by W. Winters
I don’t know why his answer makes my lips tip up into a smile. It’s sickening that he doesn’t take responsibility. I nod my head, and a rough laugh spills from my lips. “I do apologize,” I say as I pace in front of his desk, letting my fingers run over the edges of the leather chair opposite his and then the next. “You had her killed.”
“You’ll have to be more specific as to whom you’re referring,” my father says as he flicks a switch.
“You think I’m wearing a wire?” I ask incredulously. As if the police could help. As if I wouldn’t be completely ruined if I turned to them.
“I don’t know what to think about you right now.”
I stop in my tracks and face him, bracing a hand on each chair. “I don’t either,” I say barely above a murmur.
“You were saying?” he says before his eyes shift to the door. This time I know why the smile comes. It’s because he wants to get rid of me. He’s done with me. It’s about fucking time.
“You killed my mother,” I say, getting the accusation out into the open once and for all.
“I didn’t. I can’t believe you’d think that.” I stare at him, hearing how false his words sound as they ring in my ears. “There’s a difference between killing your own and protecting your own.” My father’s voice turns hard and at first I think he’s justifying having her murdered, but then I realize he’s talking about Avery. “Your mother hurt me,” he says and leans forward, placing his hand against his chest as he adds, “but I loved her. I would have never done that to her. Or to you.”
“I don’t believe you,” I tell him. “I think you murdered her, and I think you want Jules dead too.”
“You have her under control, don’t you?” my father says although he knows damn well I don’t. After last night, the whole city is talking and now Liam is the topic of the day, not her or me. But three people know what really happened last night.
Jules. Myself. And my father. He knows she wants to leave me. He just doesn’t know why.
He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead he pulls out a desk drawer and reaches in, rifling through paperwork while he talks. “I looked into Liam’s books and subsequent finances.” A thick stack of papers lands on his desk with a thud and then he slams the drawer closed. “Would you sit down, Mason? You’re going to kill me with this,” he says and waves his hands in the air. “Just calm down.”
“Calm down?” I ask him before swallowing down the pain, pinching the bridge of my nose as I close my eyes. I’ve never felt quite like this. Only because the harsh reality has never been so clear to me.
“Mason,” my father says my name as if it’s a plea, “I promise you, I will protect you with everything I have. If that includes protecting her, I will. You’re my son. My one and only, and the only thing I have to live for anymore.
“Whatever it is that’s gotten into you,” my father continues as he breaks eye contact and shakes his head. “I said I’m sorry about Avery,” he adds and presses his lips into a thin line. “You weren’t here when she came in.” He turns in his chair and looks out of the window. “Or Anderson.” He runs a hand down his face and stares out at the city skyline.
“There are choices we make that have to be done quickly.” He swallows thickly. “I was only trying to protect you.”
I finally take the seat opposite him slowly and wait for him to face me. “No. Stop protecting me.” I shake my head slowly and hold his gaze. “I don’t want your idea of protection.”
“Well maybe this will help,” he says as he slides the papers over to me. “Liam Olsen is in the hole, and his life is falling apart.”
I hesitantly look through the stack, lifting the corner of the top sheet to look at the next and the one after that. They’re all copies of bill after bill he’s racked up over the last year.
“We need to talk about what happened the other night before the gala.”
It takes me a moment before I realize he’s talking about the man with the gun. The intruder with a syringe. An obvious fucking hit. “Someone was hired to kill Jules. I don’t know who or why, but it was a hit.”
“Are you sure?” my father asks me.
“He could have killed me, he could have turned when I was chasing him and shot me. But then again he could have killed Jules too.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
I remember the syringe, the heroin. I shift in my seat, staring at my father as I tell him, “He had a syringe on him. He didn’t want the hit to be obvious.”
My father’s expression doesn’t change; he doesn’t give anything away. “A syringe?”
“Filled with heroin,” I tell him and this time he breaks eye contact. He pulls his jacket down and clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable.
“Your mother,” he starts to say but doesn’t finish. I give him a moment, again remembering the way my mother lay there on the tiled bathroom floor. “So, this is where that shit is coming from?” His question is laced with feigned anger. More than anything, it’s a veil over his sadness.
I nod once, not trusting myself to respond verbally.
He nods, although he doesn’t look me in the eyes. “Your mother...” he starts to say again and then stops. He waves the thought away, shaking his head and dropping the discussion entirely. I’ve never seen my father so visibly shaken.
“I don’t see why anyone would want you or Jules dead other than Olsen. Even then, it would have to be because of money and I’ve made it clear to him that the debt owed to me is void. So killing you would most likely be related to some sort of quarrel between the two of you.” He finally looks me in the eyes again before adding, “After last night, there must be something between you two… Undoubtedly.”
I don’t know what possessed Liam to go after Jules last night. I didn’t take him for that kind of a man. An arrogant ass, yes. A man who’d hurt a woman? I huff at the thought. Any man who would do something like that isn’t a man.
“If not Olsen, who else?”
Every hair stands on end and a chill flows down my skin. I question telling my father about Anderson, the entire truth. I have no one else, my back’s against a wall, and this is for Jules. I would do anything for Jules. If that means confessing murder to a murderer, so be it.
I look my father in the eye as I tell him, “I killed Jace Anderson and someone knows.”
I wait for a reaction and the only one I get is that his brows raise slightly and he tilts his head to the side, considering.
“I see,” he says after a moment and again turns away from his seat. His foot taps against the desk as he thinks. “Over Avery, I assume?” he says.
I nod once. He has the dignity to look ashamed for a split second.
“You didn’t love her. You didn’t want her. You told me that much.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” I say and grip the armrests, feeling the anger rise, but he holds up his hands in both defense and understanding.
It’s quiet for a moment, with only the ticking of the clock counting the seconds to keep us company as my father takes in the truth of what happened.
Finally, he looks up and says, “You could have come to me.”
“I was angry at you too,” I say and his eyes spark with indignation at my admission.
As if just now putting the pieces together, his expression changes and he asks, “That’s why Jules went to the police? She knows?”
“Yes.” I swallow the spiked lump in my throat.
“Who is it who knows?” he asks me, thankfully leaving the difficulties with Jules out of the conversation. “And what exactly do they know?”
“I don’t know,” I say and he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Jules received an anonymous letter.” The paper lays in my wallet as we speak, but I don’t present it to him. “It was a warning to get away from me with no evidence.”
“Someone knows you killed Jace, warned her to get away from you… but then tried to kill her?” he asks me with confusion.
&nbs
p; I nod my head, fully comprehending the lack of logic.
“I don’t think they were planning on doing anything when it came to Anderson. They only told Jules to get back at me. And then tried to kill her to keep the secret silenced.”
“Who would do that?” he asks me.
You, I think, but I don’t say it. I don’t have to, though.
His face contorts with disbelief before he turns completely in his chair and opens a cabinet door. I watch in the reflection of the glass, clearly seeing a safe and what’s more, the numbers of the combination to open it.
It’s the same combination he had on the garage when I was a child. I rip my eyes away from the reflection when he peers back up, holding a stack of photographs in his hand and shutting the door to the safe and then the cabinet with a kick of his foot.
“I wasn’t sure if I should show you this or not,” he says and lets out an uneasy breath. “It would have complicated things between you and Liam.”
I glance down at the photographs and then immediately back up to my father’s gaze. Jace Anderson and Liam’s wife, Cecile?
“No,” I say and the word leaves me without my consent.
“They’re getting a divorce, so I imagine Liam found out about the affair somehow,” my father says absently.
“Maybe Liam? Maybe his wife?” my father says, shrugging. “Either way, I’m sure now that the hit failed, I doubt they’ll attempt it again.”
His last statement catches me by surprise, and I tear my eyes away from the evidence of Cecile’s affair to gauge my father’s reaction.
“I’m keeping my ear to the ground and waiting to hear back from a certain someone,” he says then shakes his head slightly, “but no one knows anything according to my source.”
I can’t imagine how deep my father’s depravity goes that he has contacts in such low places.
My father continues without looking at me. “I talked to the commissioner.” I’ve been waiting for this. I know there are consequences to what happened the other night. Liam’s gunning for me.
“You may have to go in for questioning. You won’t be charged with anything, of course. But they have to make it seem like they’ve done their due diligence.” Thatchers belong on only one side of the courtroom. It’s a saying the men in my family have carried for years.
“I need to go,” my father tells me, rising from his seat and gesturing to the door. “If you need help this time, let me know.”
Jules
It’s not the anger toward him,
It’s not the dimming fire.
It’s not the love I feel for him,
Or how my heart bleeds with desire.
My soul is broken, torn and bent,
Never to repair.
To truly hate oneself,
The sin leaves me in despair.
Seventeen days have passed since I got the anonymous letter in the mail.
Each day, Mason looks at me differently. It’s like he knows I’m leaving. I’m not convinced leaving is the answer; I’m not convinced I should stay though either.
The bedroom door creaks open as I brush my hair, getting ready for bed. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll be sleeping in bed with me tonight. He walks into the room quietly, shutting the door behind him. The left side of his face is bruised and cut, but somehow it only adds to his beauty. A prince, wounded in battle saving his princess.
I almost laugh. A hint of it must have escaped at the thought, because he turns to look at me as the door clicks shut. The only light in the room is from the small lamp on the nightstand and the way the shadows sharpen his features does the worst things to me.
There’s an odd dynamic between the two of us. He wants to touch me, he keeps coming close to doing just that, circling me and waiting, but he doesn’t.
The part that’s truly insane is that it disappoints me, every single time. I’m crazy for feeling any attraction to him at all, but I’m drawn like a moth to a flame.
He picked me up when I fell.
He protected me when I was weak.
And even though I hate him for what he’s done, he’s the only reason I’m still alive.
“You can’t hide in here forever, Jules,” Mason comments half-heartedly with a small smile on his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes. He closes the space between us easily, and I let him. His lips brush against mine in what I presume will be a gentle kiss, but he deepens it and without my conscious consent, I lean into it. I didn’t realize how much I missed his touch.
He moans into my mouth as he kisses me deeply, not holding back a damn thing. I wish I could do the same, but all I find myself doing is forcing myself to stay away, to keep my guard up around him. I can’t let myself fall again. I won’t. I utterly refuse to give him that chance or else I know he’ll keep me forever. And I don’t know who exactly I’ll be if I let that happen.
I break the kiss before he’s finished with me, but he only pushes harder into me, wanting more and letting me know exactly what he needs.
I turn away from him, shame filling every piece of me. Ashamed to be kissing him. Ashamed that I want to kiss him.
“Is that how you want it, Jules?” he asks and his deep voice comes out rough as I look into his eyes. The passion is still there. The desire that ignites mine stares back at me.
“You want to hate me.” He brings his lips to my ear, making a burning ache flow down every inch of my skin. “Try hating me while you cum on my dick, sweetheart,” he tells me and I know I’m done for. My head falls back, hitting the wall as his hands trail over my sides, slowly making their way down my curves.
He rakes his teeth down my collarbone, the sensation directly linked to both my sensitive nipples and needy clit. I’m desperate for more. Aching for him to take me and own my body like I know only he can. His teeth sink into the crook of my neck as his hands pin my hips down, holding me in place as I cry out in sheer frustration.
His large body towers over me, the heat from his body suffocating me as his hard erection digs into my lower belly.
“Fight me, Jules,” he says, gripping the hair at the nape of my neck and twisting it around his wrist. “Fight me like you want to.”
I slap him, his rough stubble scraping against my hand. A low growl rumbles up his chest; it’s just as filthy and perverted as I feel, keenly aware of how much he turns me on. I press both of my hands against his chest, a weak and helpless attempt at pushing him away and he just chuckles at me, his gray eyes flickering to life with a heat I’ve missed. Nothing but wanting moans escape my lips.
He grabs the nape of my neck, forcing my head to tilt and claiming a cry from me as he steals a kiss along my jaw. I shove my weight forward, attempting to push him away with more vigor, but he merely uses my attempt to push and twist me down onto the bed.
My belly presses against the mattress, my back arching as he stands behind me, leaning against me and pinning me down as his fingertips slide up my outer thighs.
My heart squeezes too tightly without being able to see him and feel him. I don’t know why, but I don’t want this, not like this.
“Mason,” I call out for him, and his name is nothing more than a plea with the frantic need I feel.
He instantly braces his forearms around me, no longer touching me and no longer pinning me to the bed. He breathes heavily, panting as I turn slowly, still caged under him. It’s an awkward way to lie, with my bottom barely on the edge of the bed.
His eyes are closed, shut tight and his plump lips parted as I lie beneath him. A caged animal, hurt and tortured and needing a way out is all I see. “Mason,” I whisper his name and he opens his eyes.
I gently press my lips to his, taking a sweet kiss before nipping his bottom lip. I brush the tip of my nose against his, and the spark ignites again. He attempts a soft kiss, but it quickly turns into something else. Something primal and filled with lust.
He kisses down my neck, over the small bite marks still red on my skin and aching for attention. He strips
my underwear from me and kicks off his own as we slowly climb deeper into the bed. Slowly parting from our clothes and the worries that wait beyond the heavy sheets.
I don’t stop whispering his name, I don’t stop pushing and pulling against him until he slams into me, filling me and stretching my walls in one swift thrust. My back arches, and a silent scream rips up my throat.
The pleasure he gives me is unmatched, indescribable and something only for us. It’s sinful and wrong, but it feels like heaven.
A strangled moan is torn from me and he almost stops when I push against his cheek yet again. I can see the hesitation, the worry in his eyes. I arch my neck and rock my hips, letting him know that I’m his. That I want this and him just the same. My head thrashes from side to side as my throbbing clit brushes against his rough pubic hair as he stills deep inside of me, buried to the hilt and hovering over me, watching my expression. “More,” I whimper, desperate for whatever he will give me. I’m deprived without his touch. He should know that; he’s done this to me.
Crashing his lips against mine, he moves his hand to my hip, positioning me how he wants me and tilting my ass up just slightly so he can thrust deeper into me. He slams himself harder and deeper into me, unrelenting and unmerciful. “Fuck,” I moan, and he’s quick to echo my pleasure.
From him, it’s a groan of awe filled with gratitude and devotion, fueling him to push me farther and farther as he races for his release. He whispers the word over and over in the crook of my neck, his hot breath sending chills over my body.
From me, it’s a strangled cry as my nails scratch down his back and my body pleads for more and also to run from the intensity. It’s a mix of pleasure and pain, a cocktail strong enough to kill me and I don’t know which one it will be that finally brings me to my death.
Mason
It’s difficult to confront a person when they have a restraining order against you. Regardless, I consider driving by Liam’s house, knocking on the door and beating the fucking piss out of him all over again. A week has passed, and not a damn thing has changed. The air is stagnant and I don’t know what to do but I won’t sit and wait for the next onslaught.