24. Hannah

Hannah

Y ou know that heat that makes you feel like your limbs weigh a thousand pounds? The kind that makes it hard to breathe? To take a drink even though you obviously need it because, with the sweltering sun overhead, you sweat it all back out within the hour?

Yeah, that’s the kind of heat that settles over LA the day after my attack.

The concealer I’d put on this morning to cover the dark blue and purple bruises vanishes without a trace by eleven. The mascara I’d vainly worn is all but gone, having dripped off my face to find cooler weather by the time noon rolls around.

By one, I’m nearly exhausted and I’m sure the guys in the garage aren’t feeling any better. Ian and Puke have already come to interrogate me about my throat and though I gave them the cliff notes version, between them and Mason peering through the garage window all day to check on me, I’m mentally exhausted, as well.

This morning, Mason tried to tell me to stay home, but being in his house, surrounded by his . . . everything all day just didn’t seem like a good idea.

So, I trudged to work behind him—half an hour late, I might add because he wouldn’t let me walk across the alleyway behind his little bungalow by myself to the garage.

After last night, I could barely sleep. I don’t think I dozed off until the sun was starting to crest on the horizon and even then, it was fitful.

I know there are men stationed around to watch the place. The house, the garage. It’s all secure. I just . . .

Who was that guy?

How does he know Missy and how does he know where I live? More importantly, why is he showing up to kill me in the dead of night?

One thing about having a sister on the run from the law and whoever else is after her, is that I am sure to be expected to carry the blame for some of that. While I’m accustomed to taking the fall for Missy, I’m not used to people being so blatantly hateful toward me. Like Savannah last night. She hates me. I can feel it. The damned pope can feel it.

I’m sure Mason can.

Why he’s letting me crash at his place, I’ll never begin to understand, but I’m grateful, all the same.

When I was lying awake last night, desperately trying to fall asleep, I thought that when I woke up, I was going to realize it was all one long, fucked-up dream.

But . . . no cigar.

Instead, I woke up surrounded by his scent in his bed in his house.

Now, it’s messing with my head.

Try as I might, I can’t deny this . . . attraction to Mason. Maybe it’s because, to everyone else, he’s dangerous. But to me, he means safety.

I don’t want to read too much into it, but that’s exactly what I laid awake last night and did. How sweet he was when he carried me to the couch. How he brought me water, even though I hadn’t thought of it myself. How he’d all but forced me to intrude on his space because he wanted me to be safe.

There’s something there. Just not something that will ever end well.

But damned if I don’t daydream about it.

I spend my lunch break getting slushies from the corner store down the road for everyone because, let’s face it, there’s only so much you can do in an office and Mason only lets me out to play with the big kids when it’s just him and I.

I know I’ll probably be in trouble, even before I make it back to the shop. When I walk in the front door and find Mason standing at the counter, talking on his phone and looking like he’s going to pop a blood vessel in his neck, I know without a doubt.

“She’s here.”

He ends the call, setting his phone on the counter a little too hard.

“You’re going to break that,” I tell him, handing him a cherry slushie. I know he likes cherry because he said it once, a long time ago.

Hopefully, that’s still the case.

He takes the slushie, albeit a little too roughly.

“If the lid pops off, I’m not mopping it up,” I grumble.

He looks like he’s either going to kill me or fuck me. Maybe both, knowing him.

I set my bag back in its spot, wincing before I stand because I know he’s pissed.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe, before I even look at him. “It’s hot. I needed some air and I knew you guys would be boiling out there.”

He takes a step forward and I step back.

God, he really is tall, isn’t he?

My back hits the counter and I have to arch my neck to look at him. It’s a mistake. I should have just looked at his nipples because his eyes tell a different story to what’s really going on in his head.

He’s pissed off because I made him worry. And Mason Carpenter doesn’t worry.

He places both hands on the counter on either side of me, caging me in. My heart stutters in my chest at his proximity. I don’t know if it’s the grease on his arms, the way he smells, or the dark timbre of his voice, but my body reacts in ways I know I should feel ashamed about, but I don’t.

Heat pools in my core at his closeness, my clit vibrating with every second that passes.

Maybe I just like it when he gets all dark and dangerous on me. Maybe it’s just him.

“What part of you almost died last night didn’t you understand?”

Okay, valid.

“You said it yourself. There’s security up and down this block. I was okay.”

“You put your faith in those men? They get paid to watch you. You really think they’re willing to take a bullet for you if something happens?”

“And you are?” I challenge. When he doesn’t say anything, my heart skips a beat. He’s absolutely crazy if that’s the case. He’s said it himself a million times. He can’t stand me.

After a beat, I have to do something. So, I reach up and smooth down the collar of his shirt, only for him to catch my fingers in a flash. He steps forward, even closer, his body pressing against mine and I can feel his hardness digging into my stomach.

Holding my gaze, his other hand lifts my chin to inspect the marks on my neck, his gaze caustic while he looks them over.

Finally, he removes his hand and leans forward. His nose runs up the side of my face, and my skin tingles from his breath. My nipples tighten, pressing into his chest and the irrational thought that I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me, right here, for anyone to see, startles me.

God, who am I?

From prude to exhibitionist. Missy would be proud.

“The next time you leave this office without me, I’ll spank your ass,” he murmurs in my ear. “And I’ll make you beg for it.”

And finally, he steps away, grabbing his slushie and the two for the guys and shooting me a look before the garage door shuts behind him.

I clean the office because I don’t know what else to do. The guys have been busy for most of the afternoon, though both Ian and Puke stepped inside to thank me for their drinks and to debate if it was hotter in the garage or the office.

Mason says he’s got errands to run and warns me not to leave the building in that growly voice of his before disappearing out the back door.

Even the phone barely rings.

I debate on clearing out a spot in Mason’s mini-fridge to hide in, but it’s too small. Instead, I settle on looking into private security, which I’m surprised is a whole buttload of money I don’t really have.

I’m not struggling. Mom still sends money to my account every month, but I refuse to touch it because doing so would be accepting everything she did and turning a blind eye. I’ve got plenty saved up and I’m only adding to it working for Mason, but I certainly don’t have thirty grand a month for a single guard.

So, I settle and look at guns, instead. Maybe if I ask really nicely, I can get Mason to teach me. If not, I’ll wing it like everything else.

By four, I’m so bored I’ve reverted back to thinking about last night. About Missy and the crazy man and what it all means. Mom’s involvement and . . . surprisingly, my father’s death.

Missy and I were so young when he died. Around seven or eight. I don’t remember much except for how the house just seemed empty after he passed. Mom cried a lot. Missy and I took to being quiet because she’d get headaches.

Then, one day, like nothing had happened, she was better.

And we never spoke about my father again.

Seems so long ago now.

Dad was a good man. At least I thought he was. Mom said he'd had a heart attack, but he was only in his thirties. Mom seemed better with him around. She was a young woman in politics—no easy feat in Virginia at the time. It’s why she moved us to California. She swore it was a more progressive state that would accept her as a leader.

I guess, looking back, she wasn’t wrong, though I don’t really think it has anything to do with the state of California. I think she’s just a good liar and that sweet southern accent sure doesn’t hurt.

Finally, when the clock strikes a quarter to five and Mason’s still not back, I’m about to start cleaning up for the day when the door chimes and a familiar face steps in.

Well, shit.

Busted.

“Michael?”

Tension roils through me at the darkness in his eyes. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Michael angry before.

At least not with me.

“Hannah Marie,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well . . . it’s a long story . . .” I pause. “Wait, what are you doing here?”

“The charity coordinator called to ask me if you were still coming. Apparently, you never showed.”

Backstabbing asshole.

“Well, I had other business to attend to,” I say, attempting to act as detached as possible and wrap my arms over my chest.

He sighs in defeat, his head hanging low.

“Come here.”

Letting out a deep breath, I concede, allowing him to wrap me in a hug.

“I was worried about you,” he murmurs quietly and something in my chest pangs with guilt.

Of course, he was. You know who he’s not worried about, though? My sister.

I step back, forcing some space between us because I still remember what we spoke about before I “left for the mission”. That it’s time to seriously consider getting married talk that always comes when one friend catches feelings and the other doesn’t.

And that’s what I get for drinking a little too much wine on a lonely Friday night three years ago.

“What the fuck happened to your neck?” Michael snaps, eyes glaring at the angry bruises on my skin.

“It’s nothing,” I reply, but he cuts me off, taking my chin and lifting my head. While he’s a little too rough and it hurts, I don’t move because I don’t want to give in to the fact that it’s still painful.

“Who the fuck did that? Carpenter?”

“No!” I snap, appalled that he would even suggest such a thing. “Mason actually stopped the guy from killing me, so be respectful. Especially in his shop.”

“Yeah, and you’re sure he didn’t set it up in the first place? Send you running back to him?”

“You’re being gross,” I grimace, disgust pooling through me as visions of the man’s face, beaten to nearly unrecognizable pieces, flash through my mind. “It was some psycho who was looking for Missy. He broke into my house in the middle of the night. I called Mason and he saved me.”

He shakes his head, his jaw feathering as he looks around the lobby. “Yeah, always there to save the day.” He steps away from me, his shoulders tight and his three-piece suit extremely out of place in the office of a mechanic. I’m not even sure Michael’s ever stepped foot in a garage. “And he’s got you working here.”

“I like it,” I shrug.

“It’s too hot in here.”

I roll my eyes.

“I’m not an infant, Mike. It’s fun. The guys are all nice and it’s not bad work. Mason pays me well.”

“And when he’s done with you?”

I glare at him. “Is this why you came here? To make me feel like shit?”

“Of course not,” he grits, brown eyes flaring with aggravation. “I’ve come to take you home.”

The room falls silent. Even the garage is silent as ice fills my veins.

Home.

“What?”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. When he surfaces, he shoots me that Dad look that makes me feel like a petulant teenager and not a capable grown woman. An adult making her own choices, despite what everyone seems to believe.

“It’s not safe for you to be out on the streets. Not with who your mother is.”

“My mother is part of the problem. She won’t look for Missy.”

He takes my hand, a look of desperation flashing quickly across his face. “Let the cops handle Missy.”

“Missy’s my sister,” I snap, tugging my hand free of his. “And I’m not giving up on her. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Yeah, your neck proves that.” he grits angrily, attempting to reach for me, again. He only misses because I stumble back into the counter. “While it’s admirable that you feel like you need to save her, Missy made her own bed, Hannah. I can’t protect you here.”

“She doesn’t need your protection.”

Both Michael and I fall silent as I turn to see Mason crowding the frame of the garage. It shuts behind him with a deafening metallic thud that seems to echo throughout the room. He looks at me only once, his stormy gaze searching my face like he can read me like a book before his eyes lock with Michael.

“Jesus Christ, Hannah,” Michael mutters, gaze sinister as Mason steps up behind me. I can feel the volatile rage seeping off him like black smoke. Michael looks about as thrilled as Mason does and the two do their little dick measuring showdown right over my head. I wish I could see Mason’s face, but I can practically feel the possessiveness radiating against my back.

Jesus. Men .

I’ve read about moments like these in romance novels. The two love interests face off for the main female character. I’ve always found it alluring, but this is not that and I don’t want to be stuck in a romance novel love triangle. Especially since Mason barely tolerates me and Michael’s just my best friend. Nothing more.

“So, you’d rather stay here than come home, Hannah Marie?”

I hate when Michael takes that fatherly tone. As if I didn’t watch him eat a bug when we were nine years old because I dared him to. As if we didn’t grow up side by side all these years.

“Don’t call me that and yes . He’s actually been helping me look for Missy instead of just telling me to sit back and let the men handle it.” I cross my arms over my chest because I’m angry, then quickly uncross them because I realize, maybe I really do look like an angry teenager.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you implied it,” I bite.

Michael’s jaw hardens as if he has the right to be angry. I’m the one that keeps getting blindsided. I’m the one who’s standing in between two men who act like I’m the favorite toy at a preschool.

“I won’t go back to Sacramento,” I tell him quietly. He knows my reasons. I’m surprised he even thought to try. “It’s final.”

Michael stares at me for a long moment, as if he’s memorizing my face. As if he knows something I don’t. If I know Michael, though, he won’t tell me. Not unless he thinks I’m in real danger.

“Hannah, I need to take you home—”

“She said, no.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Michael grits.

“You didn’t ask her, either.”

Mason’s voice is cool and indifferent, though I can feel the simmering rage seeping off him. I can’t pretend to understand it. I know Michael’s only looking out for me, but I also can’t believe he doesn’t know me better than that.

“Go. I’ll text you,” I say, working to keep my voice amicable. I know he’s just worried about me. He’s just going about it the wrong way.

Truth be told, Mason’s is the safest place I’ve felt in a long, long time.

I step forward and give him another hug, just something to try and mend things between us, but the tension wound through him doesn’t budge.

“I’ll be fine.”

Michael searches my face for a moment too long and for some reason, I feel sick. Uncomfortable.

I’ve never been uncomfortable around Michael. He’s been my rock for fifteen years.

So, why do I now?

I pull away, backing up until I almost run into Mason and Michael gives me one lingering look before he heads toward the door with a shake of his head.

“I’ll be back to check on you.”

And then he’s gone.

Mason doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t like Michael. Michael doesn’t like him.

Somehow, I’m still the one caught in the middle.