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Another streak of white light flashes, followed by a clap of thunder that rattles me. My fingers twist into a fist clutching the window curtain, but I force myself to remain where I am. As my heart pounds to the point of pain, I force myself to stay put and bear the storm.
You can do it. You can survive.
It’s as I brace for the next round that it happens. That I see it—a mirage of a lifetime.
Bolts of lightning illuminate the angry plum sky, and it’s in this bright burst of white light thatheappears.
Mason Cutler in the flesh, clad in his leather vest and many tattoos, peering up at my motel window.
26
SYDNEY
A gasp startsup and dies in my chest at the same time. I blink and question if I’m losing my mind.
He can’t be real. This can’t be happening.
But then he moves. He steps away from his beastly Harley-Davidson he’s rode in on and starts toward the motel. He holds my gaze, first at his far distance, rain sluicing off his leather vest, and then intimately, the closer he gets.
I take a step back from the window as if it’ll somehow protect me from the real storm headed my way—not the thunderstorm that’s made me shake and retreat into my motel room like a scared child.
The storm that’s Mason Cutler descending upon me in his dominant, unyielding glory, electrifying my heart and stirring my soul.
I don’t know what makes me do it… but I step toward the door as he comes up to it, wrenching it open for him. He strides into the room like he’s expected; like he knew I’d give in and allow him inside what’s become my sanctuary on the road.
Right away, from the first heavy thud of his boot, he’s commanding the space. He’s bringing a fraught tension that charges the air we breathe.
I take another step back, my eyes wide, my throat dry.
“Mason… what…” I croak. I can’t complete a sentence.
He lets the door swing shut behind him. It doesn’t seem to bother him that he’s drenched—droplets of water slide off the smooth leather of his vest and his denim jeans must weigh an extra fifty pounds. Both a non-factor as far as he’s concerned.
He peers at me, his stare intense enough to burn a hole through me. The forest-green color has deepened along with his mood.
My brain fogs up even more, questioning if this is a friendly visit, or the visit of an enemy…
“I came to talk,” he says.
“Talk!?” I choke out incredulously. “You want to talk?!”
“Sit down.”
“I’ll stand! What do you think you’re doing, Mace? How do you think you can force your way in here and tell me we’re going to talk!”
“You opened the door.”
I blink up at him, incredulous at his audacity. “You told me you never wanted to see me again. You told me to get the hell out of your sight—the hell out of yourlife—or else you’d… you’d… end me. I did what you asked; I got the hell out of your town and went as far as I could. Now you think you get to come here and chat like we’re friends? Fuck off!”
He doesn’t budge. Not his unrelenting stare or his towering stance. “I expected you to say that. It wouldn’t be you if you didn’t give as good as you got.”
“This isn’t a fucking joke, Mace!”
He takes a step toward me. “Who says it’s a joke? You think I’m here to joke around, Syd? You think the shit you pulled was something for me to laugh about? Do you get how fucking irate it made me to know you played me and everybody else?”
“It wasn’t personal!”
“It was for me!” he barks louder, making me flinch. Taking another step to encroach on my space, he reaches out and grabs me by the elbow to draw me toward him in equal measure. His gaze fastened to my face, he speaks in a lower drawl. “Don’t you see how good you’ve got it? Don’t you see how lucky you are? You think anybody else could’ve done the shit you did and still be alive and breathing right now?”
