“I’d take my motorcycle and head out of Halifax, find an appropriately seedy area where they’d see me and think I’d be an easy target for my wallet and watch, and I’d fight them.”
“How did that go?”
“The first two times,” he smiles briefly, like getting the shit kicked out of him is a fond memory. “I was nothing but blood and bruises for days. The third time, I won.”
“And the fourth?” I ask.
“I took on two guys, and beat them both. I took their wallets and watches and threw them in the river. That made them angrier than if I’d just stolen from them.”
“What did it do for you?” I’m fascinated, listening intently.
“When I was younger, I was disgusted to find out how much I enjoyed those relatively benign acts of violence that are just part of sports like rugby. But the act of punching some asshole in the face, feeling my knuckles split against his skin, the crunch of bone…” He rubs his forehead, looking out the window. “It was transformative. I could be the cold, remote sociopath everyone thought I was, if I could control that buzz in the back of my brain with the occasional fight.”
“I have a little compartment in the back of my mind where I fold up bad memories, things I don’t want to look at and I shove them in there,” I admit. “You found a way to work out the rage before it took you over.”
He tightens his arm around me. Mason looks rough, like he’s been running around the woods, beating up bears.
God, he’s so hot like this.
“One of the in-laws jokingly asked how I liked living with the family sociopath,” I admit quietly. “I didn’t like it. I thought they didn’t understand who you are.”
Shrugging, he winces slightly. Michael told me one of The Butcher’s punches landed so hard that they thought Mason’s shoulder might have been dislocated. It wasn’t, but I’m sure his tendons are screaming now that the adrenaline has faded. “For a MacTavish, Iama sociopath. I always knew I was different from the others; there was always a distance from their wildly emotional existence and my silence. I learned to be quiet in order to be heard.”
“So other than Michael, does anyone know that you fight?”
“Dad suspects,” he shrugs. “Michael only knows because the suspicious bastard followed me to The Underworld one night, when I first moved to Glasgow from Nova Scotia. He insists on coming with me to the bouts.”
“What if Michael never followed you, if you’d gotten really hurt?” I ask, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat. “What if you’d gotten killed? There wouldn’t have been anyone to help you.”
He looks out the window. “You should know that in this goddamned family, nothing stays a secret for long.”
He lets me take his bruised, battered hand and I hold it for the rest of the ride home.
Chapter Thirty-Two
In which there is Dinner with the Parents.
Afton…
“Tell me about the owl.”
We’re lying in bed and my finger’s tracing along the glorious riot of tattoos on Mason’s chest, circling around the vividly-drawn owl on his left shoulder.
The owl’s eyes are huge and luminous and I keep feeling like those yellow orbs are following me. I’m trying to avoid Mason’s multitude of cuts and bruises, and he’s relaxed enough to allow it.
Putting his arm behind his head, he asks, “What makes you think there’s a meaning?”
“Oh, please. I think I know you well enough by now to know that you would never put something permanent on your body that didn’t have meaning.”
Maybe I’m going too far. It’s possible that the intimate discussion we had in the car is as much as he’s willing to offer for one night. However, I’m always one to push my luck.
“What do you know about the symbolism of owls?” he asks.
“I took a Psychology of Dreams course in college,” I say. “Owls are symbols of wisdom and intuition. Transition, and hidden knowledge, like the uncovering of secrets and truth within yourself.”
He does his signature elegant arch of his brow. “Very good. I got the tattoo when I was eighteen. I realized I was never going to be like the rest of my family, but I had my own strengths, my own kind of wisdom. The clan needs my specific skills more often than most of them realize. It’s one of the reasons I went to Cambridge University instead of one of the more… mafia-centered colleges like the Ares Academy.”
“My brother Sam went to the Ares Academy,” I sit up, crossing my legs. “All I know is he graduated with a hell of a lot more scars than he had going in. I like your idea of going to Cambridge better.”
