Bounty
Page 75
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CHAPTER ONE
Mason
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“One keyring with six keys. One brown leather wallet with one-hundred and seventy dollars inside. One silver box lighter. One folding pocket knife, engraved with Mason on the handle.”
“I had one-ninety on me when I was arrested. You boys have a night out on me?”
“You’re full of shit, Hale.” Behind the metal security grate, the guard in the brown uniform lifted up a sheet of paper on his clipboard and squinted his eyes at something Mason couldn’t see. What he did see, however, was the telltale reaction around the guard’s eyes that he was trying to hide something; trying not to look surprised.
Mason waited. What were a few more minutes after a month and a half inside?
“Nah, you’re full of shit,” repeated the guard. He let the paper flutter down from his grasp. “Says right here, one-seventy, signed and dated by my supervisor. He’s the one that processed you.”
The memory burned bright as a campfire in Mason’s mind. Everything about that day did. “Big fat white guy, right?” said Mason. “Straight out of a Dukes of Hazzard episode?”
The guard named Lou cracked a smile, but he didn’t confirm it. That was all the confirmation Mason needed anyway.
“Yeah, I’m sure he’s real trustworthy,” said Mason. “Probably spent it on the skeeviest hooker in town, didn’t he?”
“Why don’t you shut your trap, Hale?” The guard wrapped his big hands around the pile of belongings that he had been slowly listing out and pushed them underneath the security grate towards Mason on the other side. “You’re out. Take your shit and leave, and don’t give us reason to bring you back here.”
“Like you’d need one,” said Mason under his breath.
The guard glared at him, but didn’t take the bait. He pulled up his clipboard and turned away, suddenly very invested in the stack of metal lockers lined against the wall of the room. It was his tiny little kingdom to lord over, and everything about the way the man carried himself said he knew it. As he carefully went through his belongings, Mason realized he was probably lucky he had only lost twenty bucks.
He had purposely left his ID and any cards with his name on them back at his place before the job. His wallet felt strange and foreign because of it. The weight was all wrong. The way it felt in his back pocket was off, and he couldn’t help but notice it. He had noticed it first thing that morning—the first ugly feeling in his gut that something was wrong. As he put the wallet back in his pocket again, Mason replayed the mantra of regret in his mind that he’d spent all month incubating in the uncomfortable walls of county jail.
He slid the pocket knife and lighter in the same right-hand pocket, and some of his anxiety melted a little. They were the belongings that meant the most to him. He didn’t feel like himself unless he was carrying them. Having them back in their rightful place was a tiny victory.
Wearing the same clothes he was arrested in, Mason followed the bright yellow markers painted on the concrete floor of the jail hallway that led him to the transfer door. He didn’t recognize all of the guards he passed on his way out, but it was hilarious to him to see how different they treated him now that he wasn’t their captive. They looked at him like they were lions bored with a toy they had played with too long; some wouldn’t even look at him at all.
Mason rounded the last corner, where a guard stood still with a loaded shotgun at the ready. When he saw Mason approach, he immediately sent a confirmation call on the radio attached to his shoulder. He stared at Mason the whole time as they both waited for the guards in administration to send down their approval. Mason held his stare without fear.
“Hale’s a go,” came the scratchy voice over the radio.
The guard lowered his weapon and moved to unlock the giant steel door that led outside. He even held it open for Mason as he passed by.
“Hope we don’t meet again,” said the guard in an earnest voice, nodding at him.
“You and me both,” said Mason.
Mason walked out into fresh, free air and, like he was in some Oscar-bait movie, stopped to take a big deep breath of the mountain fresh mountain scent. It was early spring and the county’s microclimate was in full, bipolar swing; rainstorms came frequently and without warning. Far from the nearest metropolis, the air was clear of pollution and haze. All he could smell was the evergreen forests and clean, wet smell of moss.
Mason closed his eyes, and for one beautiful moment, he was able to forget where he was.
Two quick honks of a car horn broke him out of his meditation. He opened his eyes and looked across the gravel parking lot of the county jail. An old black Firebird idled among the dirty pick-up trucks and jalopies, headlights blazing, engine rumbling like a dragon. Raindrops glistened on the glossy black paint job and made the whole car glitter in the moving sunlight.
Delilah leaned out the window a bit and gave him a big, salacious grin. “Hey there, sugar. How much for a half and half?”
The joke was terrible, but the month before it had been much worse, so Mason gave her a full, honest smile as he kicked gravel under his feet, heading towards the car. “I’m not sure you can afford me, baby.”
Delilah laughed. It was feminine but cruel. “You’re the one walking out of county to get into my sweet ride.”
“Touché.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here, I hate the fucking cops.”
Mason headed around to the passenger side door and got into the car. The interior smelled like high-grade weed and her flowery, understated perfume. Delilah herself was always a vision with her immaculate makeup and short black hair, bangs cut in a clean, stark line across the pale skin of her forehead. She winked at him and pursed her red painted lips.
He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the lips. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Delilah as she shifted the car into gear and rolled out toward the highway. “How are you doing? You didn’t get roughed up in there too badly, did you?”
“Nah,” said Mason. “My size seemed to make up for what my reputation lacked.”
“What your reputation lacked?” said Delilah in surprise. “I didn’t think the reputation of the Hale boys lacked for anything, personally.”
“Yeah, well, the reputation is more nuanced than one would hope.”
“How’s that?”
Mason rolled down the window. The air was chilly at highway speeds, but he wanted to feel it. “It just is. The Hale name only does so much for me. It’s not enough to solve every problem.”
“But you didn’t get hurt, right?”
“No,” said Mason. “Someone messed with me once and I put him down, and that was that. It was a lame attempt. I’m pretty sure he just wanted to feel like he was in a prison movie and misjudged his target.”
Delilah laughed her cruel laugh again. “What a fucking idiot.” Without taking her eyes off the road, she fumbled through her little black box of a purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Light us up?”
Mason took the pack from her manicured hand and happily pulled two smokes out, and lit them between his own lips. He passed one to Delilah and relished in the feel of smoke in his lungs again. His head buzzed, swimming, after a long few weeks without any nicotine at all. The price behind bars wasn’t worth paying.
He looked at the smoke in his hand. “I guess this would have been a smart time to try and quit for good.”
“So much for that,” said Delilah, ashing her cig out the window.
The county lockup was perched up the mountain highway, away from the nearby towns of Roda and Stockton that filled in the tiny valleys between. As Delilah’s Firebird came out of the thickest of the woods and began to wind down towards the valleys, Mason’s chest started to tighten with fresh, unwelcome anxiety.
“I need to ask you for another favor,” said Mason.
“Sure, sugar, anything.”
“Do you work tonight?”
>
“I switched shifts with Rocket, I don’t work until tomorrow evening.”
Mason took a drag. “Mind if I crash at your place tonight?”
Delilah looked over at him curiously. “Sure, you can stay. I figured you’d want to go straight home, though.”
“Nah,” said Mason, staring out the window.
“I also figured you’d be asking your brothers to pick you up when you got released, and not me.”
Mason didn’t look at her, and didn’t answer. The cig was almost out, but he was determined to smoke it right down to the filter.
“Why didn’t you ask them, Mason?”
Mason shook his head. Anger churned in his head, behind his eyes, and dripped like poison down his throat to his heart. “Does it matter? I didn’t ask them, I asked you. If it’s a hassle, you could have said no.”
“It’s not a hassle,” said Delilah, turning her eyes back to the road. “I’m just worried about you is all. I’ve never seen you like this. I know you fight with your brothers a lot, but—“
“You don’t know shit,” said Mason firmly. “You don’t know shit about me and my brothers, alright?”
Delilah fell silent and tension filled the space between them. After a few quiet moments, Mason took a big, deep breath. He chucked the finished smoke out the window and reached his left hand over to caress Delilah’s thigh. She was wearing cute black booty shorts that left her legs bare, and the feel of her soft, perfect skin under his touch was more relieving than Mason thought it could ever be.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “None of this is your fault, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. But I don’t want to talk about my brothers.”
“It’s okay,” said Delilah. “You don’t have to talk about them. Just don’t be a dick.” She looked over at him with a red-lipped smirk.
He smiled back and gave her thigh a squeeze. “Deal.”