I wonder if her men demand and pay for that kind of thing, or if it’s her preference. I prefer to believe it’s the latter. The idea she does what other men instruct opens up boiling rage in my chest I’ve worked to keep quiet since discovering McKenna 2.0.
“Uh, we’re not sharing a bed,” she says.
Being confronted by McKenna—the real one, not the made-up escort chick with perfect, straight hair, long lashes and staged smile—has me all sorts of conflicted.
She stands in the center of the room, hands on her hips, her baggy shirt doing nothing to hide her drool-worthy hourglass waist.
The lack of cosmetics on her face shows me the McKenna of our younger years, the shy one, the girl whose face I loved to bring color to by sending her into gasping outrage, sometimes with actual tears.
Then, later, getting that same flush on her by biting down on her lips and inhaling her orgasms.
“Mason? Hello? Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.” I gesture to the sofa. “I’ll take the couch. You take the room.”
“Is this how it’s going to be for eight weeks?” Mack gnaws on her lower lip, thinking. All the blood immediately rushes to my groin. “We’re gonna need a contract drawn up. I have a few demands.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Like my own hotel room for the duration of my stay,” Mack continues. When I don’t answer, she says, “I’m not moving from this spot until I get a verbal agreement from you.”
“Okay. Sure. Fine.”
She peers at me closer. “This was all your idea. If you’re uncomfortable now that I’ve actually said yes, then—”
“No. I want this. You. I mean, the convenience of having you around. I’ll have my assistant draw something up in the morning before we board the jet.”
“Great,” she says, but doesn’t sound convinced. “For tonight, I’ll take the bedroom, like you said.”
She walks past, grabbing the smaller of her suitcases along the way. I inhale the cloud of her scent in the air as a small wind of movement accompanies her, but I stay where I am.
“Good night, Mason,” she says, her pale face peeking through the doorway before she clicks it shut.
“‘Night,” I say, then add, “Be ready to go by seven.”
Her voice is muffled through the door. “No problem.”
I fantasize about sneaking into her room, leaning down onto the bed and stroking my hand up her bare, milky thigh, but instead, I’m left with the dwindling sounds of Wyn’s double love-making.
I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger.
I’m not sure how I’m going to explain this to the guys, but then again, I’m not sure they require an explanation.
This is my choice, my reasons, my urge to have Mack around again.
And this time, I haven’t given myself an escape hatch.
10
McKenna
My heart thumped the entire time I faced Mason in the hotel suite’s main room.
I thought I could handle standing in front of him again, especially with ten years between us. The needles of the past shouldn’t have pricked my skin, memories of Mason’s teenaged face interposing itself on his hardened, rugged adult man one.
My mind played tricks on me as I kept sneaking glimpses of different parts of his features, as if reality were trying to reclaim him from the Mason I’ve been imagining all these years.
I still remembered the first time I met his eyes, despite my efforts to bury that image along with all the others. It stuck the way some images do at the moment you least expect them—a flash of a smile by your crush, an image of your mom searching for shark tooth fossils on the beach, sharing fish and chips with your dad on the pier. Simple snapshots of daily life and quick glimpses that you know, deep in your bones, will be a picture forever interposed in your brain.
When I sat beside Mason on the city bus to school, every eighteen-year-old inch of him stiffened to such a degree it was clear he was urging his body to shatter, then scatter to the wind. But his eyes, when they met mine, told a different story. So blue they were oceanic, but so pale they were almost silver, metallic shrapnel shooting out from his pupils. One eye was puffy, swollen, and recently punched.
We connected, and I swear I saw both sides of him.
Mason’s body may not yet have shattered, but his eyes were already broken.
The vulnerable kid who thought he had to be mean to gain any status in this world versus the arrogant prick with the confidence he’ll succeed at anything he aims for.
Leave it to me to think she could be nice to the lost boy and have it be taken as innocent kindness. In the end, it was Mason’s fractured rage that took control, a beautiful demon with a sword from the Underworld, one he’d aim straight for my heart and macerate.
I resented the power he held over me then, and I refuse to let him find it a second time.
My phone dings where I threw it on the bed, and I pick it up and read the incoming text.
Dee: You in? Can you stay with him?
With a closed-mouth smile, I text back, Yep.
Dee: Oh, man. So much goddamned money. The guy must be head over heels for you. Or you must’ve had the most addictive snake charmer in the world back in high school. You feel bad about gaming him?
I frown, then let out a soft laugh when I realize Dee’s referring to my vagina as a snake charmer.
Me: No way. We both know where we stand. He’s fully aware I’m in this for the cash. With the way he treated me, he’s not delusional enough to think this will go anywhere.
Dee: Ah, so you’re in this for revenge then.
My frown deepens. No. I’m over it. I’m over him.
Dee: Uh-huh.
I’m about to toss my phone on the side table and crawl into bed, ignoring any more of Dee’s insinuations, but her next text catches my eye.
Dee: Be careful, okay? We can celebrate the money and everything, but we both know why you’re forcing yourself into this. Watch your back. You don’t know who’s behind you.
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I black out my screen, set the phone on the nightstand and busy myself pouring a glass of water in the attached bathroom sink.
I left my apartment in a rush but had the fortitude—or dumb-tude—to leave Giles’s cash in plain sight on the kitchen counter inside my clutch in case he or his lackeys break in and come looking for me while I’m gone.
Dee’s also been given strict instructions if, after eight weeks, my condo is no longer safe, to never step foot there ever again. I packaged and mailed a few important things to a secure P.O. Box, pocketed some paper, then walked out of my apartment, possibly for good.
I didn’t linger among my things or say goodbye. Situations like this have to be considered in my line of work, and it was inevitable, with the high-risk, high-salaried clients I attend to, that a dangerous phase would come up. So, I instituted my fail-safe, which can basically be summed up as: cut your losses and run.
I couldn’t do what Giles demanded. I wasn’t about to clean his money and think he’d leave me alone afterward. He’s the type of man who would demand more, expect extra, and steal bonuses, like using my body whenever he felt the need—and not paying for it.
I’ve met guys like him before. Avoided worse. It’s because of that I know my limits, and facing him down while defying him isn’t the way to go. It’s best to hide out for a while, especially in a crowd, most preferably out of the country, gather my relevant documents (which were settled nicely in the small suitcase I brought in here with me), then make the call to Giles. Give him an offer he can’t refuse, and provide him with two-hundred-and-fifty thousand reasons not to hurt my dad.
Mason provided the perfect opportunity to do all of that.
I have no one. I’ve been alone for a long time and starting over is almost a refreshing goal to look forward to, if I didn’t have dangerous criminals breathing down my neck.
I ignore the skitter of unease crawling across my skin.
> It can’t be this easy.
Oh, but it is. Mason has no idea, but this time it’ll be me that gives him the slip. I’ll have his money, a clean slate, and a new country to settle down in.
And maybe the additional side benefit of hurting him as much as he’s hurt me.
I pad into the bedroom, finishing my water and wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve. The bed, luxurious and comfy, uses its siren call of fluffy down feathers and high thread counts to lure me into a catching a few hours sleep, before I assume the role Mason wants me to play.
Before I turn out the light, I twist the lock on the bedroom doorknob, my fingers brushing lightly against the wood before withdrawing.
Just in case Mason Payne gets any ideas.
Then, I pick up my phone and make the call.
11
Mason
“Oh, good. You’re awake,” a female voice says.
Right after a pillow hits me in the face.
“What the—ow, Jess.” I sit up, running a finger around my eye socket, wondering if a tassel thread got caught in there.
Jess, in a fitted blazer and tighter jeans, taps away at her tablet. “In two minutes, this room will be infiltrated with agents, managers, and busboys. Want to tell me why half your body’s on the couch and the other half is on the floor?”
I crick my neck and pop my back. “Because this fucking thing is too small.”
Jess’s brown eyes narrow behind her thick, black-framed glasses. “Did you idiots party too hard last night? Is that why you couldn’t find your bed? I told you, Mason, you need to get some rest. You guys are hitting the arena the minute you land in Tokyo.”
“Yeah, I’m aware.” I’m still rubbing my neck. My cheek feels stiff, and not solely from a day’s growth of beard. I might’ve drooled in my sleep while using a hard, unforgiving couch arm as my pillow. “Is this furniture meant to be for show only?”
Jess’s attention skims over the faded maroon velvet. “It’s probably not meant for six-foot-five men, no. Even lean ones. Where’s Wyn? It’s six-thirty and I don’t even see a shirt lying around near you—oh. Hi, there.”
Jess’s finger pauses on her screen as she notices the person coming out of my bedroom.
The woman.
Mack steps outside the doorway in an oversized Mickey Mouse tee and … that’s about it. Her red-brown hair is mussed, kinked, and tossed to one side, and her legs glide for miles all the way down to the plush carpeting.
It’s there my attention strays, right at the apex of her thighs where Mickey’s yellow feet deny me any preview.
I push off the couch, scraping a hand through my own messed up, half-flat hair. “Mack, meet Jess, my assistant. Jess, this is—”
“McKenna.” Mack heads over and holds out a hand, undeterred by Jess’s put-togetherness versus her own. “Mason hired me to—”
“Mack’s an old childhood friend,” I cut in smoothly. But I make sure my directed smile at McKenna is more cutting than smooth. “She’ll be joining me on tour.”
Now all Jess’s fingers pause on her screen. “Come again?”
“Yep. Mack’ll be joining us for the entire tour. You’re set to get her hotel rooms and such sorted, right?”
Jess lowers her tone. “Mason, you can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am.” I hit her with my winning smile—the one that makes fans hyperventilate. “If anyone can do it, you can, Jessie.”
Jess’s face doesn’t crack an inch. Always the professional, she answers, “Fine,” then spins away, scrolling furiously on her tablet.
Mack raises a brow. “I take it you’ve let no one in on your grand idea to sweep me away?”
“It’s no one’s damned business.” I scratch at my bare chest. “Now, are you wanting to shower first, or should I? Or should we conserve the water supply and—”
“I’ll shower first,” Mack says, but I grin.
“In case you’re wondering, no, I still don’t have any tattoos,” I say.
“What makes you think I care?” she retorts.
“Because I see you eyeing my pecs, that’s why.”
Mack’s jaw hardens before she says, “They’re the same pecs you wore when you were eighteen. I see no difference.”
“Oh, ouch, Mack.” I feign a harsh wince.
She and I both know there’s a huge difference. My pecs and abs are chiseled like glass these days.
My attention strays to Mickey’s ears, and I mean it when I say, “You’ve filled out nicely. Not that you didn’t perfectly fill my hands senior year.”
Mack flips me the finger the instant the hotel door opens and a bunch of guys stroll in.
Rex is the first to whistle, then say, “Couldn’t get it up enough, eh, Mase?” before all the other guys start chirping.
Mack, to her credit, doesn’t blush or flinch. She keeps that bird high in the air.
“You can tell us the truth, darling. He can’t even last with just the tip, can he—holy shit, McKenna?”
Mack’s eyes widen as she stares at the owner of the voice, my younger brother. “Braxton? Oh my God.”
The awe in Mack’s voice is real and true as she envelops my brother in a big hug. When she withdraws, she exclaims, “Look at you! I barely recognized you!”
Brax nods, glancing at me briefly before being drawn in by her. “I’m clean. Sober and going strong. Took a few stints at rehab—”
More like eight.
“—but Mase got me there,” Brax finishes.
Mack cups Brax’s cheeks. He’s at least a head and a half taller than her and she has to look up to take him all in. “I’m so glad.”
Brax squeezes her wrists, then withdraws. “Yep. Now I’m Mase’s assistant’s assistant. Bullshit work, but he pays me triple what I should make.”
Mack squints over at me. “Yeah, he tends to do that.”
I make an indecipherable sound in my throat, unhappy with the way my gut’s reacting to my brother’s hands on Mack. “Brax, you have my assistant to track down. She’s about to have a heart attack over recent schedule updates. And Mack, take a shower before I cut your time in half and get in there myself. Whether or not you’re still in it.”
“And he’s still a bossy asshole,” Brax adds.
“Already knew that,” Mack says, but she does as I ask and strolls back to the bedroom, every virile, non-taken male eye following her ass as she goes.
How many would she let pay to fuck her?
The thought comes unbidden but sharp. I wonder if I’ll ever shake the hot-button anger that blooms every time I think about where she’s ended up.
“Dude,” Brax says as soon as Mack shuts the door behind her. “McKenna Beckley?”
I wave him off. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“How’d you find her?”
“You deaf? Just accept that she’s here, Brax. And she’ll be joining us on tour.”
Brax’s brows jump, but he does the smart thing and doesn’t push. But, being my brother and the only guy who has more access to my history than anyone else on the planet, I can read behind his expression. And I don’t like what I see.
He’s confused, sure, but his eyes, the same color as mine, translate pity.
“Don’t think I can’t let go of my past or some shit,” I spit out before swiping my shirt from the floor and pulling it on.
Brax holds his hands up. “Didn’t say a word. Time to go find Jess.”
“You do that.”
Once Brax leaves, I don’t find any additional privacy. I spin around to find Rex, East, and our manager, Spinner, watching me.
Rex immediately goes to tuning his guitar on the couch and East, sitting beside our manager, bursts into a conversation about logistics.
Wyn steps out of his room, his boxer briefs at half mast. Scratching his scalp, he says to me, “Hey man, I’m just glad there’s a chick in your life other than Sorsha. That lady’s the devil’s work.”
I glower at all of them.
McKenna
The trip to Nocturne Court’s personal jet wasn’t exactly how I imagined it would be.
VIP entrances and exits are meant to be private, incognito affairs—or that’s what I thought. As soon as we exit the building via the back entrance, the boys are engulfed with waiting fans and flashing phones. I spot a few press badges and a ton of paparazzi.
Mason and the others take it in stride, flashing smiles, scrawling autographs and accepting hugs and gropes like it’s all part of the job. I guess it is.
I disappear with their other “people,” flanked by Mason’s executive assistant, Jess, and some kind of manager, Spinner, a tall, thin, greased up guy who smiles like he should be signing some tits, too.
Four black Escalades idle at the curb, and as security pushes through the small crowd with their black clothing and broad shoulders, we’re all ushered into our respective vehicles.
I blow out a breath, my heart hammering like I’d just had to cross a deep chasm by taking a rickety bridge.
Mason, sitting beside me in the backseat, pats my thigh. “All good?”
I nod. “That’s a lot of people. And cameras.”
The door opens again and Brax flies in, forcing me into the middle seat. “Two chicks out there knew me as your bro, Mase. They couldn’t get you so they asked me to sign their boobs.”
“Always getting my sloppy seconds,” Mason responds. “But what amuses me the most is that you’re happy about it.”
“Dude, the chicks that want you are hot. Getting the side-benefit of hot ass is never a bad thing.”
“Hot ass does not sound like a good thing,” Mason says. “Try again with some different words, buddy.”
Brax leans back in his seat with a grin. I take the moment to study his profile, noticing his cheekbones still jut out and his neck is more tendons than fat. Drugs had always made him rail-thin, otherwise he and Mason could pass as twins. They were only a year-and-a-half apart, but with Brax’s addiction holding him back and Mason’s success propelling him forward, the differences between them grew.
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