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

by Theodora Taylor

  For the second time today, June can only give him a look of true confusion. “Does it matter?”

  He looks back at her for a long, sad time before rapping his knuckles on the table. “Guess not,” he concedes, rising to a stand.

  But then he stops. Sits back down. “You do belong to me.”

  “Yes, I know,” she answers. “And I said we’ll go to Seattle with you.”

  “Yeah. But thing is, I want you to want to go places with me. I’m sick of always wondering in the back of my mind if all this,” he gestures between the two of them, “if all this is because I bought you, or if you’re here because you want to be.”

  “Mason, I want to be here,” she says. “This house is nice. Nicer even than the one I grew up in when I was a kid.”

  When I was a kid. So many firsts. Not only is she referencing her childhood, she’s also not referring to it as “that other lifetime.” Like it was a thing that happened in another space-time dimension.

  She’s saying it now so Mason really understands where she’s coming from. Understands how much she loves having a roof over her head, and that she’d never do anything to jeopardize that.

  “Me, too, but…” He gives his head a rough shake. “I can’t do this anymore. We can’t go on living like this.”

  “You—you want to move out?” June asks, her heart sinking. “But Jordan…”

  “Fuck Jordan,” Mason bites out. But then stops himself. “I’m sorry, sweetness, that didn’t come out the way I wanted it to. I’m real close to that kid, and I know he looks up to me like a big brother or something. I don’t understand why, but he does.”

  He shifts, his leather jacket creaking as he leans forward, places his large forearms on the table. “But every time I try to talk to you about all of this, about how you feel, you make it about Jordan. What I’m asking you…what I really want to know is would you be here if Jordan wasn’t a factor? If it was just you and me?”

  June looks at him, not sure how to answer, since she wouldn’t be here at all if he hadn’t bought her off of Razo in the first place.

  But for Mason, her silence is answer enough.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says. He doesn’t cuss this time, but somehow it still sounds like he is.

  “Okay, okay…” he says. “I gotta do this. C’mon, Mason. You got to have some faith in something. Gotta have some trust.”

  He’s talking to himself, she realizes, which alarms her big time, because that’s the one crazy thing she hasn’t seen him do yet.

  “Mason…?” she starts to ask.

  But then he blurts out, “You’re free! Okay. There you go. June, you are free. You don’t belong to me no more. I’m done forcing you to be where I want you to be.”

  Everything inside her, including the ravens, freeze.

  Because freedom…it’s not something she’s ever had before. For her entire adult life (and most of her adolescence) June has been chained to someone or other, whether it be to her mother by guilt, to Razo by force, or to Mason by purchase…

  Mason folds his huge hands on the table and stares down at them as he mumbles, “I told you I’d prove myself worthy of your love, but I can’t ever do that if ownership is involved. Hell, you ain’t a slave, June. That asshole Razo had no business handing you over to me like livestock in the first damn place. I had no business buying you either. So…there you go. You’re free. And you know what? You can take my truck.”

  Say what? “Wait, no! I can’t do that!”

  “I’m telling you, you can.” Mason fishes around in his inner jacket pocket, then drops a heavy key on the table between them. “Automatics are for panties anyway. I’m going to get myself a real truck, so that one’s yours if you want it.”

  “No, Mason, I can’t,” she insists.

  “You can, June. I’m telling you, I don’t want it. It’s all paid for since I don’t like owing anyone shit. So, uh, Merry Christmas.”

  “No, Mason, I seriously can’t—”

  He slams his large hand on the table so hard, June is afraid he might break it. “Goddammit, June! Will you just let me do this for you?”

  His question reverberates through the kitchen, echoing in her mind, long after the sound disappears.

  Which makes it that much harder for her to explain, “Mason, I can’t because I don’t know how to drive.”

  Mason blinks, his face suddenly releasing its intense frown. “Oh. Oh! Well, that ain’t a problem. I’ll teach you.”

  And he does.

  The back country roads are perfect for driving lessons. Paved and straight with plenty of room to make mistakes, and hardly any traffic around. June is pretty sure Mason must’ve seen some things in his day, because he barely flinches the few times she slams hard on the brakes, or the one time she nearly runs them off the road and into a tree.

  “Just a few more lessons, and you’re going to be more than ready to take your driving test,” he tells her when they roll to a stop in front of the house a few hours later.

  June nods, looking away.

  Mason sighs. “June, there’s quiet, and there’s not saying anything on purpose. Guess which one I think you’re doing right now?”

  “It’s just…well, you’ve already done so much for us…for me…”

  “Yes, and I’m willing to do a lot more, so out with it.”

  “Well, this car is a beast. Huge and crazy powerful. Like you. I mean, it’s probably perfect for a guy like you, but for someone like me…”

  Understanding dawns on his face. “Oh…I see. It’s too big for you.”

  She nods with a grimace. “I think I’d always be worried about running over something, or someone. And I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be able to see over the dash more than just a little.”

  Mason chuckles. “Relax, June. We can trade this in. Get one of them Minis or Fiats. Something cute and chubby. Like you.”

  June chuckles, guessing she deserves that. But… “If I stay, will you stop calling me chubby?”

  He thinks about it, then answers, “Nope.”

  She has to laugh, even as she points out, “But I don’t like it!”

  He shrugs. “I do.” He looks over at her with a new intensity in his blue eyes. “And don’t tease me about what we were discussing earlier, June. I’m going to go trade this truck in, give you time to think things over, and when I get back, I expect an answer.”

  The ravens beat inside her stomach, sending her brain messages she has no idea how to interpret let alone relay back to Mason.

  “Just think on it,” he says, holding her eyes with his. “And try to have an answer for me when I get back. If it’s “fuck you, Mason. Go away,” I get it. I do. But if it’s something else, then yeah, the three of us are going to Seattle for Christmas. And we’re going to make each other some promises, promises a lot more binding than the kind that come from a motorcycle and gun exchange. Us Fairgoods ain’t made to stay boyfriends for long—”

  Mason must sense the ravens are going crazy in June’s stomach, choking her. Her inability to respond must be written clearly across her face, because he stops himself right there.

  Looks away, directs his blue gaze towards his knees, and says, “I know I’m a fuckin’ mess, June. I ain’t nobody’s prize. But I got some money stashed away and ain’t never trying to hurt you like he did. I fucking love you with all my heart, and if you’ll have me…if you’ll have me, I swear I won’t ever give you a reason to regret it.”

  He himself there, clears his throat. “Now, the kid’s going to be here any minute. Get out my truck so I can trade it in for something cute and chubby. Them dealerships take forever.”

  With a soft smile, June does as he asks. And with her heart hovering right above her ravens, she watches Mason switch over to the driver’s seat. Then drive away.

  June already knows her answer, the one she’s going to give Mason when he returns. She’s only surprised he doesn’t know it, too.

  Twenty-Six
<
br />   MASON

  He loves June. He must, because it takes forever and a fucking eternity to trade in the truck. He has to wonder how folks who actually have to apply for financing get through this shit without punching every last car salesmen in their big-toothed faces.

  He ends up with a red Mini Countryman. Cute and chubby, with room for something cute and chubby in the back. He can’t say why he’s even thinking those thoughts. He knows about June’s situation. Knows what the doctor told her.

  But still…Mason can’t keep himself from wanting to start something with her. Wanting to take what they’ve found, make it official, and expand it more. Even though six months ago he was convinced bringing her into his life was the stupidest decision he’d ever made.

  He thinks back to the drive he took up the left coast with his cousin’s old lady, what he said to her, “You grow up all your life being told you can’t have a thing, it’s going to make you wonder.”

  Back then, he’d been confused. About the black girl he’d bought and left behind. But now things are crystal clear. He feels surer than he’s ever been about anything in his entire life.

  He loves June in a way that goes way past skin color. And he wants to spend the rest of his life with her and a couple more babies—adopting them if that’s what they need to do.

  Mason doesn’t care how he was brought up. His father and damn near the entire board are dead, so he doesn’t have to listen to them whispering in his ear, confusing him with a life view that doesn’t make any goddamn sense anyway.

  No, he hasn’t felt this at peace in long time. Hadn’t even known such a thing was possible—

  Mason skids to a stop, right there in the middle of the road. It’s the house.

  It’s dark as a grave. There isn’t a single light on, inside or out. He has a bad feeling.

  No…fuck, no…please…

  Mason prays to a God he isn’t sure he believes in as he jumps out of the little car, leaving it idling right there in the middle of the road. Not giving a fuck what June said, he leaves the door wide open behind him when he enters the house, flipping on switches in every room, searching, searching...

  The living room. Nothing. The kid’s bedroom. Nobody. Their bedroom—his mind chokes on “their”—is empty, too.

  Maybe they’re not home yet. June mentioned going into town to look into that tattoo apprenticeship. But he’d distracted her with all that love and Seattle talk, and then there were the driving lessons. As he makes his way into the kitchen, he constructs a hopeful story in his mind. Pictures June and Jordan walking down the streets of town after checking in at the tattoo shop. Looking for a present for Mason, maybe, and deciding on a whim to eat dinner at a nearby restaurant instead of at home. Of course, that’s never happened before. Like ever. June, for all he loves her, is cheap as fuck, and typically refuses to buy a meal she can prepare at home. But there’s always a first time…right?

  Why didn’t she call you, or text, or fucking let you know where she is?

  Mason ignores the voice. Has to ignore it as he flips on the light in the kitchen.

  No June. No Jordan.

  And then…then all hope dies when he sees a piece of June’s sketch paper on the table, and what’s written on it: I’m sorry. I can’t be yours and you can’t be mine. It wasn’t in the stars for us.

  June is gone.

  He curses at himself. For giving June her freedom when he wanted to keep her with him forever. For pushing her to commit, when he knew how scared she might be.

  Mason really thought they reached a new level. That after what they told each other, done for each other…they were strong enough to handle the real shit. Like love. And babies. And a future together.

  He was wrong. Instead of staying, she’s run, taking the kid he’d been making plans to adopt right along with her.

  Mason refused to settle for nothing less than everything with June. And now…

  His breath catches as a heart-attack level eruption of pain, regret, and sorrow bursts inside his chest.

  Now he’s lost it all.

  Twenty-Seven

  JUNE

  June is in hell. Enslaved again. Only this time, she’s literally in chains. From the rank smell of them, they’re the same ones Razo used on his dog. The dog he shot a few months back for daring to bite him.

  “June,” a small voice whispers in the dark room.

  It’s Jordan. No. Don’t be here.

  She opens her mouth to say exactly that. But all she manages is a croak. She hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since the morning Mason asked her to come to Seattle, and her voice is rusty. Too rusty to talk, or protest when a cup of water is lifted to her mouth.

  Tap water. She can taste the minerals after having spent the last several months using a Brita. But it’s cold and wet, and that’s all that matters right now. It feels good against her swollen lips, busted open by Razo’s fist when he brought her through the door of their old house. A few more punches and kicks followed. But he didn’t let himself get too carried away this time.

  “Nah, puta, I got something way better planned for you,” he said, before chaining her to the chair.

  The first beating did its job well enough. Even the act of swallowing is painful. And June’s bruised ribs only let her get in a few sips before she has to stop.

  “Drink more,” Jordan whispers to her in the dark. “You have to hold on until Mason gets here.”

  June doesn’t have the heart to tell him Mason’s not coming.

  She thinks of the last time she saw their home. The beautiful home they’d made for the three of them. She was seated at the kitchen table, with Razo and his gun hovering menacingly.

  See Razo, not Jordan, was waiting for her when she got to the bus stop. Without a word, he’d jerked his head at her to follow him.

  And she had, because June already knew the leverage he had over her. Even before they reached the Suburban, parked on the side of the road, just past screaming distance of the bus stop. She saw two Hijos in the back seat, their guns trained on Jordan.

  Razo opened the front passenger door, and without a word, June climbed in. She was surprised when they stopped in front of the house. Then scared when Razo ordered her to follow him inside. She thought for sure he was setting up an ambush for Mason.

  But then he grabbed her sketch pad off the kitchen counter, and threw it down on the table. “Write him a note. Say you leaving. I don’t want to have to deal with that fucker again after this.”

  When she hesitated, he raised his phone in one hand and said, “Don’t make me send this text. I don’t care if that weak-ass bitch is my blood, I will not hesitate to have him offed if you don’t cooperate.”

  She knew he wasn’t bluffing.

  The Hijos in the back seat with Jordan were not the same who’d been there with Razo at Cal-Mart. June felt certain those men were dead. Likely the recipients of surprise bullets before they even made it back to the Cul. After all, dead men can tell no tales about Razo getting dissed by the white supremacist biker he sold June to.

  And the only interest Razo ever had in Jordan, after he proved to be a less than ideal runner, was as a tool he could use to get to June.

  June picked up her Sharpie. Kept the note short. Hoping it might hurt Mason less that way. But knowing it wouldn’t.

  And now she was here. Chained to a chair in a cold room, awaiting Razo’s next move, and hating that Jordan was risking his life to get her some water.

  June knows she has to talk. For Jordan.

  “Jordan,” she croaks. “Don’t worry about me. Get out of here…escape. Find Mason. He’ll take care of you.”

  “He’ll take care of us. I’m not leaving you, June. And he’s going to come get us. I promise.”

  “Jordan, please…” she tries again.

  But the time for talking is over. Lights blaze on overhead, blinding her after spending so long in the dark. She hears words spoken in angry Spanish. Then there’s a slosh of water down
the front of her shirt.

  Jordan’s speaking in Spanish now, too. Begging on her behalf.

  “No, Jordan. Don’t!” she croaks.

  But it’s too late. Her eyes adjust enough for her to see Razo backhand the little boy to the ground. He stands over Jordan’s crumpled body, spitting more angry Spanish at him.

  “Fuck you, Razo!” she yells. Not out of any real sense of rebellion, but because she needs to draw his attention away from Jordan before Razo really hurts him.

  Razo whips his head around, eyes flashing with an angry, crazed light. “Fuck me?” he repeats in mocking English. “Don’t think so, puta. You about to find out who’s going to be fucked. Really find out. Do it!”

  That’s all the warning she gets before her chair is lifted by the two Hijos who’d held Jordan in the backseat of the Suburban. Waves of pain radiate over her body as she’s carried down a hallway, through the empty living room, and outside to the cul-de-sac.

  It’s complete mayhem.

  There’s a huge bonfire burning in the middle of the main circle, making it way warmer outside than it should be. The massive pile of wood and flames are circled by a mass of trucks, motorcycles, and cars, all blasting the same Reggaeton station at top volume.

  Fueling the fire are things June immediately recognizes. The small amount of cheap furniture from the house she shared with Jordan. She sees a few girls, dressed in Hijo colors, throw the clothes she left behind into the flames. The cheap polyester fabric sparking the fire blue in some places.

  June peers around, trying hard to orient herself despite the pain, heat, and loud music.

  The entire gang is literally here. At least thirty Hijos stand around, watching her arrival with sick fascination. A few are even massaging their dicks through their beige work pants.

  She knows what this is. Even before Razo steps up onto the bed of one of the trucks to give his speech, she knows. He’s speaking in Spanish, but lucky for her, there’s a helpful translation in the form of two Hijos dropping a mattress into the middle of the street. There’s no way June can pretend not to know what’s about to happen.