“Yes, she’s here,” he said, and a cold splash of irritation washed over me. I’d already told him my whereabouts were n
one of her business.
Mason sat quietly. Whatever my mother had to say, she was taking a hell of a long time to say it.
“You’re damn right, I invited her. Jett is old enough to make her own decisions... What’s that supposed to mean? Look, whatever agreement we had about my role in her life ended on her eighteenth birthday. I’ll assume you didn’t bother to pass along that card either... For fuck’s sake, you couldn’t make something up? She thinks I abandoned her... I don’t even know what to say to that.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“She was my daughter for twelve years,” he continued. “I never should’ve let you force me out, and I’m sure as hell not sending her home. She’s safe here...” His gaze hardened. “You know what? Go ahead. While you’re at it, you can tell her how you got ahold of those password-protected emails.”
He lobbed his phone at the foot of the bed. I stood like a statue, simmering with anger and confusion. My mother had lied to me; that was hardly a surprise, but the fact that she’d invaded my privacy made my blood boil. As for what Mason had said about her forcing him to leave, I hadn’t even begun to process. What could’ve happened that was so dangerous my mother had insisted he cut me out of his life?
I came to the city looking for answers, only to end up with twice as many questions.
Mason scrubbed at his face with the hand he hadn’t used to jerk off. He righted his boxers and rose from the bed. I realized he was probably on his way to the bathroom, which meant he’d open the door to find me standing there if I didn’t move fast.
I scurried back to my room, praying he wouldn’t hear my footsteps.
Back in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin, I shut my eyes and listened for the pounding of footsteps. When they didn’t come, I began to count. If Mason hadn’t stormed in by the count of one hundred, I could assume he hadn’t heard me.
At one hundred one, I rolled onto my back, my heart one rogue beat away from busting a hole through my chest.
Nothing I’d learned from the moment I arrived in the city made sense. I hugged myself and rocked from side to side as uncertainty, embarrassment, and arousal tumbled like gym shoes in the dryer that was my stomach.
I had kissed the man who was once my father and watched him jerk off. I’d invaded his privacy—like mother, like daughter. Ha. Worse, I had almost gotten off while watching him.
Even now, imagining him hard and flushed, was enough to make my clit throb. I could feel the wetness between my legs, soaking the crotch of my underwear.
Slowly, almost against my own will, I inched my fingers downward.
Eyes closed tight to hold back tears, I surrendered to the gush of pleasure, envisioning another set of fingers in place of my own. Strong fingers. Calloused fingers. Stained with paint and charcoal.
I came like a shot within seconds, fierce and penetrating, teeth gritted and toes curled.
Shifting onto my side, I rode the waves of my orgasm. Panting and twitching. Soothing and stilling.
Footsteps approached, quiet and measured. My pulse thundered in my ears. Why hadn’t I heard the doorknob click? I swore I’d closed it, but it’s possible I’d forgotten to pull it shut in my rush to get back into bed. I kept still as a corpse, as the footsteps grew closer, stopping beside my bed.
Mason must’ve heard me after all, or worse: maybe he’d heard me fingering myself. My inner muscles tightened involuntarily at the thought. Then again, if he had heard me, he would’ve known I wasn’t really sleeping. So, why was he just standing there? Perhaps he only wanted to check on me.
He lingered beside my bed for what felt like an eternity, then retreated. The door clicked shut.
Finally, I let myself breathe.
A car alarm blared somewhere in the city far below. Sirens wailed. I drifted, depleted and confounded, yet grateful to be above it all, in Mason’s castle in the clouds—a place seemingly removed from reality. From consequence. From right and wrong.
I didn’t see it until I opened my eyes the next morning.
On the nightstand, backlit by the rising sun: the glass of water from the night before.
The one I’d left outside his bedroom door.
Chapter Six
I was ten years old the first time I modeled for an artist who wasn’t my father. At the time, Mason was teaching drawing and studio art at the local community college. He’d warily agreed to let me sit in on his evening classes, as long as I promised not to get in the way.
Some nights, he’d place a table in the center of the classroom and arrange it with cut flowers and fruit. Other nights, he’d bring in a model for figure drawing.