Page 83 of Golden Goal

He clears his throat. “Bec, I’m sorry for all the things I’ve said to you. For blaming you. It wasn’t right.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft and sad. “It wasn’t your fault I started doing drugs. Drinking in excess. You were only trying to be a supportive big sister, encouraging me to join the band. You didn’t know what was going to happen. Heck, it shouldn’t have been your responsibility. If anyone’s to blame, it’s Mom. She wasn’t exactly the best role model.” He lets out a strained laugh. “Hell, she wasn’t any kind of role model. But you were. Are. I was too angry to see it. Angry at her. At the situation I found myself in. You’ve been nothing but supportive of me over the years.”

“Mason.” I wipe away the tears streaming down my face. “I—” I suck in a breath, trying to control the emotion pouring out of me. “I’m proud of you,” I finally manage.

“Thank you. It means a lot. I should probably let you go. Maybe we can talk again soon . . . Or if you’re ever in Phoenix, maybe we can have coffee or lunch.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“That’s not the answer I was hoping to hear, but I understand. I’ll take it. Bye, Bec.”

“Bye, Mas.”

He ends the call, and I set my phone down on the counter and take a shaky breath, willing myself to calm down. One phone call doesn’t patch up the pain caused by the hurtful words he has spewed over the years, but it goes a long way in beginning to mend the bridge between us. Maybe we can start to repair our fractured relationship.

Eventually, I get to my feet and wander aimlessly around my apartment, feeling off kilter. I was not expecting that phone call tonight. Nope. Not at all. I debate calling Holt, but I don’t want to bother him.

Finally, I decide to take an early shower. As I’m hunting for a new bar of soap under my vanity, my eyes land on an unopened bottle of bubble bath. Taking a bath used to be a weekly habit of mine, the thing I did on a Friday night to unwind at the end of the work week. But I’ve fallen out of the routine since I moved to Orlando. I grab the bottle and stand up, my mind made up. It might not be Friday night, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take a bath.

I’m lounging in the tub ten minutes later when my phone rings. I grin when I see it’s Holt video calling me.

“Hey,” I say when I hit the Accept button.

“Hi Bec—” He runs a hand over his face when he registers what I’m doing. “Are you in the bath?” he asks, tipping his head as if doing so will get him a better view.

“Yep,” I say, moving the phone so he can see me and the water, although there’s not much to see since the bubbles cover everything.

When I bring the screen back to my face, I can tell he’s turned on by how much his eyes have darkened.

“Becca,” he growls, running a hand down his face. “Don’t do that.”

I giggle. “Do what?”

“Tease me,” he grits out, a pained expression on his face.

I raise one shoulder in a half shrug, trying to appear unbothered by his words. “You asked.”

He groans, and the sound goes straight to my core, instantly turning me on.

My free hand has a mind of its own as it drifts down my body and toward my center that’s begging to be touched.

“What are you doing?” Holt grits out.

I hum, my fingers circling my clit. I bite down on my bottom lip to hold back the moan that wants to escape.

“Rebecca.”

I take a deep breath, moving my hand and forcing myself to focus on the man on the phone.

“Nothing, Holt Abbott. I’m not doing anything except talking to you. Naked. In the tub. Wondering if you’d fit in here with me.”

“Fuck, woman, you’re killing me.”

I giggle again. I can’t help it.

He smirks. “You sure that’s all you were doing?”

“Wellll . . .” I drag out.

“Rebecca . . .” he growls.