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Ellie looked at her phone with some hesitation. She didn’t want to jump straight in with a phone call. She had no idea what she would say. Gerri’s calm, steady gaze kept boring into her, though, and eventually, Ellie hit the call button.
It went straight to voicemail. Ellie was relieved and disappointed at the same time.
“I’ll just text him,” Ellie said, sending a quick message asking him to call her. “I’ll try again another time. He’s probably just not near his phone.”
Or he changed his mind and blocked me.
“Nonsense!” Gerri snapped. She pulled out her phone and called Mason. “He won’t send me to voicemail.”
To Gerri’s shock, her call did go through to voicemail. She glared at her phone as if she could force it to connect by sheer will.
“Right,” Gerri muttered. “I’m calling the company.”
Ellie watched as Gerri called Mason’s assistant and found out he hadn’t shown up that day. His assistant was not overly worried because Mason always checked in eventually.
“His jet,” Gerri snapped. “Where is his jet?”
The assistant’s voice was clear enough that even Ellie could hear it. Gerri looked at Ellie in shock.
The jet is here? In Scaramouche?
Gerri ended the call and drummed her fingers on the tabletop. Ellie felt a rising sense of panic.
“Where is he?” Ellie asked in a small voice. Now that she was faced with the possibility of never seeing Mason again, she couldn’t understand how she'd been so stupid.
"Give me a second," Gerri said, scrolling quickly through her phone. Ellie sat numbly, watching Gerri make a few calls and send a couple of texts.
"Now we wait," Gerri said, putting her phone down and reaching for her coffee. She never got to take a sip … her phone vibrated and dinged while her hand was still in midair. Gerri grabbed the phone instead of the coffee.
“Oh, lord,” Gerri muttered, looking at the screen. Her face fell as she shook her head.
“What is it? Where is he?” Ellie demanded as visions of horrible car accidents and various other mishaps played out behind her eyes.
“He’s okay,” Gerri said. “Well, relatively. He’s not in a hospital.”
“Then, where …”
“Ellie,” Gerri said, sighing. “He’s in jail.”
FIFTEEN
MASON
Mason sat in the cell, his head in his hands. Even with his shifter metabolism, the hangover was severe. He could barely raise his head.
His temples pounded, making his eyes throb. More than anything, he wanted to collapse in a dark room, on a soft bed, and sleep for days until he forgot this whole mess.
A wave of nausea hit him, and he groaned, fighting it. He didn’t know how long he was going to be stuck in here. Asking the cops if they knew who he was hadn’t gone down well, either. When they didn’t recognize his name as a celebrity, the entire station had a good laugh at the foolish drunk.
Yup. That’s me. Foolish and drunk.
“What the fuck is taking so long,” he muttered. Without his phone, he hadn’t been able to call anyone that could get him out quickly. He’d managed to remember his accountant’s number, but knowing Fred, he was still checking the spreadsheet to make sure he paid the bail as cheaply as possible.
Mason didn’t even know if he’d just be let out or if they had to release him to someone. For all he knew, they had to get a mental health evaluation before they released a raggedly dressed maniac back onto the street.
“Whatcha doin’ there, son?” a gravelly voice asked. Mason held in a groan. If he wasn’t alone in the cell, the last thing he wanted to do was piss off a potentially violent criminal.
Mason looked up slowly. Even that slight movement of his neck hurt. The amount of alcohol he’d consumed must have really been extreme … Mason had never had a hangover like this before. For a long time, he had convinced himself that shifters couldn't even get them.
