Page 4 of Sapphire Spring

“We’re going to call my sister on the phone.”

2

By his first year of college, MasonWortherhad discovered the key to waking up after a nightof hard partying. Before you expose your eyes to sunlight, first establish ifyou’re in your own bed.

Years later, he was putting that time-tested strategy to useagain. For the fifth time this month. Or was it the sixth? He wasn’t sure.

Careful not to poke his head above the covers, he groped forthe nightstand drawer and found the clues he needed to pinpoint his location:the box of condoms he’d picked up the week prior—freshly opened, which mightexplain the weight in the bed next to him—and the little mirror he’d snortedlines off the night before—and too manydamnnightsbefore that. At least he’d put the thing away, a sign his most recent houseparty hadn’t been a total catastrophe, even if he couldn’t remember much of it.Even if his head and stomach said otherwise.

It’s Thursday,he thought.Who has arageron a Wednesday night?

MasonWortherdid, apparently.

After another few minutes of drifting in and out of nauseatedsleep, he pulled the comforter down over his face, squinted at the palatial,sun-filled master suite of his beachfront home, and said a prayer of thanks hehadn’t burned the place down during the night. Or early that morning.

Not only had he forgotten to pull the drapes, but thesliding deck doors were also open to the balcony and its view of bright bluePacific stretching to the horizon. The sound of crashing waves filled the room.Seagulls cawed outside. A woman played at the surf’s edge with her two toddler-agedkids. Like most of the houses lining Capistrano Beach, Mason’s didn’t have muchof a yard. Just a concrete patio with a hot tub that dead-ended right at thesand. The ocean was his yard, and his dad paid a premium for it.

Anyone else who woke up to this view would probably begrateful, happy. Blissed out, even.

But he was miserable. Again.

Miserable and hung over. His favorite combo, apparently.

And if the sun wasn’t blinding enough, the carpet was brightwhite, the walls were bright white where they weren’t glass, the fixtures allpolished chrome. Maybe if he hadn’t let that friend of Chadwick’s design theplace, he’d have a comfortable home. The guy snorted Adderall for breakfast andmade every home he touched look like a supervillain’s lair. He was all aboutclean, open spaces, which meant most of the things Mason needed to live werestuffed in two hidden closets downstairs that erupted like clown cars wheneverhe opened them.

Mason struggled to remember the night before, pulling up atape loop of memories dulled and melted by Balvenie and blow.

ThevroomvroomofChadwick Brody’s new Maserati tearing down the little private road towardMason’s house. Pretending to listen to some big speech about the new laser peeltech his best friend was rolling out at his dermatology practice this year asthe guy chopped up the first fat white lines of the evening, but as with mostof the speeches that Chadwick made after first entering Mason’s house, it endedabruptly with Chadwick throwing open the doors in Mason’s wet bar and shouting,“Where the fuck is your gin, bro?”

Fast forward to jumbled footage of more blow inhaled off theglass coffee table downstairs—the one held up by a giant brown seashell thatstill sometimes scared him first thing in the morning because he kept mistakingit for a sleeping dog—with the girls Chadwick brought, because Chadwick alwaysbrought girls, talking a mile a minute about whether Paris was cooler thanLondon even though Mason had never been to Paris. Just London, and it was on abusiness trip with his dad, and he’d never made the train for Paris like he’dplanned to. But for some reason admitting that to a bunch of swimsuit models hedidn’t know had seemed as embarrassing as admitting his house belonged to his dad.

Sometime around then, Benny—or wasitBarry? Chadwick was always switching drugdealers!—showedup after Chadwick declared they were running low on party favors. And that’swhen Mason realized how late it was, that another casual get-together had turnedinto a sleep-stealing coke fest. Realized, with a sinking feeling, thattomorrow—meaning today—was a workday, and it would probably be shot. Worse, thedrugs were wearing off, and all he wanted to do was start up again to avoid thecome-down, but that could mean he either went foranother three hours or another three days. Lately, there was no telling wherethe wall was.

And that’s when his memories faded to black.

There was a shift in the comforter next to him. He heardwhat must have been a leg sliding to the floor. Then a man sat up in bed, andMason’s heart turned to ice. It wasn’t the first time he’d come out of ablackout in bed with a guy, but no way could he have hooked up with anotherdude in front of Chadwick and his crew. Not without fires being started andblood being shed.

Buck naked, the guy stood up, revealing a perfectlysculpted, brown-skinned ass that left Mason wishing he could remember what he’ddone to it. His guest started for a pair of white briefs that were drapedacross the back of one of the bedroom’s giant chairs. The chairs were big andsoft and on a swivel base so you could take in the view or turn to watch theflat screen on the side wall. They were not the place you tossed your underwearif you were just tucking yourself in for someshut-eyein a buddy’s bed. The underwear had been thrown there, probably by Mason. Afterhe’d taken it off with his teeth.

“Sleep good?” the guy asked. He turned and gave Mason asmile that didn’t look remotely drowsy or hung over. Mason tried to stayfocused on the guy’s handsome face—a vaguely familiar face—and not the heftycock and hairless balls he was tucking inside his underwear.

Mason groaned, waggling one hand in the air. The strangergave him a polite smile, then started the hunt for the rest of his clothes.

“Uhm, you want to take a shower or something?” Mason asked.

“No, I’m good. I’ll just call an Uber.”

The guy found his plain white T-shirt and pulled it on, thensmiled and headed for Mason’s side of the bed.

Mason braced for a recitation of all the crazyshitthey’d done together the night before, planning to nodhis way through it then ask for the guy’s number just so the handsome strangerwouldn’t ask for his. He’d never call him, of course. That’s how he alwaysplayed it when he shared a bed with a man. No strings attached. No follow-upeither. He had a reputation to protect.A reputation,yeah, right.As the lackey to a dad who’s also my boss, a dad who makes Mike Pence look LGBTfriendly.

The guy was standing over him now, smiling. Mason smiledback.

“I need to get paid, babe,” his guest finally said.

“Oh.”

A rush of memories came pouring back. Mason alone in thebathroom as his guests argued their way out the front door downstairs, hisfinger hovering over the ad on the Buddy Rent app. Marco or maybe Mario. Masonwasn’t sure, just that whatever name he went by, it probably wasn’t real. Ablow jobso good it had Mason’s head plastered to the pillowsas he gasped and choked for air.

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