Bastian: A Secret Baby Romance (30 page)

When it came right down to it, I felt sorry for Rosemary. Her daughter had been cut down at the start of her life, never able to blossom into her full potential. In a weird way, I felt an odd connection with Ashley.

Maybe it was because . . .

It could’ve been me.

“I need a drink,” I muttered, pushing the dark thoughts away and standing up in front of my tiny desk in the corner of the living room, stretching out my arms. “Screw another cup of coffee.”

Rereading the grim details of my article had depressed me. Ashley was a pretty young woman who had her whole life ahead of her, never mind the fact that she’d been lured into the dark, soul-sucking world of prostitution.

At some point, she could’ve easily turned her life around and been any number of things.

Like an investigative reporter . . .

I let out a derisive snort at the thought and closed down my laptop. I didn’t even want to look at the article for the rest of the week. The only good thing that would come out of it, at least I hoped, was enough ad revenue to cover some of my bills.

I walked over to the fridge and opened it, searching for the bottle I kept for times like this. I’d gotten into a habit of keeping it in there — I wasn’t much of a drinker.

“Where the hell is it?” I muttered, eyeing the sparsely filled fridge that consisted of mainly breakfast stuff — a carton of eggs, and several packs of sausage and bacon. At five-foot-two, I was a mousey thing and didn’t eat much, which was a good thing. It kept my food bill down.

Finally, I found what I was looking for and snatched it out.

Humming softly, I placed it on the counter and was in the middle of standing on my tip-toes to get a glass out of the cabinet, when there was a pounding on the front door.

I paused, my pulse quickening.

Who could that be?
I wondered. I didn’t get many visitors outside of my generous landlord, and he wasn’t due to stop by for another two weeks.

The pounding continued in a frantic manner.

Scared now, I made my way over to the front door. It was a sturdy thing, made of thick oak wood, so whoever was pounding at the door like a madman would need a tank to bring it down if breaking in was their intention.

For a moment, I debated going over to the window that was behind the couch and peeking out, but I quickly decided against it. Due to the porch’s layout, I wouldn’t be able to see who was standing at the front door anyway.

Of course I can just ask who it is and open the door like a normal person instead of freaking out,
I thought.

Images of Ashley’s cold, lifeless body flashed before my eyes, and the continuous pounding only served to heighten my paranoia.

My eyes fell on my gun, a small little handgun I kept on the table next to the couch. Growing up, I was never a fan of them, but as a single young woman living by myself, I’d changed my tune on that one.

Moving quickly, I grabbed the gun and pressed my back against the door as the banging continued unabated.

Call me crazy, but I didn’t care if I was overreacting. I wasn’t going to take any chances.

“Who is it?” I yelled as loud as I could over the banging.

“It’s Mas . . . open . . . th . . . fucking . . . oor!”

Shit. Who?

I couldn’t quite make out the words, but the voice was male. Deep sounding. And whoever it was, was hell bent on coming in.

“I don’t know who you are, but please leave!” I yelled.

Before I shoot your ass.

“Open the fuckin’ door, Carly!”

Gathering my courage, I spun about, unlocked the door, swung it open and pointed the gun.

I readied the gun and snarled with as much venom as I could manage, “Get the fuck off my porch or I’ll blow your fucking brains out —”

My heart skipped a beat as recognition washed over me.

There
he
was, standing before me looking as hot as ever.

Blue jeans. White tank top. Grey sweater, unzipped. Green hat turned backward. Adorable dimples.

That same cocky swagger. Yep, it was
him
.

His sparkling green eyes took me in in one glance, seeming to appraise me in a single instant.

“I’ve had girls offer to blow me before, but never to blow my brains out,” he mocked in that deep baritone that made butterflies flitter through my stomach.

I could only manage one word in response.

“Mason,” I whispered in horror.

“
M
ason
,” I called as I weaved in between and around the surrounding trees. “Where are you?”

I stopped for a moment to listen for a response, my breathing producing a white fog from between my lips. A moment later I heard his voice in the distance, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

What on earth is he doing out here in this cold?
I wondered, resisting a shiver and pulling my heavy sweater tightly around me.

Following the direction of his voice, I reached a small clearing a minute later and got my answer.

Sweet Jesus.
My breath caught in my throat.

Under the winter sun, only god knows what he was doing, but he was punching and kicking the air, spinning around with a velocity that stole the breath from my lungs.

The way he moved his body was astounding, but I think I was more enthralled by his physique. Sweat glistened on his chest and back as he moved with intense precision, fighting an imaginary foe. He was practicing his martial arts I suppose, but why he was doing it out here in the forty-degree weather and half-naked was beyond me.

“Why in the world are you out here with no shirt on!” I demanded. “You’re going to be sick!” I was shocked by the concern in my voice. Usually, I tried to be as bitchy with Mason as possible, but I couldn’t help myself.

Mason completed a powerful roundhouse kick — probably to show off — into the air and then turned to grin at me, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Because I’m not going to let a little cold get in the way of my training. You should try it sometime. It feels good.” He grabbed his shirt — the one that he should’ve been wearing in the first place off of the ground and dabbed at the sweat pouring down the sides of his face.

Is he doing this shit with no underwear on?

Mason had on gray sweats, but I could see a large imprint in his crotch area . . .

I snorted, warding off guilt and trying to keep my eyes away from his abs and his bulge. “Please. I’m not dumb enough to do something so stupid. You really should put a shirt on. You could catch pneumonia out here!”

Mason chuckled away my concern. “I’m fine, Carly, really. The energy I’m expending is keeping me warm.” He flexed his well-defined arms out in front of him. “The laws of thermodynamics, you know?”

“Whatever,” I muttered. Mason loved to tease me with his intelligence, not that I was stupid, mind you. It was just that he was the smartest person I knew. The ironic thing was his brains conflicted with how much of an athlete he was. Usually jocks were as dumb as hell, but Mason certainly defied the stereotype.

Whenever home, he spent a lot of his time on the computer, frequenting online forums and user groups. He
called
himself a hacker, but I wasn’t sure if that was talk or what.

With both hands, he wiped at his abs in one smooth motion. “It might be cold out here, but I’m hot as fuck.”

You can say that again,
I thought, though it was something I’d never in a million years let him know. My eyes roved down his chest and abs to his happy trail and then to that bulge before I quickly averted them, heat rising from within my stomach.

Mason was
really
fricken’ hot. There was no denying it.

But I was ashamed to harbor a crush on him — almost from the very moment our parents met some years back. He was my stepbrother and there was no way we could be anything more.

I cleared my throat, hoping he hadn’t seen me checking him out. “Mom wants you to help her take down the Christmas tree,” I informed him. “She’s been waiting for your help for a while, you know.”

Every Christmas, my mother would buy the biggest tree there was and decorate it to the nines, it was a tradition she’d do every year.

Mason, when he could finally be bothered to, was usually the one tasked with helping her put it up and take it down. Not that she couldn’t do it herself, but my mother always made him do it for some reason.

Mason seemed unconcerned with it, though, as usual. “I’ll do it later. She’s waited this long — she can wait a little while longer.”

“But she wants help now,” I insisted stubbornly.

“And?” Mason demanded, irritation creeping into his voice. “I’m busy, can’t you see? I’ll do it when I’m done . . . if I have time.”

I crossed my arms across my chest and scowled. He was really pissing me off. “If you have time? What on earth can you possibly be doing after this?”

Screwing some chick.

The thought made me sick to my stomach, but not because it grossed me out. I hated when Mason was with girls — mainly because I harbored a secret crush on him.

Mason scratched at his lower abs. “I’ve got an Anonymous online meeting in a little bit. I can’t miss it.”

“Oh give me a break!” I growled. I saw Anonymous as cyber terrorists. I had no idea why Mason would spend his time cavorting with the likes of them. He was so much better than that. “What is it with you and these stupid online groups?”

“And what is with you, always being your mom’s little lap dog and pestering me about shit she wants done around the house? Why don’t you two do it? You don’t need me.”

Anger flared through me. I so just wanted to slap him across that handsome smug face of his. “Why do you always have to be so defiant?” I demanded. “A little respect would go a long way into making our parents’ lives a whole lot easier.”

Mason’s insolence usually caused arguments. Mom would complain, as if Mason’s behavior was my fault, and then she’d run to Brian, who’d then yell at Mason, who would then take his anger out on me. “Come to think of it, it’d make
my
life a lot easier.”

“And you not bugging me every other fucking day about something your mom wants me to do would make my life even easier,” he growled. “So I guess we’re even.”

I hissed, shaking my head angrily, unable to come up with a scathing reply. He infuriated me so much — there was no talking to him. Why was I bothering?

Because if I don’t bring him back
, I thought sourly,
Mom is going nag me to death and blame me for him being an ass.

Looking at Mason’s insolent smirk, I knew I was wasting my time.

“Forget it,” I snarled. “I’m leaving. Enjoy your kung-fu fighting all by yourself and in the cold.” I turned to leave, but stopped when he called out.

“Wait.”

I turned around and regarded him with the bitchiest expression I could muster. “What?

He cracked a playful grin. “I’ll come help . . . under one condition.”

Placing my hands on my hips, I knew some smartass comment was coming but I couldn’t resist. I never could. “What’s that?” Mason’s little games never ended well, but he always had a way of intriguing me and getting me involved every single time.

Mason nodded his head at the trees to the north. “Beat me to the old pond tree and I’ll be your slave.”

“Seriously?” I demanded incredulously. “You know there’s no possible way I can outrun you.”

“You can if I give you a head start.”

I paused, thinking. With a decent head start, I might have a chance.

“How much of a head start?” I asked finally, taking the bait. I’d love to beat him just to shut him up.

He grinned. “Thirty seconds.”

He walked over to a tree where his shoes were resting and put them on, quickly tying them. “You ready?”

I took off my heavy sweater and tied it around my waist. “Now I’m ready,” I announced, turning to him and warding off a shiver.

His eyes fell to my chest before quickly averting. “Ok.”

My cheeks warmed with blood. Did he just check me out or had I imagined it?

“Get ready,” he ordered. “Look, I’ll make it easier for you. I’ll start way back here.” He walked to the clearings edge and drew a line with his feet.

He got into position. “Ready?”

Why the hell am I doing this? I know I can’t win.

Even knowing my odds were slim, I wanted to compete against Mason. I wanted to beat him. I wanted to wipe that cocky grin off of his face. And most of all . . . as childish as it was, I wanted his respect.

His deep voice split the cold air like a whip. “On your mark, get set—”

I took off like a jackrabbit before he could finish, pumping my short legs as fast as I could go.

“Thirty seconds you little cheater!” I heard Mason yell behind me.

I hurtled forward, doing my best to navigate the trees, treacherous branches, and twigs on the ground — the cold bitter air whipping my face.

10 seconds….

By this time I could almost see the area of the pond through the trees and I began to think I’d beat him by a large margin.

25 seconds…

My lungs felt like they were on fire! My calves and thighs were burning, and my sides were cramped so hard even a Midol wouldn’t fix it.

35 seconds…

Victory was in sight. I could see the pond and the large tree that towered over it. Just a few seconds longer and it would be . . .

I was nearly bowled over by a gust of wind as a blurry form whisked past me.

“I win!” Mason announced triumphantly, coming to a stop at the tree and turning about to face me, his powerful chest heaving.

Damn it!

I skidded to a halt and bent over, clutching at my sides and gasping for air.

“Damn, you’re a slowpoke. You cheated and you still lost,” Mason laughed.

I had no energy to give a response.
Asshole.

“Need some help back to the house?

I slapped his hand away. “I don’t need your help!” I rasped.

My pride was wounded. I’d put everything I had into beating the cocky asshole, though I knew it futile from the beginning.