The Mitchell Sisters: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

Maybe it’s the powerful orgasm I just experienced. Maybe it’s the strong blue eyes looking down on me. Maybe I’ve turned a corner.

  Maybe.

  “So.” He breathes out a long, tumultuous sigh. I suspect what he is about to say is something very personal and private. “You pretty much know the gist of it. They died in a crash. I was driving.” He pauses, and although I’m not looking at him, I can feel his head shake from side to side. “I was sent to a temporary home until they could find a permanent place for me to live.”

  “It must have been horrible. I’m so sorry.” I strain my neck to make eye contact so he understands that when I say ‘I’m sorry,’ I mean it. It’s not just a platitude. It’s not just a thing I say when I hear something unpleasant. I hope my eyes convey it’s deeper than that. That I understand the meaning of pain. Heartache. Utter destruction.

  He nods. “It was. Losing my parents was unimaginable. But what came after was almost worse.” He grabs my hand and holds it against my chest, rubbing his thumb across each of my brightly-painted fingernails.

  His face is etched with sorrow and my heart hurts for him. I know how hard it must be to talk about a traumatic experience. Maybe I should have kept my big mouth shut. Why did I even ask him? It’s not fair of me. Not when I know I can’t share my own past. “Mason, you don’t have to. It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s fine,” he says, squeezing my hand. “It actually helps to talk about it sometimes.”

  “Okay.” I squeeze his hand back in reassurance.

  “The coroner’s report shows they died at the scene. But they weren’t sure if they died instantly.” He clears his throat, struggling to keep the desperation from his voice. “I like to think they did. That they didn’t know what was happening. That they didn’t have time to think about dying and how that meant they’d never see their only child again. Never see each other again—the loves of their lives.”

  He draws in a ragged breath. His hand grips me a little tighter and I notice it has become damp.

  “The dreams started the night after the funeral. My mind went wild, each night delivering me a different version of the accident I had little memory of. I’d blocked out everything that happened after hitting the tree. After hearing the bark split and splinter while the hard steel crunched and buckled around it.

  “Night after night, the unforgiving dreams came relentlessly. It got to the point where I didn’t sleep much. My grades plummeted. My social life ceased to exist. I stopped participating in spring workouts. My will to live was slowly being sucked out of me every time I relived that day in my dreams.”

  I run my fingers along his scar. I have no words. I don’t pretend to know what he went through. But I know loss. I know excruciating heartbreak. I know nightmares. Hearing the raspy hitch in his voice, the way he tries to look strong for me when he’s obviously a wreck on the inside—it makes me want to cry for him.

  But I don’t. I haven’t cried for anything or anyone. Not since that day.

  He sighs, pulling himself together. “Some nights are better than others. Some nights my parents tell me there was no pain, no suffering, no blame. Those nights I watch them peacefully pass away. But then there are the ones where I watch them die horribly. Bloody and mangled, one or both of them screaming out in pain. I’m held captive in a seat belt that won’t release. I can’t reach them. I try to comfort them with my words. I say I’m sorry. That I fucked up. But they become still and stare blankly, their faces pale as the life leaves their bodies.

  “Other times I do reach them and hold their hands as they slowly slip away. Then there are the dreams where they die instantly, not giving me the chance to say goodbye. To apologize for killing them.” He pulls his hand from mine, wiping the sweat on his jeans before bringing it back to grasp my fingers again. “For months and months, every version of that night played out differently in my dreams. It made me crazy. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know what really happened. I still don’t.”

  Oh my God.

  My heart races. My throat stings. My eyes hurt from suppressing tears that beg to fall. Does Mason even know how much we are alike?

  Maybe he would understand.

  I want to comfort him, but the huge lump blocking my airway keeps me from speaking, so all I can do is caress his hand to let him know I’m here. That I’m listening.

  “The lack of sleep wreaked havoc on me and one day I just snapped. I couldn’t live with the guilt anymore. The doctors said I actually went temporarily insane from my chronic insomnia. That’s why they didn’t commit me—well after my mandatory seventy-two hour stay. They gave me anti-anxiety meds that caused me to sleep for two days straight.

  “My coach, Coach Braden, petitioned the state to become my legal guardian when I was released from the hospital. The therapists they had me see didn’t do much good. It was Coach who helped me. He pushed me to play again. He took me on the field every day after school and worked me until I nearly passed out from exhaustion. Most nights I was too tired to dream. But it was his words that got to me. Just a few simple words—but I’ll never forget them. He said, ‘if you die—they die along with you. If you live—they live through you. You are their legacy.’

  “Those words are what I see now when the bad dreams come. I want to make my parents proud. I can’t change the past. I can’t not swerve to miss the squirrel and crash into that tree. But now I know it was a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment. I may be the reason my parents died, but I didn’t die with them. I was given a second chance—a third even. And I plan on living. Living for them. Living for me.”

  He takes some calming breaths. His revelation clearly done.

  I try to swallow the lump that has taken residence in my throat. I clear my voice. “I spill drinks on purpose.”

  I can’t look up at him. I can, however, feel a wave of tension leave his body. His hand relaxes in mine. His breathing becomes more regular. The tense muscles of his thigh slacken under my head.

  “I had begun to suspect as much,” he says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  My eyes close. “Yes.” My heart beats wildly and panic builds in my belly as my memories overpower me. “No.”

  “When you’re ready.” He runs a soothing hand through my hair.

  “I’ll never be ready, Mason. Because once I tell you, you won’t want me. I know I can never be the person you need me to be.”

  “You’re wrong, sweetheart.” He brings my hand up to his lips and places a gentle kiss on the back of it. “You are exactly the person I need you to be. You aren’t perfect. God knows, I’m not perfect. But I think we just might be perfect together.”

  My heart opens and lets him etch a piece of himself inside.

  “We all see ourselves differently from others,” he says. “We see the worst. In my eyes, I’m a murderer. I don’t yet know what you think is the worst version of yourself. But this I’m sure of—nobody else sees you that way. Least of all me.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Oh my God, Pipes,” Charlie wails through the phone. “You have to tell him.”

  “Why? So he can think about all those other hands on my body when he’s touching me?” I blow out a frustrated sigh.

  “No. So he can begin to understand you. He bared himself to you, Piper. Not many men can do that. It’s obvious to me he has major feelings for you.”

  I shake my head in disagreement even though I know she can’t see me. “It’s different. What happened to me—to us—is different.”

  “Yeah. It’s a lot different,” her accusing voice berates me. “What happened to you, to me, was awful. Unimaginable even. But Jesus, Pipes, he watched his parents die right in front of him because of something he did. That’s some monumentally fucked up shit.”

  “What happened to him is terrible,” I say. “Of course it is. But it doesn’t make my skin crawl when I touch him. I don’t think I could take it if he looked at me that way. You know after . . .”

  “You can say it, sister
. After the best orgasm you’ve ever had.” She laughs, lightening the mood.

  I can feel my face redden in my dark room. “Okay, yes. And the only orgasm I’m one-hundred-percent sure I’ve had at the hands of a man. I don’t want to ruin that. If I leave, I wouldn’t be able to stand the memory of him being repulsed by me.”

  Silence.

  I look at my phone to see if we’re still connected.

  “Charlie?”

  “If?” Her loud word startles me. “You said ‘if,’ Pipes. Are you thinking of moving to New York?”

  I choke on my saliva as I guffaw into the phone.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Inside joke, I guess.”

  She laughs. “Now you have inside jokes with him? Girl, you’ve got it bad.”

  “I do not,” I insist, albeit not whole-heartedly. “And I’m not moving to New York. Even if I wanted to move to New York, I wouldn’t. I’m not in the least bit equipped to move to New York. Plus, you’re over there. Cradle to grave, remember?”

  “First of all, I’m not even going to pretend I just understood what you said. Second, cradle to grave doesn’t mean we have to be attached at the hip. Cradle to grave can mean talking on the phone every day, showing up for momentous occasions, and taking kick-ass vacations together. You’re my best friend, Piper. You’ll always be my best friend. No matter where we end up.”

  “I’m not moving to New York, Charlie.”

  “Whatever.” I can almost feel the eye-roll in her words. “Let’s get back to the juicy stuff. What happened right after you had the greatest orgasm of all time? Did he hold you? Did he want to fuck? Did you say thank you? You should always thank a guy for a good come, Piper.”

  I laugh. “I’ll remember that for next time. We didn’t do anything,” I say. “That’s when I asked him about the scar and he said we could talk after we cleaned up.”

  “Cleaned up? What—as in you spilled a shit-ton of drinks in your usual endearing fashion?”

  “Bitch,” I tease. “I don’t know, cleaned up. You know . . . I used the bathroom and he changed clothes.”

  “Why did he change clothes? Was he expecting a sleepover?”

  “Of course not. He just threw on a new pair of jeans.”

  “Really? And just what was he wearing before that?” she asks.

  “I don’t know, another pair of jeans, I guess. God, why the third degree?”

  “So he changed from one pair of jeans into another?” Shrieks echo through the phone, piercing my ear. “Oh my God, Pipes—the man jizzed in his pants!”

  My jaw drops. “He did not,” I say, unbelievably.

  “Are you sure? I mean, you were kind of busy coming yourself. Maybe you just didn’t notice.” She giggles.

  “Oh, God. Do you really think . . . uh, I thought . . . I mean, I didn’t even touch him there.”

  Laughter dances through the phone. “You have much to learn my young apprentice. Yes, I really think so. And I really think this is a good thing. A great thing. Maybe the best thing. Tell him, Piper. If you want any chance at a meaningful relationship with Mason, you have to tell him.”

  Long after our conversation ends, her words resonate through me.

  His words resonate through me. I want it to only be me. Always.

  A foreign feeling grips the edges of my heart. I think it might be called hope.

  chapter twenty-two

  mason

  Her hand is warm and inviting in mine. We haven’t parted skin for the entire span of the two-hour movie. And thank goodness it’s dark in the theater, because the way her pinky rhythmically moves against the outer seam of my pants has had me sporting painful wood for the duration.

  Even when she takes drinks of the bottle of water I bought her, she manages to maneuver it with one hand, holding the bottle between her legs to cap and uncap it. I’ve never been so jealous of a piece of damn plastic.

  Shit.

  I remember the reason I bought her the water bottle in the first place. I spill drinks on purpose.

  My hard-on quickly deflates as I ponder the reality behind that statement. I’m pretty sure I have an idea of what must have happened. And the thought turns my stomach. It makes me ashamed to be a part of the entire half-population that could even contemplate doing such a thing.

  “What a great film,” she says, her voice startling me, but in a kind of fantastic way that pulls me from ugly thoughts.

  “It was,” I agree. “They had me fooled. I thought for sure the guy’s brother was the killer.”

  “Me, too. I love it when things don’t turn out the way I expect.”

  I smile and give her hand a squeeze. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  People excuse themselves to walk past us, so we stand up and join the herd exiting the theater. We continue discussing the film in the lobby when a commotion grabs our attention.

  Security guards drag a belligerent man past us. “I paid for a fucking ticket. Same as everyone else,” he yells, kicking at them while they attempt to usher him to the front door. He makes eye contact with me. “You!” he says.

  I’m used to getting recognized in public, it’s hardly anything new. But the way he looks at me, it’s not with the normal fan adoration. It’s with disdain. And his pin-point pupils in the dim light alert me to his apparent state of drug-induced inebriation.

  “Wait!” a familiar voice calls out.

  I, along with the security guards and the rest of the lobby, turn to see who’s yelling.

  Cassidy.

  She runs up to the two men who have the unruly guy in choke hold. “He’s with me,” she says.

  “Then we’re going to ask you to leave as well, Miss,” one of the guards replies.

  “Ugh!” She stomps her foot like a tantruming three-year-old. Then she sees me. Her eyes are hazy and unfocused, her tiny pupils mirroring those of the man she’s trying to defend. She’s higher than a kite in trade winds.

  “Cassidy,” I say. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Mason!” she says excitedly, shouting too loud for our close proximity. “Tell these rent-a-cops to let Nick go.”

  One of the security guards turns to me—recognition becoming apparent as he looks at me. “Are these two with you, sir?”

  Funny how throwing around a football, even part-time, earns me that title.

  Ignoring him, I ask Cassidy, “Where is Hailey?”

  “At my mom’s for a sleepover. Why?”

  I turn to the guard. “No. They’re not with me.” I grab Piper’s hand and walk out of the theater.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Tell me about her,” Piper says, settling into my couch. “Why is it that you and my sisters hate her so much? I mean, other than the fact that she seems like a complete bitch.”

  I draw my brows together. “Nobody’s told you yet?”

  She shakes her head. “All my sisters tell me is how great you are. When I ask about details, they say the same thing every time—ask you. I’ve never known them to be so opposed to gossip. I figured you told them not to tell me.”

  A welcome pang grips my chest. She asks about me. “Why would I tell them that?”

  “I don’t know. Everyone has secrets,” she says sadly.

  I ignore her inward reference. “Cassidy is no secret. And she was different back then. Back when we, um . . . dated.” I shrug innocently.

  “I get it,” she says. “You slept around. It’s a pretty normal thing for college guys to do, Mason.”

  “Yeah, well that was then. Not anymore. She made sure of that.”

  “How?” Her eyebrows furrow, causing an adorable crinkle to form on the bridge of her nose. “Why haven’t you been with anyone since?”

  “Because she trapped me.”

  “Trapped?”

  “Got pregnant on purpose.”

  Her jaw drops and she looks slightly green. “Oh, my God. Who would do that?”

  “You got me,” I say. “But I was
naïve and she had me snowed. She played the part of the demure sorority girl. She played it very well. We hooked up a few times.” I look over to gauge her reaction, putting my arm around her shoulder to pull her close. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  She nods confidently.

  “When I told her I didn’t want a relationship, that football was my sole focus, she asked me for one last goodbye, um, you know . . . ”

  “Goodbye fuck,” she says bluntly. “Okay, what happened next?”

  My two-hundred-twenty-pound body tries to shrink into the couch on her harsh, but true, words. “Well, I gave her what she wanted.” I shake my head at the memory. “She left right after. And when I went to remove the condom, I discovered it wasn’t there. I knew I put one on so I searched the bed and found it . . . completely dry and totally empty.”

  I cringe. “Cassidy could be kind of rough with me so I guess I didn’t feel it come off. I didn’t think much of it until she showed up seven months pregnant demanding a marriage proposal.”

  Still mortified every time I think about that night, I stare mindlessly at our entwined hands, entranced by her deep blue nail polish. It has not escaped my attention that the longer I’ve known her, the more she tends to favor the color. I’ll bet if we stood before a mirror and she put her fingertips on my face, they would get lost in my eyes. That’s how dead-on she is with the shade of blue she’s chosen. I can only hope it’s intentional. A sign of her deepening feelings for me.

  “Do you—” she clears her throat, “Do you think you would have had kids if that didn’t happen?”

  “Of course,” I say without hesitation. I think of Hailey. Her round cherub face, her disobedient platinum curls, and my fierce love of everything about her. “Maybe not right away. Mostly because during the season my schedule is so hectic. But sure, I guess I’ve always wanted kids. How about you? Do you see kids in your future?”

  It’s a question I’ve wanted to ask her before, but didn’t have the balls to for fear of her answer. Her eyes go distant and she shrugs. I remind myself how young she still is—we are. Don’t push her.