was careful as he walked to the door of the building. The inner door was locked; you either had to have a keycard or be buzzed in. He scanned the mailboxes, found Trish’s name, and punched her number into the intercom.
It took a bit for her to answer. “Yeah?” he heard finally, a layer of irritation buried under a lot of nerves.
“Trish? It’s Mason. Mason Butler? I know you may be pissed at me, but—”
The door buzzed, loud and intrusive, and after a moment, he pulled the door open. That had been unexpected.
Trish—Patricia Lague—had been the one girl who spoke to him even when he was a skinny kid with his nose buried in a book. She’d helped him fix up his first bike, and she’d fronted him the money for the leather jacket he found at Goodwill when he didn’t have the cash for it himself. They’d been best friends for a dozen years until he’d deployed.
She’d tried everything to keep him from leaving, offered him anything he wanted. He’d told her over and over again that he had to, that it was his only way out of the trap laid for him by genetics and circumstance. She didn’t hear him. He enlisted, and then he deployed.
When he came back, and everything was already ruined, he’d turned to Trish. She’d introduced him to the Fallen Angels and offered to be his girl in more than just name. And Mason had turned her down. He’d told her the truth—that he was way too screwed up to be with anyone—but all she heard was the “no.” She hadn’t spoken to him since then, not really.
He walked up to her condo and rapped gently on the door. The building had been converted about five years ago from a luxury hotel, and some of those touches still showed in the sconces that were spaced every so often on the walls; the plush carpet; and the shiny brass door numbers. She pulled the door open just enough for him to see half her face; she’d thrown the chain before she opened it. It made his heart wince to see it, but hey, at least she’d opened it, and at least she was being careful.
“Well,” she said, her voice laced with honey and sugar. “‘Bout time you came to see me. I’ve missed you, too.”
“Hi, Trish,” he said, trying to stay neutral. He’d loved her for years, but he’d never crossed the line into wanting to touch her. She was more like a trusted friend, a little sister. And then he’d come home, his mind so close to breaking, and he’d wanted so badly to take comfort in her, but he was convinced he had nothing to give. Caroline was showing him differently, but he owed that to her, not to Trish. “We need to talk. Is Declan here?”
She rolled the one eye he could see. “No, you jackass, he’s not. You could have called if that was all you wanted.”
She started to close the door, and he pushed out with his arm, locking his elbow and bracing the door open. “Trish, I don’t want to talk to him. I want to talk to you about him.” She was still heaving against the door, unsuccessfully trying to slam it in his face. “I know about the girls.”
She went limp then, and the door yanked to the end of the chain. One fast hit, and the chain would pop—that was the great weakness of that sort of set up, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He needed her to let him in.
Trish looked up at him, that one eye welling with tears. After a second, she moved into the gap in the door, and he could see that the left side of her face was bruised, the eye almost swollen shut. “This is what happened when I tried to talk to Declan about the girls. I am not interested in talking to him again.”
“I don’t need you to talk to him. I need you to talk to me .”
He watched her fight a war with herself. The Trish he’d known as a kid would have lit the world on fire to protect someone weaker than herself, but things had changed now. She’d been through her own war, he could see that, and he had learned a long time ago not to
It took a bit for her to answer. “Yeah?” he heard finally, a layer of irritation buried under a lot of nerves.
“Trish? It’s Mason. Mason Butler? I know you may be pissed at me, but—”
The door buzzed, loud and intrusive, and after a moment, he pulled the door open. That had been unexpected.
Trish—Patricia Lague—had been the one girl who spoke to him even when he was a skinny kid with his nose buried in a book. She’d helped him fix up his first bike, and she’d fronted him the money for the leather jacket he found at Goodwill when he didn’t have the cash for it himself. They’d been best friends for a dozen years until he’d deployed.
She’d tried everything to keep him from leaving, offered him anything he wanted. He’d told her over and over again that he had to, that it was his only way out of the trap laid for him by genetics and circumstance. She didn’t hear him. He enlisted, and then he deployed.
When he came back, and everything was already ruined, he’d turned to Trish. She’d introduced him to the Fallen Angels and offered to be his girl in more than just name. And Mason had turned her down. He’d told her the truth—that he was way too screwed up to be with anyone—but all she heard was the “no.” She hadn’t spoken to him since then, not really.
He walked up to her condo and rapped gently on the door. The building had been converted about five years ago from a luxury hotel, and some of those touches still showed in the sconces that were spaced every so often on the walls; the plush carpet; and the shiny brass door numbers. She pulled the door open just enough for him to see half her face; she’d thrown the chain before she opened it. It made his heart wince to see it, but hey, at least she’d opened it, and at least she was being careful.
“Well,” she said, her voice laced with honey and sugar. “‘Bout time you came to see me. I’ve missed you, too.”
“Hi, Trish,” he said, trying to stay neutral. He’d loved her for years, but he’d never crossed the line into wanting to touch her. She was more like a trusted friend, a little sister. And then he’d come home, his mind so close to breaking, and he’d wanted so badly to take comfort in her, but he was convinced he had nothing to give. Caroline was showing him differently, but he owed that to her, not to Trish. “We need to talk. Is Declan here?”
She rolled the one eye he could see. “No, you jackass, he’s not. You could have called if that was all you wanted.”
She started to close the door, and he pushed out with his arm, locking his elbow and bracing the door open. “Trish, I don’t want to talk to him. I want to talk to you about him.” She was still heaving against the door, unsuccessfully trying to slam it in his face. “I know about the girls.”
She went limp then, and the door yanked to the end of the chain. One fast hit, and the chain would pop—that was the great weakness of that sort of set up, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He needed her to let him in.
Trish looked up at him, that one eye welling with tears. After a second, she moved into the gap in the door, and he could see that the left side of her face was bruised, the eye almost swollen shut. “This is what happened when I tried to talk to Declan about the girls. I am not interested in talking to him again.”
“I don’t need you to talk to him. I need you to talk to me .”
He watched her fight a war with herself. The Trish he’d known as a kid would have lit the world on fire to protect someone weaker than herself, but things had changed now. She’d been through her own war, he could see that, and he had learned a long time ago not to
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