He finished unbuttoning his jacket and pulled it off his shoulders. His hand found my lower back, pushing me toward the hall. The blonde pulled out a gun and pointed it directly at Mason.
“I wouldn't do that if I were you.”
“Fucking call him then, Kelly. I’m not going to have you shoot me over anappointment,” Mason grumbled something about being killed by a four-inch-long pink pistol.
She kept the gun aimed at him as she leaned against the wall and pulled down the retro corded phone, not needing to push any buttons as it connected. “Sharp is here,” there was a response on the other end, “His fiancée and the hot brother,” another pause, “Yeah, okay.” Finally, she hung up the phone. “Head back, Mr. Sharp,” the way she said it sounded more like a challenge than a concession.
He glared at her as we passed, but still, she watched me. There was no friendliness there. Whatever it was, I wouldn't let her unnerve me. I forced myself to meet her gaze and gave her a challenging smile. A cowering woman had no place at my man's side, and I never intended to be a kept woman again.
“She’s not usually such a cunt,” James commented as we walked down the hallway.
Mason nodded, pretending to take an interest in the tacky paintings lining the wall. “I have a feeling we're not looking forward to a warm reception.”
“I see you're not rushing to meet that cool reception.” James nodded toward the watercolor countryside Mason paused in front of.
He laughed lightly, “No, but I also know how much Hector hates to wait, and after that welcome, I’m happy to piss him off.”
“Imagine how much you could gather about Hector’s intentions from short exchanges with her.” They both stared at me.
“Why do you say that?” James asked.
“We came in here expecting a very different reception. Hector had the upper hand. She took it from him by telling us what to expect.” I shrugged, waving a hand toward the shitty painting in case someone was watching us.
“Too right you are, Claire,” Mason said as he turned and took my hand. “Though, he still may have it.”
Chapter 9
Claire
Westoppedinfrontof a wooden door with a big brass knob and an actual knocker. Mason stood back, keeping my fingers tightly laced with his, while James pointedly used his fist to knock rather than the flashy showpiece. A man, who stood only an inch or two taller than me, greeted us with a grim expression.
“Come in.” He stood aside, letting us into a hideously masculine office brimming with people. A sense of unease snaked through me, a sentiment echoed by both men. James’ hand slid to his gun as he and Mason encased me between and slightly behind the both of them. The dark green walls sapped the light of the yellow-tinted bulbs. Everyone looked vaguely wrong, like we all had a sickly, deathly pallor.
The room was unbearably still, unnaturally so, considering the twenty or more people inside. Maybe Kelly was right, and Mason didn't have an appointment. Although unlikely, I feared this was a trap. If it was, we were pretty fucked. Even with my tiny little gun, the three of us weren't a match for this many. No one moved, and no one greeted us. No one even breathed as everyone waited for Hector to make a move.
Before the energy became too frenetic to bear, Hector spoke. “Leave us.” No one moved for half a second before he waved a hand, “Get the fuck out, now!”
His band dispersed, leaving just two men to stand on either side of him. The one on the right was tall, maybe a little too slim, but his youthful face hinted he still had more filling out to do. The other might be Hector's father or uncle, judging by their similar features.
All three wore red-rimmed, swollen eyes and black suits like they’d cried hard for their lieutenant. My brows puckered at the unexpected bitterness of their grief. I didn’t expect men such as them to be willing to cry openly. I knew Mason’s father strongly believed men didn’t cry, so it surprised me to find men in a similarly violent position owning their grief.
“Why are you here, Sharp?” the hatred in his voice took me aback. I met Hector shortly after the explosion at the pier. There was a definite heaviness to him, having lost a few of his men, but there was no hint of malice toward Mason. He didn’t blame him for that situation, but this one…
“We need to discuss what happened yesterday.”
“Christmas morning, you mean?”
“Yes, Hector, Christmas morning,” Mason answered with an exasperated sigh.
“I don't hear you wishing me a merry Christmas.” Hector's eyebrows were thick yet sharp, defined in a way that told me he waxed them. He raised one in a taunt. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who knew they were attractive. And if not attractive, then scary. He had unhinged energy that hadn't been there the last time we met. His rumpled, high-end suit betrayed his late night, and the glimmer in his eyes revealed his need for vengeance.
“Why would I wish for something impossible? We both know it wasn’t a happy day for any of us.”
“A happy day?” he laughed bitterly, his fingers scratching at the stubble on his chin. “I shouldn't be surprised that you'd come out with some shit like that.” His head bobbed as if to saylook at this piece of shit proving he’s a piece of shit.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve killed a lot of people. I’ve seen some of your handiwork from your younger days and cleaned it up too. It just doesn’t surprise me that some shit like this wouldn’t affect you much. Claire, have you ever seen someone with their skin peeled off? Your fiancé has.”