The Very Bad Fairgoods - Their Ruthless Bad Boys: A Smoking Hot Southern Bad Boys Boxset

by Theodora Taylor

  “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.

  Mason’s breathing also stops abruptly, the damp cloth June clasps in her hand no longer rising and falling with the rise and fall of his chest. Oh, God! she thinks, hand freezing.

  But the man in the tub stays silent. He doesn’t even open his eyes to ask what she’s doing, or why. And eventually…

  He’s breathing again, taking in slow, deep breaths as if he’s concentrating real hard on staying calm. June cautiously watches the up and down motion of his chest, waiting until she feels it’s safe to move the washcloth again.

  She drags it gently over his upper torso and down each of his arms. Hesitating for a split second, before running it across each of his huge legs. Mason slowly parts them, just a little. And his breath quickens once more as June tentatively places the washcloth between them, careful to avoid looking at or touching the thing nestled in the “v” where his upper thighs and hips meet.

  Aside from his rapid breathing, he doesn’t respond, doesn’t talk. He simply lets June do what she wants with the cloth, which she eventually drags down over his ankles, his feet, his toes. Then back up again to his top half where she runs the soap-slickened rag over his broad shoulders, neck… Finally, June removes the bar of soap and sets it aside. Then uses the washcloth to wipe the grime off Mason’s face. She’s mesmerized by the way the excess water trickles down his newly revealed cheekbones.

  He’s definitely clean now. But she doesn’t want to stop.

  After another moment of hesitation, June stands and grabs the shampoo bottle from the hanging shower caddy, and an empty rinse cup from the sink counter. Then she drops back down to the edge of the tub, scooting herself back towards the tiled wall where Mason’s head rests.

  She squeezes a large dollop of pearlescent shampoo into the palm of one hand, then places both hands on his head, fingers moving rhythmically over his scalp as she lathers up his hair. This, out of everything she’s done so far, is what finally breaks his silence.

  “Fuck, you’re killing me,” he says, his voice sounding low and gruff.

  From June’s new vantage point, she can see that the thing between his legs has transformed from passive flesh to steel, and stands at full attention. She abruptly stops lathering.

  Then he says, “It’s okay. It’s okay. Go ahead and finish.”

  So she does. Trusting him for reasons she still can’t explain. When she’s done, she nudges his back a little to indicate he should sit forward.

  He does, giving her just enough room to scoop a few cups of bath water over his hair, without getting it everywhere.

  Soon she can check Mason’s hair off the list. Clean. But there’s still one very important item she hasn’t attended to…

  June reaches down for the soap and washcloth and, with every ounce of her inner strength, forces her gaze towards Mason’s back and the awful tattoo. Looking at it makes her feel sick, as if she is staring at a writhing pile of maggots. But she resolutely soaps up the rag and uses it to scrub his back. There’s nothing gentle about the way she’s touching him now. She can’t help it. The only way she can stomach any of this is if she scrubs hard.

  But she knows no amount of scrubbing will remove that hateful image. Yet she presses down on the soapy cloth as she drags it up and down the skin of his back. So hard, his skin begins to redden until it looks like it’s on fire. And though he doesn’t say a word, by the time she finishes “cleaning,” she knows she’s upset him. Mason is hunched over his knees, back muscles tense, biceps twitching as if it’s an effort to stay still.

  June taps him again to let him know she’s done. It feels like she’s giving him a sort of reprieve.

  And now it really is time for her to go. She has to start work on Mason’s tattoo. And Jordan is no doubt wondering where they’ve disappeared to, what’s going on. But June doesn’t want to leave things like this. With Mason’s ugly tattoo still in her mind’s eye. With him probably feeling worse now than he did back in her bedroom.

  She touches him once last time with the cloth, running it over the raven’s wing on his chest. Reminding him, reminding them both, to pay attention. Pay attention to the here and now. She drops the washcloth and closes her eyes…covers the dark wing with her bare palm. His heart beats thunderously beneath it.

  The water is beyond dirty now, and barely lukewarm.

  Her senses finally restored, June moves to leave. But Mason’s hand shoots out of the water and grabs hers. Holds it in a vice-like grip, the way Razo used to hold her in place so he could deliver a sure hit.

  But that’s definitely not what’s going on here, she soon realizes.

  Because he’s the one who looks scared. He’s breathing hard, and sounds a lot like he’s begging when he croaks, “Don’t go. Stay here with me. Just…please stay with me for a little bit…”

  Mason’s voice gives out, and his breath comes in shorter and shorter gasps as he rocks forward into her trapped hand. He’s not crying, exactly. Instead, he’s making some kind of keening noise somewhere between a sob and a scream. It’s as if he’s having a heart attack, or a mental breakdown, or both.

  Panic attack. The term floats into her head unbidden, maybe from a TV program or a book. Either way, June knows something happened to him. In the time they’ve been apart, something wrecked him. She doesn’t know what, and she’s not like other women…able to provide comfort with just the right words.

  Instead, she tentatively reaches out her other hand and strokes the side of his face. This time, she’s the one chasing his eyes, reigning him in with her gentle but persistent stare.

  “Oh fuck, June. D-don’t look at me,” he chokes out. “I don’t…I don’t deserve…” The panic attack or whatever is going on has stolen his words. But she understands what he’s not saying, and can fill in the blanks. Sympathy. Mason doesn’t think he deserves her sympathy.

  Deserve it or not, he has it. She continues to look at him. One hurt person to another, letting him know she’s sorry for whatever or whoever did this to him.

  His eyes squeeze shut, only to helplessly pop back open a moment later, still pleading with her to stop looking at him.

  But June isn’t going to stop. Instead, she stays with him and waits. Then waits some more. Until his breathing calms. Until he stops r
ocking and keening. Until the bath water goes from barely lukewarm to downright cold.

  Eventually Mason finds his words, and his stubble-covered jaw moves beneath her hand. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Him running up to me like that.”

  It takes June a moment to realize who he’s talking about. Jordan.

  “It made me feel good.” His voice is quiet, hushed. She absently notices that the light is dimming in bathroom window, and realizes it must be near sunset. “Made me feel worth something to have him greet me like that. Nobody’s ever…”

  June more than gets it. Jordan has kept her from going into some pitch black places. Made her feel like her life was worth more than the little value Razo assigned to it.

  Mason continues, “Him welcoming me like that. Like I’m some kind of fucking hero…I’ve never felt like that before.”

  At first June thinks he must be feeling a good thing. Pride, or friendship maybe. But then he squeezes his eyes shut again, as if he’s fighting off another panic attack. And the water splashes as he angrily kicks the front wall of the tub. “Fuck, June. How soon can you cover it up?”

  His bath took longer than it was supposed to. So… “First, I need to make dinner,” she replies. “But after that, I’ll work on your back for as long as it takes.”

  Never mind the fact that she just pulled a full shift at Cal-Mart. June makes the promise without a second thought. Because, surprisingly, she suddenly knows exactly what to put on his back.

  “I have two requests for you, though,” she says, her free hand dropping from his face. “I want to design it as I go along, so no mock-ups before I start. You just have to trust me. Which is hard, I know, but—”

  “Okay. No problem,” he interrupts, squeezing her other hand still trapped beneath his. “What else?”

  “You can’t see the final product until after it’s healed.”

  Mason stares at her for a long time. Then says, “Yeah. I can do that.”

  “Okay,” she says, unable to contain the smile that spreads across her face.

  “Okay,” he repeats with a solemn nod. Her still-trapped hand feels his heartbeat—slow and steady. She notices his breathing is back to normal, too. Which is good, because June has things to do and she really needs him to let go of her hand…

  “Mason…” she says.

  “Yeah,” he answers. Hand gripping hers.

  June opens her mouth…to ask him to let her go, to remind him she’s got to make Jordan’s dinner before he gets the low blood sugar crazies. But instead, she leans forward.

  Brings her face close to his…

  And then gently presses her lips to his mouth. Pushing forward into an official kiss.

  She lingers. Waits for Mason to make the moment more than she thinks she’s ready for. But he doesn’t kiss her back. Doesn’t move at all.

  She leans back. Ends the kiss and opens her eyes. His gaze has changed. It’s softer, not so intense. “How was that for you?” he asks. As if she just took a sip of wine rather than a sip of him.

  “Good,” she replies on a whisper.

  It’s the simple truth spoken with a minimum of words. But to June it feels more like a complicated confession.

  Mason smiles, his blue eyes caressing her face. “Good.”

  Then, and only then, does he let her hand go.

  Chapter Twelve

  This isn’t happening, June thinks when she sees the empty bus stop. This is not happening!

  But it is.

  She’s nearly an hour late thanks to her second-hand bike breaking down in the Cal-Mart parking lot. Lucky for her, Cal-Mart has two dozen or so loaner bikes for employee use.

  “These are usually reserved for associates to use in-store,” Mr. Patel pointed out. “But I suppose I can loan you one so you can pick up your son on time.”

  He says “your son” like her motherhood status has somehow deeply inconvenienced him. Not for the first time, June is grateful she almost never speaks unless she absolutely has to.

  Ironically, Mr. Patel’s sulky insistence that she sign a ton of non-indemnification papers before taking the loaner bike is why she’s late to pick up the boy her boss assumes is her son.

  And that boy is now nowhere to be seen. June curses. Pulls out her phone, and once more tries to call Jordan on the cheap flip phone she gave him in case of emergencies like this…

  “Hey, what-up! This Jordan. Doing big thangs, so can’t come to the phone. But leave a message. You know I’ll get back at ya!”

  Voicemail. Again. Where is he? June knows Jordan. Knows he always waits. And for him not to answer his phone…

  She takes a few deep breaths, hops back on the bike, and tries not to worry as she pedals home…

  Only to hear his familiar shouts and laughter before she even reaches the front door.

  She walks around the house to find Jordan and Mason in what has become a familiar scene since the older man’s arrival.

  They’re playing soccer, using Mason’s sleeping bag (he refuses to sleep indoors at night) as a sort of defacto goal while Mason—the goalie—attempts to slap the ball away before it can get past him. Under the circumstances, the sight of them would be a huge relief. And maybe even a little heartwarming.

  Except for one thing: Mason’s not wearing a shirt.

  June stops short, as if she’s run right into an invisible wall. Her ravens start revving up again.

  Mason misses Jordan’s next ball. Not because he doesn’t see it, but because he spots June watching them from the deck.

  “Hey, you okay?” he calls out, heading toward her. His large strides eat up the ground, and he jogs most of the distance between them before she can even take a few steps in his direction.

  “Went ahead and picked Jordan up when you didn’t get back by the usual time,” he explains, coming to a stop in front of her. “We thought maybe you’d been held up at work or something.”

  June nods. “I did. And I’m fine,” she answers, then tells him, in as few words as possible, about the bike and how she borrowed one from the store to get home.

  Instead of looking surprised or sorry for her, Mason’s brow furrows. “June, why didn’t you call me?” he demands. “I would have come and got you.”

  She stares at him, recalling the past six years with Razo. He was the last man she went to for help. Just thinking about what went down the few times she had makes her throat tighten so much, she can’t even respond.

  But Mason gets it without June needing to say a word. “Okay, okay. I get it,” he mumbles, taking a step back. Giving her space. “But next time, call me. Okay?”

  He expects an answer. But she doesn’t have one. He’s been there for a few weeks. Long enough for her to finish his new tattoo, and for it to be almost completely healed. She has no idea how to tell him she’d rather try to figure most things out on her own than depend on him.

  Luckily, she’s saved from a response by Jordan. “I didn’t tell Mason about the tattoo, in case you were wondering,” he announces. Then immediately follows up the good deed report with, “Can I go to Luke’s house?”

  Luke. The neighbor kid a half mile or so up the road. “How about your—?” she starts to ask.

  “I’ll do it there. You know, we’re in the same class so we can work on it together.”

  Good point. “Well, okay. But please be back in time for dinner,” she says. “I’m making your favorite.”

  “Lasagna?”

  “Yep,” she confirms.

  “Yes!” he shouts, pumping his fist like he’s won the lottery. “See you at dinner!”

  He starts to run off, only to do an about face. “Oh wait, I need my phone.” Jordan jogs over to the deck where he set his phone down. He glances down at the screen and his eyes go wide. “Thirteen missed calls!?”

  He rolls his eyes at June and snickers. “Seriously, June?” Then calls out, “Okay, bye!” before dashing up the drive without so much as a backwards glance.

  “Kid’s a piece of
work,” Mason says as they watch him go. His gaze swings back to her. “Sorry about that. Should have had him call you when I picked him up—”

  “Put on a shirt, please! That tattoo needs to stay out of the sun. I told you—” The words burst out without warning, way louder than she intended. And she breaks off abruptly, remembering…

  Men don’t like to be bossed around. She once risked telling Razo something similar after doing work on his arm and received a backhand for her efforts. “Never, ever tell me what to do! You got that, puta?”

  Yeah, she definitely got it. But maybe she needs another reminder. Because here she is, telling another dangerous man what to do.

  June holds her breath, waiting to see what Mason will do. But he only says, “Sorry, I forgot,” before yanking at the thin t-shirt tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. “How long before I can see it?”

  “One more day,” she replies, her voice softer now. “It’s healing real well.”

  Mason gives her his patented lop-sided grin. “Good. That’s good.”

  Maybe he’s not making a reference to the bath. Or to the one—and only—kiss they’d shared. But…it feels like he could be, and those damn ravens are flapping around inside her stomach again.

  Mason’s head dips down as it often does when he talks to her. As if he might otherwise have trouble hearing what she’s saying from way up there. But today, his familiar pose makes her wonder: if she stands on her tiptoes, could she reach his lips?

  Whoa! June stops herself right there, and without another word, hurries up the steps and into the house. She doesn’t stop until she reaches the kitchen. Mason has left his mark on the room. All the windows are open, along with the door that leads out to the side yard where the old barn sits.

  A few minutes later, she can see Mason standing in the barn’s open doorway through her kitchen window. He’s been working out there since he arrived. Hammering, sawing, and—best as she can tell—doing a full renovation. She has no idea what his plan is, and he doesn’t volunteer any details. But June still enjoys watching him neatly place several dozen black-and-white floor tiles over the fresh concrete he laid a few days ago.