Page 91 of Fearless

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Because it’s five in the morning, and when you say ‘talk’ you don’t really mean it. I rode two hundred miles yesterday, Ava. I’m too tired to fuck you and tell you you’re pretty, alright?” He snarled the last of it, and she took three steps back, her throat closing up on her next breath.

One of her hands had gone to her stomach, out of automatic, protective reflex. She jerked it away, forced it down to her side. Her eyes flooded with tears. Anyone else she could have told off with flair. But she had no words to respond to the venom he’d just spit at her. She didn’t know how to operate in a world in which Mercy was hateful and cruel.

“Nevermind.” She put her head down and looked straight through the door as she walked toward it. “I thought you were someone else.”

She waited – hoped – for him to make a grab for her as she passed him. But he didn’t, and she stepped out onto the iron landing just in time to keep the tears from sliding down her cheeks in front of him.

On his list of Weird Shit, this had to be at the top. It made him suspicious. Made him twitchy. Made him feel like his father was lurking behind him, warning him not to touch any of this “expensive bullshit” with his “grubby hands.” But Carter didn’t think there was a way to turn down an invitation to breakfast at the Stephens’ house.

The summons had come via phone call that morning – at five-fifteen. His cell had chirped in the dark and it hadn’t been Mason, but Mason’s father on the line.

“Carter, m’boy. Would love to have you. The chef makes marvelous crepes. Seven sharp. Don’t be late. Don’t worry about wearing a tie.”

Atie? People wore ties tobreakfast?

He’d tugged on his best jeans, a polo, took extra care with his hair and drenched himself in cologne. His dad either hadn’t heard him leave or hadn’t cared. Same difference.

And now here he sat, as wan morning sunlight slanted in through the sheer drapes, in a dining room that belonged inSouthern Living, at a table large enough to seat the entire football team.

Mason Sr. sat at the head, Mrs. Stephens – flawless makeup and blonde bob, coral pantsuit, dripping jewelry – at the foot, with Carter and Mason across from one another in the middle of the long sides of the table. Tall, unlit candelabra marched down the center of a gold runner on the table’s gleaming surface. The china was white with delicate pink roses in the centers and around the edges. A woman in a uniform and apron brought in fresh fruit, steaming muffins, bacon cheese grits and sausage links on ornate silver platters. Mrs. Stephens’ orange juice fizzed and was probably more than half champagne.

Mr. Stephens was the exact same in person as he’d been in his campaign ads from a few years back. All teeth and tanned skin, his voice megaphone loud. He seemed, conveniently, to have forgotten about the threats he’d made to Carter just a few weeks before. “So Carter,” he boomed, “how’s the season going? Is the team going to make it to the playoffs?”

Carter wondered if Mr. Stephens wouldn’t benefit from a closer seating arrangement so he didn’t feel the need to shout. He wondered if anyone was fooled by Mason’s attendance to public school; no one who saw this house would ever buy the “regular folks” bit from the campaign. Rather than give voice to this, he cleared his throat and tried his best to answer without appearing too dazzled by his surroundings.

Mrs. Stephens and Mason contributed nothing to the conversation. Mrs. Stephens stared, hypnotized by the bubbles in her mimosa, and didn’t touch her food.

As the dishes were clearing away, Mr. Stephens got to his feet and said, “I really appreciate you being such a good friend to Mason, Carter. It’s just horrible the stress he’s been through. This whole situation – well, you can see how it could be damaging to his record. We’re counting on you to help keep things straight, keep the authorities informed on what really happened that night.” Big gubernatorial smile for Carter.

So that’s what this was – a bribe. A flexing of financial muscles. Show him how rich and influential the family was, make him see the light: it was time to blame what had happened on Ava Teague and let her take the fall, get Mason off scot-free before those college applications hit the post office.

“You’re a good kid, Carter.” Stephens squeezed his shoulder on the way past his chair. “And you’ve made a good friend in Mason.”

Mason smiled obligingly for his father.

Stephens hooked his wife with one unkind hand around her elbow and towed her up out of her chair, and from the room.

The maid rolled the last of the dirty dishes out into the hall on a trolley.

And then it was just the two of them.

With the white sunlight framing him, Mason looked yellow, thin, and sickly. He had dark smudges beneath his eyes; his Adam’s apple poked knee-like from his throat, the weight loss from his hospital stay bringing out strange points and corners in his body. He looked ready to fall asleep, but his eyes were sharp. “How was breakfast?” he asked, folding his hands together on the tabletop. His voice was a slicker, oilier version of his father’s. Daddy was fake bravado; Junior was seedy salesman.

Carter said, “Does your mom always drink this early in the morning?”

Anger flickered through Mason’s eyes. He’d been caught off guard; he hadn’t expected to see a showing of spine.

“Is that why your dad’s so big on being pretend-nice? Hoping nobody’ll notice she’s drunk all the time?”

“I invited you here,” Mason said through his teeth, “as a gesture of friendship. And charity. Shit knows you don’t eat anything at home but wormy apples and Slim Jims–”

That stung – it stung bad – but Carter said, “Your father invited me. This had shit-all to do with friendship. You just want me to go to the cops and say Ava force fed you those damn pills. What’s Daddy Warbucks gunning for? Attempted murder?”

“That little bitch–” Mason started, and Carter pushed his chair back.

“Tell the cook it was delish,” Carter said, throwing his napkin onto the table.

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