Relentless (Mason Family 4)

What the hell happened?

“You’re the one who preached to me my entire life that family comes first,” I tell him, massaging my chest where his invisible bullets landed. “Family is life. Did you forget that?”

“That’s just a bunch of rhetoric.”

“Is it?” I slide a hand in my pocket and lean against the wall. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re still young, Oliver. You still view the world through a pair of rose-colored glasses. Just wait until you get to be my age and have a bunch of grown kids who still need you and a wife who still expects you to come home for dinner. Let’s see what you have to say then.”

I imagine that scenario. I pretend I’m him. I envision having a son like Boone who became a husband and a father overnight—and how proud I’d be. Having your eldest son take over for you like Holt and I did? Priceless. And then having Wade, a fucking genius, branch out your company into a brand-new area?

Does it get better than all of that?

It’s everything he’s said he’s always wanted, the pinnacle of a life he planned from an early age. And now he has it. He achieved it all, and somehow he’s unhappy?

With us?

It stings. His words, his confessions burn the center of my heart. The man who I’ve always looked up to, the man I tried to emulate considers me an inconvenience?

“I think I’d be pretty happy with my life,” I tell him, my voice hollow. “Your kids are great. Your wife is amazing.”

“My wife is a pain in my ass.”

I shove off the wall, my eyes nearly bulging from my head. How dare he.

“I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but Mom is a big part of why you were successful in the first place. Slow your roll when it comes to her.”

“What is it with you and your mother?”

“I don’t know. Respect?”

He snorts angrily. “You always have had a problem with women, haven’t you? Hell, the last time you buddied up to one, it cost me my cigar business.”

Fire floods my body.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I boom.

He sighs as if this conversation is boring him.

“Look,” I say, my voice wavering with the anger coursing through me, “you wanna be a dick? Fine. You can go to hell.”

“Easy there, son.”

“No, we’re past that,” I tell him, my body shaking with fury. “Maybe Mom makes excuses for you. Maybe Boone chooses not to say shit when you let him down. But me? I’m not going to stand here and watch you hurt everyone who loves you. And I’m sure as hell not going to listen to you throw the fact that your partner fucked my fiancée in my face. So, no—go to hell. I mean it.”

The line clicks. He’s gone.

I stare at the screen in disbelief before tossing the phone on my desk. It rattles around, spinning in a circle, before coming to a stop next to my keyboard.

I rub my hand down my face, trying to rationalize what just happened. It’s as though I’ve been blindsided—hit with a two-by-four when I wasn’t looking.

What the hell is wrong with him?

My face is hot, my body tense, as I pace around my office.

I’m simultaneously shocked and saddened, hurt and horrified. Regardless of my suspicions, I never expected this. It’s so out of character for him, so … odd.

But if that’s the way he feels, fuck him.

I stop moving when I realize that the door to Shaye’s office is closed. It was definitely open a few minutes ago.

Curious, I walk across the room and knock gently.

“Come in,” Shaye says.

I open the door, and my dad is completely forgotten.

Holy. Fuck.

Thirteen

Shaye

“What are you doing?”

Oliver’s voice is borderline incredulous as he takes in the scene in front of him. I shrug, my shoulders bobbing up and down in a sheepish gesture.

He furrows his brows. “Is that an office chair?”

“Okay, maybe I overstepped just a little,” I say, getting to my feet. “But your chair is very, very squeaky, and I noticed that you winced every time it squealed.”

The wrinkles in his forehead slowly disappear.

“I did some research on office chairs. There’s a lot more information out there about them than you might think,” I say, watching a grin tickle his lips. “And as long as you don’t have any back issues that I don’t know about, I think this one is worth a shot.”

I grab the back of the frame and send the chair spinning in a circle.

“It’s top rated,” I say. “Very similar to the one you had. It’s quiet as a church mouse, and best of all, I used a coupon.” I make a face. “A digital one on Amazon. I’m not spending my weekends clipping coupons or anything. I’d starve first.”

I hold my breath and await his reaction.

It was a gamble to order him a chair without his consent or request. I knew that going into it. Chairs are so personal. But he was clearly annoyed with his—I was annoyed with it from the office next door—and he was too busy to interrupt. Also, if I were a betting woman, I’d bet by the looks of disarray and how far behind things seem to be running that ordering himself a chair was the last thing on his mind.