Page 50 of The Masks We Break

We walk inside and straight into the living room. Although I can’t quite place it, the space feels different now. Less tense, perhaps. Or maybe it’s just because it’s the first time I’ve been here not under the influence.

“What are you grinning about, puppet?” His fingers squeeze mine, pulling me down next to him on the couch.

“Nothing. It must be the post-orgasm glow,” I tease.

“And it’s stunning,” he breathes, trailing his thumb along my jaw.

I shiver, my earlier confidence waning as I turn into mush. I’ve read about the hero syndrome before. An attraction to someone who saved you. Only tonight isn’t the first time he’s been my knight, and he hasn’t just saved me physically.

No, there have been plenty of nights when I would lie in bed, having just been accused of killing my mother, with nothing but darkness surrounding me. The sobs would overtake me, one after the other, crashing through my body, leaving me weak and broken. When there was no air left, and no will to fight, I toyed with the idea to just grant my father his much-voiced desire. But then I would look outside.

Something about the way the moon shined would make me think of Blaze. The boy with the eyes that looked like my bà ngo?i’s marbles, reminding me of her and that at one time, Iwasloved.

I was cherished.

And I wanted to stick around to find that feeling again. But this time, I want it with the guy who made me remember that there is light even in the darkest of places. All I need to do is look up.

Before I realize it, Blaze scoots over, wrapping an arm around my shoulder to pull my head into his lap. He strokes the top of my hair, a low hum sweeping through the space. It fills my heart to the brim, expanding in my chest until it physically aches.

I have no plans on letting whatever this is go. And even if the whole thing does go up in flames, I plan to enjoy the blaze as it burns.

TWENTY THREE

Turns out I am a selfish man, because Remy Solace is mine.

TWENTY FOUR

“Icompletely understand your reservation, but again, I’d like to reassure you. When you make the transition to being energy efficient, it’s going to cost you upfront with any business. This is why I spend more time going over the long-term benefits and savings. Within three years’ time, you’ll balance the costs as well as be in the green across the board.”

Mrs. Cassidy’s deep amber eyes skim over the contract once more, nodding her head as she goes. Her hand fiddles with the string of pearls around her neck, the contrast stark against her dark skin. She’s the brain of the operation. Strong, resilient, smart. I like her.

I almost wish it was one of my father’s contracts, and I was here watching her tear it to shreds in front of him. I bet she’d be able to pick out the things I can’t seem to find. The notion sends chills down my spine.

Soon.

My plan with Clean Source starts with the Cassidys. It’s a contract template I was given by the lawyers and after some back-and-forth in negotiations, it’s perfect. It will help me compare it to other contracts, locate the seeds of corruption my father plants in each one. Once I find them, it will start the dismantle. Dig him up by the root and burn him to nothing.

Mr. Cassidy’s eyes have been on the same spot of the file for well over five minutes. He rubs a hand over his salt and pepper taper fade, boredom clear in his glazed-over face. I wonder where his mind is if not on the business. What distraction is keeping him from something so vital?

His blinks become slower, an arm absentmindedly stretching over his wife’s back, pulling her closer.

I shift in my chair, feeling almost out of place—observing what’s supposed to be a natural exchange, but looks so foreign. Just as I clear my throat, Mrs. Cassidy perks up, her face jerking to the left.

“Ah, honey, what are you doing down here?”

A man’s head peeks from a side wall that I’m assuming leads to the kitchen, his bright green eyes catching my attention. They’re a jade green like Mr. Cassidy, only they reflect brighter against his darker skin. A heavy hand comes into view as he points behind him.

“Grabbin’ some water and a snack before my tutoring.” His voice is at least an octave deeper than mine and sounds more like a growl than English.

“I thought that was on Friday.” Mrs. Cassidy gives him a playful smirk, hinting at something more dubious.

He nods. “Yes, ma’am, but lil’ lady had a date or somethin’. So we changed it up.”

She pulls to her feet, giving him a knowing nod, before smiling toward me. “Where are my manners? Mr. Bardot, this is my son, William.”

He slides from behind the wall, his massive shape coming into view. He’s wearing loungewear but it’s easy to see the lean muscle through the thin shirt. He’s built like one of our linebackers and for a moment, I wonder if he plays.

William sticks out his hand and I stand, grabbing it, giving him a firm shake. Something about him rings familiar, and just like his family name, I can’t piece it together. I just know him somehow.

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