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The knots inside me—the ones that already exist by being in the mere presence of Mason—tighten uncomfortably. I shift as if to correct myself before he cuts in first.
“That was an asshole thing to say,” he admits, rubbing his neck. “Look, you’re right. It’ll be easier if we just… get through this.”
I hold my purple notebook to my chest. “I’ve done nothing to you. I’ve tried to be nice. All you’ve done is be an asshole to me.”
“You’re an outsider… who’s trying a little too hard to become an insider.”
“I just want to work and earn my wages. I don’t give a fuck about anything else, Mason.”
For a moment that stretches on, he studies me. We’re only inches apart, standing opposite each other, as his dark green eyes fix onto my face, and I stare back with as much confidence as I can.
Deep inside, the knots still tighten…
Mason is my big test. The only person who seems to suspect me. If I can win him over, then there’s no way I won’t uncover the truth.
Mason nods. “Then let’s get this display knocked out. Your idea about the bikes through different decades is a good one. I’ll handle figuring out which bikes from what time period. You figure out the set up we’ll put them on.”
“I was thinking under the carport in front of the saloon. Maybe we can set up one of those backdrop screens that photographers use?” I say, taking a step toward him. “It’ll allow for photo ops. We can charge. Maybe do photo packages for people who want to pose on the bike?”
He eyes me for another second. “You’re good at this stuff.”
“I’m just brainstorming.”
“Better ideas than anybody else’s come up with.”
His nod as he says it is still stiff and unnatural, but it’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever said to me… which holds merit on its own. His hand comes down onto the curve of my shoulder and he gives me a quick pat.
It lasts one-tenth of a second.
Yet it draws a heat out of me. I suck in a breath. My face goes warm and the knots inside spiral in different directions.
He walks off and doesn’t look back. I shouldn’t be so affected. I breathe out and then in, telling myself this.
Calm down. The only reason it feels special is because Mason’s attractive, and he’s an asshole.
I need these reminders. The reality check brings me back down to earth.
I spend the next hour calling around town to different professional photographers, inquiring about their prices and availability.
It’s nearing four in the afternoon by the time I decide to head to the King’s house behind the saloon. My shift starts at six and I prefer a shower and fresh change of clothes.
It’s unintentional what I stumble on.
I’m passing through the saloon, walking down the hall in the back, when I catch a conversation from the office. The door’s cracked and Mason’s voice travels.
“We got that revenge weeks ago,” he says. “After they shot up Bush’s trailer.”
I frown and inch closer.
“I’m sure,” Mason answers. “He’s dead.”
He stops again as the person on the other end speaks.
“They’re still refusing to get the message. I’ll make sure they understand. You don’t need to tell me twice. I’ll fucking handle it, Tom.”
Mason hangs up on an angry note. I back away from the ajar door and flee the hall like a mouse in the middle of the night.
All while my mind buzzes. My thoughts race. I process what I’ve heard, and how it confirms what I’ve suspected.
