Reckless (Mason Family 3)

He grins. “I’m bringing it up, asshole, because this isn’t who you are. You don’t roll over and take shit. You don’t cry because you didn’t get your way.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, sometimes.” He smiles at me. “Is this girl what you want?”

I nod.

“Then make some Boone magic and figure it out.”

It sounds so easy. And I do like the sound of Boone magic. But it’s not that easy, and quite frankly, I don’t know if it’s smart.

He sighs. “You’re doing the same thing she is right now.”

“How do you know that she’s contemplating mixing whiskey with tequila?”

“Stop making jokes. I’m being serious.”

I twist in my seat. “I’m being serious too.”

His hands fold in front of him, catching his watch in the light. It, too, reminds me of my girls.

My girls.

A sting zips through me again.

“What is your reaction based on?” he asks. “Why are you reacting this way?”

“Because this can never work out, and I can’t fix it. That fucking sucks, if you didn’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

I gape at him. “What do you mean bullshit?”

“You’re just being a crybaby. Typical baby of the family reaction,” he grumbles.

“That’s bullshit.” I rub a hand down my face. “No one expects anything from me. Not you, or Holt, or Mom—except that I’ll be over for dinner. And even that’s a shitty expectation.” I throw my hands up. “She … I thought she needed me and … I was somebody to her, you know? I really thought that maybe I could pull through and be the man. But I was wrong.”

Oliver sighs. “We all see it in you, Boone. As much as I hate to admit this, it’s you that closed the biggest deal in Mason history and probably the Greyshell one—if it’s not the biggest now. You don’t think we expect shit from you?” He rolls his eyes.

I need to think about this, but it’s not the point. I brush it off and hope I can remember it later.

“I tried my hardest to … be the best to her, and it wasn’t good enough. That’s why it hurts so much.” Hearing that out loud singes something deep inside me. It burns my core, chokes me out with smoke—has me cringing from the pain of the fire.

There’s nothing worse than realizing that you are the problem. Not a habit or a hair color or a way you do something. You. The very fiber of your being.

I lean up and grab the whiskey. Before Oliver can object, I pour myself more.

“Now, let’s play a game,” Oliver says. I can tell he’s going to be a dick by the tone of his voice. “What do we think Jaxi’s reaction is based on?”

I sip my drink and try not to think about it.

He hums the Jeopardy tune. I glare at him.

“Fine,” he says, sliding the bottle toward himself. “I’ll tell you.”

“I figured you would.”

The whiskey splashes into the glass.

“Jaxi is basing her reaction to this situation off what’s always happened to her.”

“I know this.”

“Then fucking listen.” He sighs, frustrated with me. “Everyone in her life has let her down. She reacted this way because this is her making what she thinks is inevitable happen. And here you are, rolling over like a damn pansy, and letting it happen because you’re scared.”

I don’t know if it’s the whiskey that’s numbing my brain so I’m more willing to accept a rationalization or if he actually makes sense. Or maybe I’m just too fucking tired to put up a fight. Or heartbroken. Now that I know it’s a real thing.

Either way, I nod. “I am scared.”

“Probably not half as scared as she is.” Oliver gets off his stool. “You need to get her back, little brother. Not tonight. Tonight, you won’t be going anywhere. Not after drinking and not in my shirt.”

“It’s pink,” I say, my words not quite as crisp as I’d like them to be.

A warm haze clouds my brain. I get off my stool too.

“Let her have the night,” Oliver says. “Let her think about things. A little time apart never hurt anyone.”

“Then what?”

“Then, tomorrow, you Boone swoon that shit.”

“Boone swoon that shit,” I repeat. I try to grin, but only half of my lips work.

“I’m going to order some food and then grab a shower,” he says. “You okay?”

I nod again. How do I Boone swoon that shit?

He clasps my shoulder and takes off downstairs. I hear his footsteps fall against the hardwood.

I lean against the bar and pour myself another drink.

I don’t know if he’s right.

I don’t know if he’s wrong.

But I know he probably made sense.

If I can remember what he said tomorrow, I’ll ponder it.

If not, I’ll be miserable forever.

Twenty-Four

Jaxi

Rosie throws her arm across my chest.

It’s the sixth time she’s done it tonight, and I give up trying to remove it.

I count stripes on the comforter. I made it to forty-seven the last time before a shadow crept across the room, and I lost my place.