I guess you can’t send pictures of any dogs like that since you’re at the tiny dog park. Which makes sense, because you’re pretty tiny yourself.

  Me: I’m almost 5’5”.

  Mason: Really? You seemed smaller than that when I met you.

  Me: Maybe because that’s because you’re so tall. How tall are you?

  Mason: 6’2”

  Me: Is that all? You seemed taller.

  Mason: That must have been your impression of me just because I was kicking your trash at Gin.

  Me: You’re never going to let that go are you?

  Mason: As if you wouldn’t be begging for a rematch if I were there right now.

  I smile, happy at the thought of him being here instead of all the way over there. I don’t beg.

  Mason: I bet I could make you beg.

  My cheeks flush, as my mind suddenly goes in a completely different direction. I’m not sure if that’s what he meant, but it’s sure as hell what I’m thinking. I really need to stop drooling over his pics on Facebook. This would be a lot easier if I could give myself a chance to forget how fucking sexy he is.

  Mason: I meant for a rematch.

  I cross my legs and sink a little deeper on the bench. Ha, sure you did.

  Mason: Really. Anyway, maybe you have a boyfriend.

  My smile grows wider and I bob my foot up and down, up and down. No, I don’t have a boyfriend. Do you have a girlfriend?

  Mason: No time for one. I’m always working remember?

  His answer really, really shouldn’t make me happy. But it does.

  Somehow, Mason Reeves has become somewhat of a fixture in my life, which I’m feeling a little awkward about now that I’m back in Swan Pointe and surrounded by my family all the time. It seems a little disloyal, and sneaky since I haven’t told anyone about it. Not even Lizzy. But all we really talk about is silly stuff, like bagels versus donuts and the ideal summer vacation and the proper way to eat a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. (I’m right, by the way.)

  I get a text from Mason: How goes inventory?

  As usual, I’m helping out with odd tasks at the resort while I’m home on break. Right now, I’m assisting the Fitness Manager, Elisa, with the equipment inventory Rayce wants done. We’re in the Fitness Center and I’m tagging alongside her with a clipboard full of inventory sheets, jotting down her notes about the condition of the equipment. Most of it looks in good shape, but we’ve identified one stationary bike with enough wear that Rayce might want to replace it. He’s pretty particular about making sure everything stays looking new and clean. Once we’re done with the inspection, I’ll type up her recommendations and send them over to Rayce.

  I send Mason my reply: Almost done. Text you then?

  Mason: Sure.

  It seems like a long twenty minutes before Elisa and I wrap things up for the day. I set the clipboard on her desk as she pulls her hair into a pony tail. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” she asks.

  She discovered CrossFit over the summer and has been trying to get me to join up with her.

  “I’ll pass,” I say with a grin. I’ve heard all about the ropes she can climb now and the weights she’s lifting. It’s pretty impressive because she’s a much smaller woman than I am. Those weights are heavier than she is, I swear.

  “It’s really not bad,” she says, hitching a gym bag over her shoulder. “It’s actually a lot of fun.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you keep saying.”

  “Maybe after you graduate,” she says. “Then I can ease you into it.”

  “Maybe,” I say, because I know she won’t take no for an answer. The truth is, I’m half considering it. If she can do it, maybe I can too.

  After saying goodbye to Elisa, and stopping by my cousin’s offices to tell them goodbye as well, I head down the hall toward the elevators. Pulling out my phone to text Mason, I get a twinge of guilt. Probably because I just saw Rayce. I tell myself for the hundredth time I’m not doing anything wrong. We’re just talking.

  Mason beats me to it: Done yet?

  I smile and push the button for the elevator. Just finished. We have one faulty treadmill and a stationary bike on its way out. Plus I got her recipe for Sin in a Pan.

  Mason: What’s Sin in a Pan?

  Me: The most sinful brownie you’ve ever heard of. The elevator doors open and I step inside, finishing my message as the car takes me down to underground parking. You take brownie mix and pour half of it into a 9 by 13 pan. Then you put two giant Hershey bars on top, then put the rest of the batter over that and bake it.

  Mason: I just went into a sugar coma. Sounds worse than my famous caramel chocolate fudge.

  The doors open to reveal the underground parking garage. I head right, past the reserved spaces for my cousins and other management, and toward my little Prius. I text while I walk. You have a famous fudge recipe? You?

  Mason: Why do you sound so surprised?

  Me: No, I’m not surprised. *blink blink*

  Mason: It’s the best, girl. I make it every Christmas. If I didn’t, my family would revolt.

  Me: That good? Maybe I should make it for Christmas dinner. I’ve arrived at my car, but linger next to it while I finish up. I’m supposed to bring the potatoes and a dessert. Lizzy would be so impressed.

  I unlock the car and slide in. My phone dings before I start the engine, so I leave the keys dangling in the ignition and settle into the seat, figuring this is as good a place as any.

  Mason: Sorry, it’s a top secret recipe.

  Me: But I gave you Sin in a Pan.

  Mason: Not a fair trade. It’s not a secret or she wouldn’t have given it to you.

  Me: Yes, she would have. Besides, Elisa is special, so it’s a special recipe. Fair trade.

  Mason: I’ll be the judge of that. What
makes her so special?

  Me: She’s the one who helped me start working out again after my second round of chemo. She gave me easy pool exercises to do until I was strong enough to do regular workouts. She really helped me out.

  We’ve only skimmed the topic of the whole cancer thing, and maybe we should keep it that way. It’s not that I would mind talking to him about it. Or anything, really. But the fact that I’m parked right in the basement of my cousins’ resort just reinforces the reason why we stay light and playful and don’t get too close. Or why I do anyway. I quickly send a follow up to keep us on track: So do I get the recipe or what?

  Mason

  I don’t press Corrine about her cancer history. I hurt anytime I think of her going through that, and get uneasy any time I worry about her going through it again. Anyway, she seemed to steer the conversation away from the topic. It’s just as well. We need to be careful not to get too personal.

  I promise to send the recipe later, but have to end the conversation because I’m meeting my mother and grandmother for dinner. I haven’t mentioned Corrine to them. Or anyone. Not even my boss, Larry, who I know would keep quiet about it and not judge. There’s just... no reason to. We’re just exchanging the occasional friendly text.

  Multiple times a day.

  But my mom still seems shaken by the whole inheritance situation, and I don’t want to do anything more to upset her.

  Especially since it’s nothing anyway.

  Really.

  Chapter 9

  Corrine

  I’m in the kitchen of Lizzy’s old house, pulling the batch of fudge from the refrigerator. Mason’s fudge. Before I cut into it, I snap a couple pics, looking for the most appetizing angle. Which isn’t easy since it’s in a plain, glass dish. Still, I pick one out and send the winner over: Getting ready to try it.