Relentless (Mason Family 4)

“This has nothing to do with you,” I tell him.

He sighs. “Oh, but it does. Because when one of us is fucked up, we all pay the price.”

My brothers mumble their agreement.

“Blast is used to getting what he wants,” Wade says. “I’m sure it was a shock to his system for Shaye to turn him down. Because that’s what she did.” He watches me to see if what he’s saying is sinking in. “If she didn’t turn him down, she wouldn’t have been with you every day since, now would she?”

He has a point.

“Look at this logically,” Wade continues. “He wanted her at the gala. She said no. He sent her flowers. She ignored them. So, he shows up to make a face-to-face play for her. Why? Because he isn’t getting anywhere.”

“I love when Wade gets all smart,” Boone says.

“I’m always smart.” He raises a brow at Boone. “You do what you want, Oliver. But I think you’re making a huge mistake.”

The room grows quiet again.

Wade has a point. He always has a point. But I don’t know if it’s enough.

Whether she wants Marius or not, she didn’t tell me. I have to trust her. Relationships are built on that foundation.

Our foundation is cracked, and we haven’t started building yet. It seems to me that the temple we were hoping to construct was doomed from the start. Because as I sadly know all too well, if the foundations are not solid, dug deep enough, then the building won’t ever weather the storm.

Thirty-Two

Shaye

I check my phone again.

Nothing.

No missed calls, no texts, no voicemails.

I sigh, heading to the kitchen because I don’t know what else to do. The early afternoon television shows are awful. They aren’t nearly as interesting as they were when I was a little girl and would stay with Grandma. Back then, the afternoons were filled with talk shows, pseudo-advice programs, and game shows with glittery wheels. Now, everything looks dull.

Or maybe that’s just me.

I called Toni this morning and told her I was sick. She said she’d inform Oliver and to get well soon. That was hours ago and still—no feedback.

He has to know I’m not coming by now.

I sit at the table. An empty pop can from last night rattles next to a magazine. It was a late night—long and dark—and I don’t look forward to the sun going down tonight.

My mom used to say that everything felt worse at night. She said that it’s because you can’t do anything about what’s bothering you except worry. I believed her. It made sense. Throughout my life, that’s held true.

Until now.

It doesn’t matter if the sun is up or down, if I’ve eaten or not, if I’ve showered or gotten any sleep—it sucks. Period.

A part of me wants to hope that this can be fixed. Another part of me wants to accept that it can’t. I have an inkling to accept reality just so I can start the task of wading through the pain that will come once I accept that this is over.

Because I don’t think I’ve done that yet. I don’t think I’ve really let myself fall into that abyss because it’s going to be a long and lonely hole to claw my way out of.

“I need to call Nate and see about getting more hours until I get back on my feet,” I mutter out loud. I close my eyes briefly. “Again.”

I hate this. I hate being so beholden to situations. If only Luca hadn’t left me with that fucking debt.

The mail I was going through yesterday is beneath the magazine. I pull them toward me while I figure out what to say to the temp agency when I call them later looking for a job.

“I fucked my boss, and now I’m unemployed,” I say out aloud. “Yes, I have a problem with men, trust me, so if you could find me a female boss this time, that would be great.”

I roll my eyes at myself.

The top envelope is from Luca’s loan company. My stomach sours as I rip it open. The paper inside is perfectly folded and addressed to me.

Dear Mrs. Brewer,

We would like to certify your payment and confirm that your balance of $86,487.09 has been paid in full. Please retain this letter for your records. Should you need additional information, you may call us during normal business hours.

Sincerely,

Thomas Bjorn

I read it again. And then for a third time. By the fourth time that I read Dear Mrs. Brewer, my hands are shaking.

The paper falls to the table as I grab my phone. I have to hit Lisbeth’s name twice for it to call her.

“Hi,” she says. “How are you feeling today? Want me to come over?”

“Do you know what he did?”

“Um, I’m thinking the he you’re referring to is Oliver, but if you could clarify—”