The bartender is a woman only a few years older than me, yellow-blonde hair, short, with flower tattoos on her shoulders.
“Hi,” I say, voice a little low, smile a little forced.
She blinks at me for a minute before grinning back and leaning against the bar. “Hi, sugar.”
Yuck. “Two fingers of scotch, please. The most expensive you have.”
“You sure about that?”
I wink at her. “Yes, please.”
“Identification, please,” she shoots back. Fuck.
I fumble for my wallet and drag out an identification with my fake name. I also toss her a fifty-dollar bill while I’m at it.
Once satisfied, she grabs the brand-new bottle of scotch behind the counter, then pockets the fifty into her bra. Normally, I’d like to pretend that it does something for me, but not tonight. Nerves have me too rattled. Another patron calls her away for a moment, so I use that as my chance to lean over the bar to grab the full bottle of expensive scotch. Perfect. I sneak away, used to hiding in corners to not be seen.
The security elevator is right where the hotel plans said it would be. I take deep, slow breaths once I get inside and hastily punch in the code Hayden guaranteed me would work. When the light turns green, I take another relieved breath. Maybe tonight will go exactly as planned. That would be great.
Reaching the penthouse floor, the doors open to reveal deep mahogany wood floors, stark white walls, and a dark red door at the end of the hall. The swipe card Hayden programmed for tonight gets me into the dark hotel suite, alerting me to the fact Senator Warton is definitely still down below at the gala. I place the scotch on the table by the door, along with the pre-typed note thanking him for some bullshit that I don’t give a shit about.
His medicine is easy to find in his bathroom. Grabbing the bottle, I shake out half the pills, then return to the foyer table to work my magic. I open the scotch and drop the pills in, then hurriedly screw the top back on, grab my lighter, and light the edges to reseal it so it looks like it’s never been opened. Dipping into a squat, I watch as the pills slowly dissolve in the alcohol. Five minutes later, I’m shaking thebottle to ensure they’re all mixed in when I hear the card swiper ding. Fuck.
I scramble toward the hallway closet and make it inside just in time to hide myself from view. Heart pounding, sweat dotting my neck, I wait for the senator to come in and drink the scotch, but everything went a little too perfectly today, so I don’t know why I expected this part to go perfectly as well. A mission always has to have a hiccup or two.
My breath catches in my lungs when Mason follows anxiously behind the senator into the room. Mason’s eyebrows are furrowed, hands in tight fists at his sides. Whatever the senator is murmuring to him doesn’t reach my ears, but Mason gets angrier and angrier with each lowly uttered word. Every protective instinct in my body alights again just at the mere fact Mason is alone in the room with the senator, someone vile enough I’ve been deemed fit to kill him.
“I told you, this is the way it’s going to be, kid.”
“But I’ve done enough. There has to be a point it ends,” Mason argues, a plea in his shaky voice.
The senator finds the scotch, tips it back with a slightly cruel smile, and proceeds to twist it open and pour himself a glass. Oh fuck. He’s going to drink it right now and drop dead in front of Mason. Then I’ll never get out of here. I swipe a hand across my forehead and close my eyes tight.Think of something, Parker. Think of a way out of here.The booming sound of a gunshot shakes me out of my thoughts, and I open my eyes to the sight of Mason standing over a gasping senator. The gun hangs loosely from Mason’s fingers, a dazed, scared look on his face like he can’t believe what he’s just done.
Double fuck.
CHAPTER 3
MASON
Two days earlier
I’m going to buy a gun.
Do I want to buy a gun? No. But I think I need to be prepared to take serious action against my uncle when I see him in a few days. Will I kill him? The likelihood of me killing someone is small, but one must always be prepared, especially when one’s uncle is asking you to bring your gay brother to events as a dog and pony show to prove said uncle is not a veritable awful person. I will not allow Reid to be the token family gay. Never mind that I myself am also gay, but that’s easy for Uncle Marc to ignore when I don’t date anyone because I’m allergic to touch and scared someone will give me a yet-to-be-discovered disease that makes my childhood cancer come back and kill me.
My brain is not a friendly place.
But I am buying a gun.
I tug the ball cap on my head down lower as I skulk across the sidewalk toward the gun shop. The sun is bright as evertoday, but the air is beyond chilly, and I shiver as I work my way closer to the gun shop that emanates bad vibes. Guns arebad. Ihateguns. I hate the idea of using one even more. But needs must.
The gun shop smells like oil and metal. My skin feels too small and my throat feels tight as I bury my hands in my pockets to look around. Thankfully, no salesperson beelines it for me, probably because of my ball cap and generaldon’t approach meattitude.
All the research I did said a simple handgun will suffice.
I wish I could ask Reid or his boyfriend, Dante, or even handsome-as-hell Parker, but asking for advice for this would also mean explaining to them how I’ve been hacking for my uncle for the past few years and think he’s a very bad man. I do not want to explain any of this, nor do I want to open up questions about myself. So.
“Can I help you?” a guy in his mid-thirties asks from behind the counter.
