Strum Me

by Allison, Ketley

  “About halfway through my first semester at Yale.”

  I scrub a hand down my face as realization sets in. “Ah jeez, Mack.”

  “Everything was taken, auctioned off, used to convert to funds for restitution to his victims. Everything.”

  “Including the funds used to pay for your tuition.”

  “I never got that scholarship,” Mack admits. “But it wasn’t too concerning, since I figured Dad would be more than happy to pay for my tuition, especially if I also got a job and showed some independence. And I did all of that. What I didn’t account for was his inability to hold up his end of the bargain.”

  I lean forward on my elbows. “Was there any way you could keep going to school?”

  She shakes her head in the negative. “I had to drop out. I was left with nothing, barely even the clothes on my back. I had to figure something out, fast, or else I’d be on the streets.”

  Picturing McKenna Beckley navigating the street world was almost laughable, if it weren’t so incredibly sad and almost true. And Jesus—frightening as shit. She wouldn’t have lasted. Not for a minute.

  Correction: save for the fact she found a lucrative black market career that propelled her back into wealth.

  Fuck, I barely know her at all anymore.

  “I wish I knew that happened to you,” I say. It was around the time Nocturne Court experienced cash flow. “I would’ve…”

  She scoffs, “You would’ve helped me?”

  “Why not? You were there for me during one of the shittier stays of my life.”

  Mack eyes me warily. “Generosity isn’t in your bones, Mason.”

  “When it comes to you, it would be.” I rise from the couch, muscles stiffening with anger. “I wouldn’t have left you in the dust, Mack.”

  She follows my rise and doesn’t blink when she says, “You already did. When you left me in the street, you never even turned your head to look back.”

  My lips thin, and I’m pissed at myself for being the first to break our stare. “I was an idiot back then. I didn’t desert you to hurt or punish you. I—”

  “You did all of that.” Mack pushes to a stand. While on her feet, she barely hits my shoulders, but her presence is heavy and forceful. “And you’re doing it now, by proving how much control you still have over me.”

  I bare my teeth. “Need I remind you, you’re here of your own free will. And, might I add, a nice cut of dough. I’m not forcing you to be here.”

  “I’m not talking about the money. That’s my choice to accept. I’m talking about your determination to stop me from doing my job. Or, dare I say it, this ridiculous idea you have to save me.”

  “Because it’s not you. That Jane chick you play? She’s no one. This isn’t who you are, McKenna.”

  “You have no idea who I am anymore.”

  “Maybe not, but I know you’re better than this. You’re not a—”

  “A whore? A prostitute?” Mack steps closer. “But I am, Mason. Learn to accept that bitter taste in your mouth. That bare-breasted chick you left in a janitor’s closet at school became a hooker and she likes it.”

  I rasp, “You’re fucking lying.”

  And my gut sinks at the thought of being the one who damaged her.

  “Don’t, Mack,” I say. “I know where you’re going. Don’t go down the same hole I had a helluva time digging myself out of.”

  “That hole, as you describe it, couldn’t be farther removed from yours. We’ve always been different from each other, Mason. Complete opposites. So wrong for one another we should never have met in the first place.”

  “You really believe that?”

  She sets her shoulders, but she’s fidgeting with her hands. “I do.”

  Anger builds up in my chest, so tight it begs for release, but it’s what she wants. Mack is goading me with the daring expectation I’ll do exactly what she predicts.

  Explode.

  Say things I can’t take back.

  Humiliate her.

  I step forward and lay my palms on her shoulders. They’re thin and boney under my large grip, fragile as a bird’s, but housed in a body forged to withstand eager male hands.

  “I’m sorry about your dad,” I say. “I really am. And I hate that you lost your placement in college and had to figure out other ways to survive. Without your family. I know what that’s like. But I’m not backing down. That money? It’s for you to start a new life. Without your alter ego, Jane. Start over, Mack. Be happy.”

  Stunned into silence, Mack lifts her head and searches my eyes. “Who are you right now? You don’t rescue women or do things out of the goodness of your heart. You shouldn’t care what choices I make or who I make them with. You—”

  I cup her jaw. “Don’t get it twisted. I’m still a dick.” Unable to resist, I stroke the exquisite softness of her cheek. “But you? You’ve always been better than me and deserved a helluva lot more.”

  Her breath heats the bottom of my palm, where her lips touch my skin. She doesn’t move and neither do I. Not until I lower my head and our noses almost touch. Her chin tilts up, and I take that as an invitation to coax her lower lip into my mouth.

  Until Mack pushes me away.

  “Unless you’re willing to pay extra,” she says with a blank, emotionless smile, “you’re not getting near my bare skin again. Face it, Mason, the innocent girl you had under you is long gone.” Mack backs up until she’s at the adjoining door. “And she’s not coming back.”

  I don’t move to stop her from leaving. Refuse to say any additional stupid words. I’ve already said too much.

  I just stand there, out of scotch, watching the girl I thought I knew slam a door in my face.

  19

  McKenna

  After I shut the door to Mason with a satisfying smack, I lean against it, covering my face with my hands.

  I don’t cry. Tears haven’t been a part in my life for a long while.

  But I heave, my chest filling then concaving, as I try to wrangle my emotions back into line.

  Mason shouldn’t be able to pull at me like this. I can’t believe I was that honest with him and told him about my father.

  And that I almost told him about Giles.

  Giles accepted my offer—a quarter of a million dollars in exchange for my dad’s freedom—and I’m still reeling from the reality that I’m making deals with criminals.

  It was on the tip of my tongue, where that money was going. It wasn’t to start a new life, though it boggles the mind to think Mason could have such a rainbow unicorn view of changing my situation. Almost like he has blinders on—stubborn, brick ones, the same make and model as his brain, where he can’t see all the cracks and fractures in his plan. Or refuses to.

  Typical Mason. Only makes decisions based on his facts, without ever bothering to consider that maybe, offering me a wad of cash and binding me to him for eight weeks isn’t enough for me to want to end my career, and then—what? Beg to stay in his arms? Ask to be his roadie for life? What the hell does Mason Payne want with me?

  But isn’t that what you’re doing? Throwing hard cash at Giles, then turning your back, hoping it doesn’t catch up to you again?

  Maybe, except for the very different stakes: one for my life, and the other for my heart.

  I push off the door in a huff and step into the bathroom to splash some water on my face. Glancing up at the mirror, I’m deliberately bare. No lip gloss, no mascara, nothing. I haven’t dressed nicely since setting foot on Mason’s tour, hoping that plain vanilla, regular McKenna Beckley would just bore him to death and he’d lose interest. The girls he wants are glamorous, gorgeous, lithe and confident—a lot like my Jane Landers. His ex, Sorsha Dillon, is a testament to that. Even her name brings about a certain awe.

  I can’t understand why he continues to pursue me.

  It’s like we’re back in my basement and he’s touching me for the first time, showing me that despite all the blinking, red, flashing signs saying otherwise
, he’s the right choice. He’s safe.

  “There’s so much you don’t know,” I say to my reflection. To him.

  I’m keeping so many secrets. Ones he’ll hate me for.

  History shows just how dangerous he can be.

  Yet, I’m still picturing us standing in the middle of Mason’s suite, so close, his energy vibrating against my skin. His words testing my barricades. When he stroked my face, he was feeling for faults. Exploring until he found the give in my foundation and cracked it open until it crumbled.

  I shut it down before he could.

  But I’m aching for that stolen kiss.

  * * *

  The next two weeks is a blur of jet lag, city night-scapes, and foreign sounds. I barely have time between stepping off an airplane, sitting in a car, and making the next hotel my home before we’re carted off again.

  I don’t know how the boys do it, but all four members of Nocturne Court maintain endless stamina and velvet voices, trucking through their tour like true professionals. If they complain about the ache in their arms, they don’t say it in public. If their voice boxes hurt, they don’t hoarsely call for tea or bourbon. Everything private, all things personal, are done in their quarters, away from the public eye, with the added touch of their closest employees scurrying quietly to gather whatever the rock stars are after.

  I once ran into Rex in a hotel hallway—was in it Denmark? Maybe—as he murmured into his phone, his voice taking on a croon reserved only for the love of his life. Rex had a way with his audience, he sets off a spark with the crowd, but nothing compared to the glow blooming across his features when he spoke to his daughter and girlfriend.

  I was struck frozen for a moment, one foot in front of the other, while I witnessed the exchange, and my immediate thought was, is that why he’s leaving? Family?

  And Easton, too?

  Mason doesn’t have that kind of epicenter to walk home to once everyone finishes the tour. He’s a loner, always has been, but I always seem to be the only person to notice how lonely it makes him.

  Nocturne Court is his family.

  And they’re leaving him.

  Rex lifted his head and caught my eye. When his brows furrowed in confusion, I realized my sweet, internal aww at the way he melted for his women had turned into impatient anger.

  “Just tell him already,” I blurted, then scampered off to my room like a person trying not to get involved.

  But was already so, so deep.

  Today will be different, I think as I lift the covers from my body and greet the morning in … I take a quick peek out my window and yep, there’s Big Ben, so yes, London is where I’m at, and tie up my hair to grab a quick shower.

  The daily schedule’s already different. Usually, I accompany the band to rehearsals, press conferences, meet and greets, and the like, becoming a shadow like most of the staff on tour while the boys bask in the spotlight. Mason doesn’t make any further moves on me. In fact, he acts cold, distant, and professional to the point that I’m wondering if he really is tiring of my presence and is readying to let me go.

  There’s been no more attempts to get me to leave my job, not a single brush of a finger against my skin, and barely an attentive wave when I step into his radar. Mason’s manipulation is unparalleled, and I’m thinking he’s trying some reverse psychology on me. It’ll never work, but it’s surprising how much I wish for the passionate Mason, even if he was mean and inappropriate. At least then, I know what I’m getting. And how to handle him.

  Mason Payne, what are you up to?

  This morning, I’m meant to join the band and entire staff for brunch in a reserved ballroom, a treat for everyone’s hard work thus far.

  At home, I have a very rigid morning routine of preparation, primping and priming. Either pilates, barre method or spin class at 6 AM, a blow-out at my neighborhood salon, waxing of wayward areas not tended to by laser hair removal, before finally, an hour sit-down in front of my vanity, applying the careful guise of Jane Landers before heading out and meeting clients for late afternoon lunches, dinners, and after-parties.

  Here, I sleep in, wear my hair in natural long waves (always turning into a tangled, thick mess within forty-five minutes), don’t shave, though electrolysis has taken care of most of that, barely tend to my face, and wear leggings and tees more than couture.

  It’s oddly freeing, and the satisfaction is endless. I’m doing all this, being myself, to the tune of a quarter million dollars, and there’s no sex involved. Either Mason is becoming the best client I’ve ever had, or he’s turning into the greatest mistake.

  Because I’m getting comfortable.

  And that is usually when the danger lurks and Mason’s passive circling turns into a bloody bite.

  Once out of the shower, I brush on a coat of mascara, pinch my cheeks, and give my hair a quick scrunch with some curl spray, calling myself done in the hair and make-up department. Since it’s a nice brunch in the heart of London at a very grand, historical hotel, I opt for a white sundress with lace trim and cream espadrilles for my feet, thankful my last pedicure in NYC is holding up.

  When I step out of my suite, I follow the trail of staff to the elevators, passing Mason’s room. My ear’s perked, but I hear nothing on the other side, not until I’m almost past the door and I catch a quick, high-pitched moan. It’s out of tune, almost childish, and definitely female.

  My stomach lurches. It shouldn’t, but it does. My heart throbs unexpectedly, and I tell myself it’s because of the money. If he’s entertaining himself in other ways, despite putting a hooker on his payroll, then I truly am in trouble.

  Mason is fickle, at best. Vindictive, at worse. And pure evil when he’s bored.

  My dress’s pocket vibrates right as I tell my feet to move faster, and I pull it out to read the text.

  Private Number: I’ve changed my mind, darling. I need the money sooner than expected.

  My gut loses another few levels. My fingers tighten on the phone as I debate how to respond, but Giles gets there first.

  So sorry, but this isn’t a request. 8 weeks is far too long, love. I’m already missing you at 3.

  Trembling, I thumb out a response. I don’t have the money yet. But I can get it to you soon.

  Private Number: Did I mention your father is about to have the most terrible accident? So much blood, darling. No one’s going to help him, not even the guards. I don’t think he’ll make it through the night. So, in lieu of your gorgeous body convincing me from doing something I’ll regret, please wire the funds immediately.

  My breath whistles through my teeth. I hold the phone closer to my face, like proximity will change Giles’s threat.

  Think McKenna, THINK.

  I’ve dealt with plenty of assholes. Mason gave me the fast-pass in handling volatile men. All I have to do here is calm Giles down and have him rest easy for a few days while I figure out how to get the cash early.

  “McKenna? You coming?”

  I glance up long enough to see Jess holding the elevators for me with a crowd of about ten behind her in the lift. Her expression makes it clear she’d rather the doors shut in my face, but her loyalty to Mason trumps the petty gesture.

  “I-I’m fine. Go without me. I’ll meet you down there,” I say.

  I didn’t school my voice enough, because Jess frowns. “You okay? Did you get some bad news?”

  “No, yeah. I’m fine. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Jess shrugs one shoulder, her duty of mild concern fulfilled, and releases her grip on the doors. She disappears behind the silver metal sheen.

  Standing in the deserted hallway, the luxury carpeting under my feet provides a cloaking effect of sound. Shut doors are muffled. Voices are turned to whispers. Any further moans go unheard.

  It’s then an idea strikes.

  I text Giles, I can get you half by this weekend.

  Three ellipses pop up as he types a response, and the wait is death-defying. Will Giles accept the offer? It’s
over a hundred grand, but not the full amount. But it has to be enough. It has to keep him off my back and my dad safe. For now.

  At last, Giles’s response pops up.

  Alright, darling. You win. You’re lucky you have such a flawless face. That guile of yours reaches me even when you’re across the pond. Send me half by Saturday and we have a temporary deal.

  I close my eyes and hold the phone against my chest, breathing deeply. I did it. My dad is safe for the near future.

  A creaking door, a muffled bang, and a resulting giggle draws my attention behind me, down the hallway.

  Mason’s door opens, and my breath stops halfway as my body instinctually anticipates meeting him. Tightened nipples. Drawn-in stomach. Bobbing throat.

  Old habits are hard to break. Even while under threat, I crave a glimpse of him.

  Yet, the legs that step out first aren’t his. They’re bare, golden and long. The body that follows oozes grace and self-assurance, capped off with a shining wave of honey-gold hair. A pert chin lifts up and grass-green eyes meet mine, framed by glass-carved cheekbones.

  “Hello,” she says to me in a musical voice. She reaches her hand back and draws Mason out of the suite.

  He’s busy looking at his phone and doesn’t see me at first, but when he eventually glances up, when I’m still frozen like Bambi on the ice pond, his brows do an infinitesimal jump.

  I shouldn’t feel relief that he’s fully clothed. Nor should I be focused on the rouge imprint near the corner of his mouth, a perfect facsimile of female lips meeting his skin.

  “Oh, hey, Mack,” he says. “I thought you’d be downstairs with everyone already.”

  “You have something on your face,” I say, then turn and opt for the stairs.

  Horrified, I leave as fast as I can. I’ve become the reluctant first witness to Mason Payne and Sorsha Dillon, newly reunited, and I don’t want to show him that I care.