The Price of Mason

by Linda Kage

  Only to find myself buying her a latte and sitting with her in the grass before classes the following Tuesday morning, where we talked about my sister’s upcoming birthday and the horrors of face acne, of all things.

  On Wednesday, our topic of conversation veered toward the Dewey decimal system and how wonky it was, because another one of Reese’s part-time jobs was at the college’s library. That day, she had a bag of honey mustard and onion pretzel pieces, which I had to taste. They weren’t half bad, so I helped myself to the rest of the bag.

  Thursday, we partook in a serious, in-depth debate over television shows. I maintained that The Walking Dead was ten times better than Breaking Bad, but I could never quite get her to agree. So, I made her share her orange with me for being so stubborn.

  By Friday, she’d convinced me she ruled at math, plus she packed two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that day, already aware I would thieve food from her. After polishing our lunches off, we started our calculus homework together, and somewhere between question one and twelve, we began opening up on a more personal level.

  It started by Reese accrediting her father for her math skills since he taught the subject, and before I knew it, she was asking me about my dad.

  “I don’t remember much about him,” I admitted, shifting uneasily next to her on the bench seat. “I just know he was in the Army.”

  She immediately set her hand over her heart, her mouth forming a worried O. “I’m so sorry. Was he killed in the Middle East?”

  I sighed, not wanting to confess, but then I confessed anyway. “No. He never went to combat. He got tanked one night and killed a family of four, plus himself, in a drunk driving accident.”

  “Oh my God. Mason.” She grasped my arm. “That sucks.”

  I don’t think she even realized what she did; she let go of me before I could really enjoy the touch, so I drew in a bracing breath, forced the brief delight of flesh against flesh from my mind, and nodded.

  “Yeah, pretty much. And in this small town of a community, everyone knows how he died, so I can’t even fabricate some hero’s death for him.”

  She looked uncertain a moment before saying, “So… Can I ask about Sarah’s dad?”

  I wasn’t sure how she knew my sister and I had different fathers, probably because Mom and Sarah had a different last name than me, but I didn’t particularly want to talk about him either.

  “Butch Arnosta,” I admitted reluctantly. “That loser ran off after we learned about Sarah’s condition. Mom met him when I was seven. They had a quickie romance, she got knocked up, they got married, and then he was gone again as quickly as the doctor said the words ‘cerebral palsy.’ After that, I think Mom gave up on men completely. She never really dated again.”

  And thank God for that. I already had enough to worry about from her. Having to wonder which lowlife she was hanging around next would’ve stressed me into an early grave for sure.

  Reese nodded sympathetically. “Well, I don’t blame her any. Sounds like she has as bad a track record with men as I do.”

  I shook my head. “How can you have a bad track record? You’re only, what, eighteen?”

  She sniffed, lifting her chin. “Eighteen and a half.”

  I laughed. “I beg your pardon, old woman.” Then I held out my hand to her. “Let me see your palm, Miss Eighteen and a Half. I’ll take a look at your love line and tell you just how bad your track record really is.”

  And that’s when the whole palm reading bit had started, which had allowed me to experience a little more flesh-on-flesh action with her—innocent action, of course—but I was also able to discover a crook in one of her fingers, where she told me she’d broken it playing ball in high school.

  I never would’ve guessed she’d been a basketball player, but she assured me she had been during her freshman through junior years but not her senior because I guess she’d broken her arm then. She paused in a strange way when she admitted that, but then she moved on again so quickly I forgot all about it moments later, mostly because we veered into old boyfriend territory next, which really caught my attention. When I learned she’d only had one past boyfriend, it struck me that she’d said she had a bad track record with guys.

  At first, I was sure she was referring to me, because how could befriending a twenty-year-old gigolo be considered a good record?

  But when I questioned her about him, her face paled and her eyes filled with wary unease. “Sometimes it’s more about the quality than the quantity that counts,” she murmured quietly enough to put me on instant alert.

  “That bad, huh?” I asked, all the while pushing down the urge to gather her into my arms and just protect her from the entire world. She was becoming the bright spot of my day. I didn’t want anything clouding that. “What did he do?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible, needing to know why I already hated the bastard who’d hurt her. “Cheat on you?”

  “Among other things,” she mumbled, looking away and trying to pull her hand from mine, because, for some reason, I’d never quite let her go after my faux palm reading.

  And I couldn’t let her go now, either. Not until I learned everything. “What other things?”

  She never got to answer, though. Three girls walking by interrupted with their noisy conversation.

  “See, they are dating,” one said, staring right at us. “He’s holding her hand. I told you he couldn’t be a gigolo.”

  Dammit.

  What the hell was I doing?

  I was supposed to make it look like we were strictly in the friend zone.

  I jerked my hand from Reese’s and shifted backward on the bench to put some space between us.

  Reese scowled at the passing girls. “We can hear you, you know.”

  All three of them snapped their gazes our way and just as quickly looked away again. Then they scurried off, laughing among themselves.

  Turning to me, Reese motioned vaguely after them. “Don’t listen to them. They’re…ignorant.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said, slamming my calculus book shut and shoving it into my bag. I sent her a tight smile, hoping to God I hadn’t made things worse instead of better by sitting by her every day. “Have a good Labor Day weekend, okay?”

  But really, I was telling her to have a good life, because I knew I’d been going too far. It was time to stop this little obsession I was growing. It was time to stay away permanently.

  Confession #15: And sometimes, I actually did the right thing.

  I was seriously a backward kind of guy. I swear. It seemed as if the nobler or grander my intentions were, the worse I fucked a situation up.

  Two years ago, I’d agreed to sleep with my landlady one time in order to pay off all my mom’s back rent. And here, I’d ended up becoming a male escort because of it.

  Then Reese had come along, and I’d known from the first moment I heard her laugh that she’d be better off if I kept my distance. So what had ended up happening there? Yep, I’d tangled myself up in her until I was talking to her every day, eating lunch with her, and even touching her.

  But this time… This time, I swore I was going to stay away.

  Yet even as I made that oh-so-noble promise to myself, another darker part of me laughed at my stupidity. I suspected I was far from over messing up her life. I wouldn’t intentionally get her hurt, of course, but that part of me that knew better recognized she was doomed, anyway.

  My grand plans to disappear started okay, though.

  I managed to avoid her that evening, leaving for work before she showed up to babysit Sarah.

  A few hours later, I even succeeded in not thinking about her for about five minutes straight.

  Progress.

  When a black Acura with the windows tinted—which usually meant politician—pulled into the valet station, I was eager for something to do, so I hurried forward and opened the driver’s side door. Except a client of mine emerged, beginning that awkward moment of recognition.

  Despite h
ow it might appear, I really didn’t run across clients at the Country Club all that often. But yeah, it happened maybe once or twice—sometimes three times—a month, so I was also used to it.

  He was not.

  Or maybe I should say they were not, since my coworker opened the passenger door to help the second rider out...who was also a client. The couple was married to each other: the husband a senator and his wife from old money. They had paid me twice what anyone else ever had in order to keep my time with them discreet. I’d even signed a waiver for my silence. Both were actually nice people, but okay, if anyone learned about even a little of their bedroom kink, their political careers would probably perish…or maybe not, what with the way things worked these days. But I had a feeling they didn’t want to take that chance, so I was no doubt one of their biggest cover-ups.

  I could practically taste the shock on the husband’s face when he looked up at the kid who’d helped him tie his wife up a couple months back and given her the birthday present she’d always wanted. He immediately paused, his face paling and his eyes widening.

  “Good God. What’re you doing here?” He glanced across the top of his car toward his wife, who was looking down, checking something in her purse as she moved around toward us. Then he turned back to me, his eyes flashing with heat. “Did Farah set up a surprise for me?”

  I glanced down to clear my throat, hoping he wouldn’t catch my expression in case any of my emotions leaked through, because it felt really weird for him to look at me the sensual way he was looking at me. “No, sir,” I said to the ground. “I actually work here.”

  “O…oh.” He sounded distinctly disappointed. And confused. I caught sight of his shoes shifting as if he might be as suddenly uncomfortable as I was. I glanced up. He offered me a tense smile but politely asked, “How long have you worked here?”

  When he glanced around as if worried about getting caught talking to me, I took a slight step back, feeling like a lower life form. “For about a year and a half now.”

  “Hmm.” He didn’t seem to know what to do with that, so he just stood there, gaping badly. I handed him his valet ticket, which finally jolted him back to the present. He gave me his keys and looked blindly for his wife as she finished rounding the front of the car to join us.

  “Honey,” he said as if trying to warn her but not getting any further than that.

  “Well, don’t forget to tip the boy, Stuart,” she scolded, finally glancing up and rolling her eyes with a teasing grin. “You act as if you’ve never dealt with valet service before.” Transferring her smile my way, she gushed, “Sorry. He usually—oh!” Jerking to a halt, she blinked. “Oh my God.”

  A moment later, her eyes lit up and she glanced at her husband, looking hopeful. “Did you set this up?”

  He grimaced. “Actually, no. He… He says he works here. As the valet.”

  She skimmed her gaze over my uniform. “Oh.” Her expression heated as it traveled down my chest, but then her husband elbowed her, which made her clear her throat and check the area, blushing.

  And even though they were super nice people, and I knew they meant no offense, they managed to make me feel shittier than any of my cold, selfish, and calculating clients ever had, because as soon as they realized I wasn’t there to please them, they grew worried about being seen with me.

  I was just the dirty in their little secret.

  Since one of my coworkers, Mac, was watching the entire encounter, I offered the couple a small wave and tight smile and brushed past them to slide into the opened door of their car. “Have a good evening.”

  When I glanced back into the rearview mirror at them, they were staring after me as if they feared I was going to steal their ride or something. Maybe they thought that’s what prostitutes did. I don’t know. But I felt shitty for the rest of my shift, especially after the husband approached me when they returned from the casino with their valet ticket.

  Mac actually accepted the ticket from them and took off to fetch their car. I hadn’t even noticed them because I’d been writing in stats we were supposed to turn in when I heard a voice say, “Here.”

  I glanced up, and there he was, in front of me, holding out a folded bill. I frowned at him, confused, then peered past his shoulder to his wife who was waiting at the curb for their car but was watching us hopefully.

  “I forgot to give this to you earlier.” He nudged the money closer.

  “It’s fine,” I started, but he wouldn’t let up, so I just took the tip so he’d leave already. But as soon as it was in my hand, I realized a note was folded inside.

  The husband stared at me meaningfully, so I unfolded it, only to read what looked like a hotel room number.

  “We’re staying at the Hilton on Thirty-fourth for a conference this weekend,” he explained, his gaze traveling down my body before he met my eyes again. “If you want to stop by after you get off work tonight…”

  When he trailed off with a telling question in his voice, I took a moment to breathe before I shook my head and blurted, “I’m sorry, I’m booked tonight.”

  I was not booked.

  Holy shit. What was I doing? Going to their hotel room after work would bring in good money, and this couple was probably easier to work with than anyone else who employed my services. They were straightforward, no games, no contention. It would’ve been a dream gig for a guy like me.

  Stuart narrowed his eyes slightly, obviously not expecting a rejection. But then he smiled his politician’s smile and nodded. “No worries. We’ll be here until Tuesday morning if you have an opening before then.”

  “I don’t,” I said, shocking myself even more as I repeated, “I’m booked. Indefinitely.”

  Seriously, what the hell was I doing? Had I just retired? Again?

  I’d tried this once last year, but then Sarah had ended up in the hospital with pneumonia, Mom got into a fender bender that required thousands of dollars’ worth of repairs on her car, and one of my clients grew so desperate for an appointment she offered to pay me twice her usual. So I was sucked back in.

  I almost expected the man before me to start negotiating and raising his offer too, but all he said was, “I see.” He looked confused for a moment, not sure what to do or how to react to my refusal to join him and his wife for another threesome. He honestly hadn’t thought I’d turn him down, I guess. He started to swivel away, only to pause and grab my arm.

  “Don’t forget,” he murmured discreetly, stepping closer as Mac pulled the couple’s car up to the curb. “Just because you left the business doesn’t mean the NDA you signed has become void. What happened between the three of us remains confidential. Forever.”

  I looked down at his hand. The last time I’d looked at his fingers, he’d been jacking off to the view of me screwing his wife from behind. I tore my gaze from his grip and looked into his eyes. “I know.”

  His smile was tense and forced, but he nodded at me politely. “Good. Well. Good luck with...with whatever path you take next.” He brushed past me, skimming his hand along my arm as if he couldn’t leave without one last caress, and he hurried to meet his wife, who was waiting eagerly and expectantly at the car.

  After he thrust more money distractedly at Mac, he took his wife’s shoulders and said something in her ear.

  I don’t think she took the news well.

  “Indefinitely?” she cried, glancing at me over his shoulder. “What the hell does that mean?”

  She tried to approach me, determination clear in her eyes, but her husband grabbed her arm and manually tugged her around to the passenger side, opening her door for her and depositing her inside. His gaze turned my way as he shut the door. The longing I saw made me turn away.

  “What was that about?” Mac asked as they drove off.

  I let my gaze wander after the departing Acura and shrugged. “They wanted me to chauffeur them around town this weekend, I think.”

  Mac snorted out a derisive laugh and shook his head. “Rich people a
re so weird.”

  I nodded, even though I kind of wanted to say everyone was weird. But a group exited the restaurant then, wanting to pick up their vehicles, so both Mac and I were pulled back into work.

  When I returned home an hour later, Reese’s car was still parked out front. My heart started to thump hard in my chest.

  Dammit, Mom. Why weren’t you home yet? I was supposed to avoid this girl for her own good. I was nothing but bad for her. The only thing I excelled at was being people’s dirty little secret.

  I eased in the back door, hoping maybe she was asleep in the front room and I could slip into my bedroom without her realizing I was there. But as soon as I shut the door behind me, her laugh drifted down the hall, followed by Sarah’s.

  God. My two favorite sounds in the world.

  Unable to help myself, I followed the laughter until I stopped just outside Sarah’s room, where I pressed my hand to the wall next to the open door and bowed my head, simply listening. Reese was reading Harry Potter. My lips twitched up into a smile as she put an inflection in her voice, trying to capture the mood of the scene.

  “‘…Things I want to know the truth about,’” she read, only to change her voice for a new character. “‘The truth.’ Dumbledore sighed. ‘It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should, therefore, be treated with great caution.’”

  They’d nearly reached the end of the story, I realized. I’d been reading it to Sarah on the nights when Reese didn’t babysit and I didn’t have to work. And last night, I’d read ahead and finished the entire book after Sarah had fallen asleep on me. But the white queen had just knocked Ron out flat during the live chess match. I wasn’t sure how the heck Sarah had been able to fall asleep during a tense moment like that; I’d been hooked and ended up reaching the end less than an hour later.

  “What does that mean?” Sarah interrupted Reese’s reading to ask.

  Reese paused. “What? That the truth is both beautiful and terrible and should be treated with caution?”