The Price of Mason (Forbidden Men 10)

“Hey, pooch,” I murmured as soon as we were alone. I knelt and scratched her behind the ears because suddenly she seemed like a fellow war survivor and maybe even my new best friend. “You as traumatized by all that as I am?” I asked quietly.

Gidget yapped. I took it as a yes.

“Yeah.” I huffed out a breath and straightened to tug my clothes back on as fast as I could. “I don’t blame you. I wanted to run as soon as I saw that leash. No wonder why you guys struggle so much when humans put collars on you.”

Once dressed in my own clothes, I flung the used Speedo onto the lip of the sink and toed on my flip-flops, only to give the dog one last scratch goodbye. “I have a feeling we’ll meet again, but if we don’t,” I blew out a breath and whispered, “then thank God.”

I never purposely sabotaged myself. I gave every client a hundred and ten percent and I was always careful to execute my services exactly how they specified. Call it having a little pride in my work or whatever you like, but I busted my ass to be good at what I did. I had repeat clientele going on ninety-five percent (one had died and three had moved out of the area). And I got paid well for it. So living up to my own reputation was important to me.

But that didn’t mean I loved my duties. I didn’t like being treated like a possession, like something that could be put on a leash and fondled whenever and wherever they liked as if they had every right. I didn’t like being the toy they played with while their husbands were away, the puppet they commanded to perform, the object they tossed aside when they were done with me. I didn’t like being the dirty little secret they kept from spouses and children. I didn’t like not being able to be my own damn person.

The lack of freedom bothered me the most, and that collar had felt like a great big bitch slap, reminding me I was nothing. A filthy, worthless man-whore, bound by the cash of the rich and depraved.

I wanted out. I wanted out of this life so bad.

And trust me, I knew what kind of fucked-up, ironic mess that made me. I strove to do my best at something I hated and craved to stop. It made no sense. I could easily end all this by messing up one session with one client badly enough that none of the others would even want to call for me again. But whenever the idea tempted me, the next thought I had of losing all that extra income would send me into a panic, and I found myself continuing to be the best I could so they’d keep asking for me.

This was my life in a nutshell. I constantly felt pulled in two directions—feeling the need to do it and do it well in order to protect the ones I loved most, all the while, just wanting to escape so I could save my own soul—always wondering when the entire situation would just tear me in half, leaving me broken beyond repair.

I drove myself crazy with never being able to commit to a single decision and just stick with it, needing this and yet needing that too. But I was always so torn between what I wanted, what I thought was right, and what I felt was best for my loved ones. The three lines would cross and tangle so much that I got confused about which one was which until I grew petrified and believed that no matter what I did it would be the wrong choice. It seemed like I could only get everyone important to me hurt.

What was worse, the back-and-forth indecision in me was draining and frustrating and it usually led me into messing everything up anyway. That’s why this isn’t just my story about what happened.

These are my confessions.

Confession #1: I was a sucky son.

Once I pulled into my own driveway, I killed the engine of my Jeep and sat in silence, scrutinizing my house. Home sweet home. It was only a rental but this place was the longest I’d ever lived anywhere, plus it was my escape from reality.

I should probably think about painting it. And I needed to mow the lawn again. More importantly, I needed to water the lawn. It looked brown and pathetic sandwiched between the other immaculate green yards in the neighborhood. Plus the cracks in the concrete front walk were horrendous.

I knew I couldn’t count on my landlady to take care of anything. She’d ignored all requests for repairs since I’d told her I wasn’t going to have sex with her again.

Like I’d said, my clients tended to be cold, calculating ice queens: piss them off, and they made sure you felt the repercussions. On top of refusing repairs, Patricia had raised the rent twice in the past year. Not enough to entice us to move—not that we could with my mom’s dismal credit rating—or for me to fuck her again, but enough to make me hate her more with each passing breath.

Nausea rose as I barely glanced toward the right, at her mansion. The things I’d done in her house… The things she’d made me do…

Shuddering over the memories, I opened the door of my Jeep and lugged myself out into the warm afternoon. I entered through the kitchen and immediately veered toward the back bathroom. The door never latched properly, so I didn’t even bother trying to shut it.

One more repair I needed to add to my ever-growing to-do list.

Emptying half a tube of toothpaste onto my toothbrush, I jammed the goopy bristles into my mouth and scrubbed with a vengeance, paying particular attention to my tongue. Yet even as my mouth filled with minty freshness, I couldn’t remove everything I’d just done. There was no paste strong enough to eradicate shame and self-disgust.

I spit, then scrubbed some more. After rinsing with a cup of water and gargling with mouthwash, I layered more toothpaste onto my brush and started the process all over again. I could no longer taste her, but I swear I could still feel her in my mouth, flooding my veins and invading my soul, infiltrating everything I was and defiling me.

“Mason?” a voice asked from the opening of the bathroom.

Startled, I spun around and straightened, lifting my eyebrows questionably at my mother who stood in the doorway. “Mmm?”

When our eyes met, her cheeks went pink as if she knew exactly why I was so vigorously brushing my teeth. She shifted her gaze away and self-consciously played with a piece of dark hair at the back of her neck that had come loose from her ponytail.

“I was going to go get some groceries. Do you… Do you happen to have some extra cash?”

Turning back to the sink, I spat out the last of the toothpaste and remained hovered over the vanity a second longer, closing my eyes until I straightened again. “Yeah, just a second.”

I dug my hand into my pocket and, while my fingers were still obscured from view, I managed to peel three bills away from the rest of the roll my client had given me so Mom couldn’t see exactly how much I had on me. She eyed the Benjamins hungrily as soon as they came into view, making me wonder if she was really going grocery shopping or not.

“You taking Sarah with you?” I asked.