His to Own

Fuck if he isn’t going to have to end this deal with a body count. Mason silently tallies the number of Hijos de la Muertes standing in front of him, while pretending to listen to their leader’s ridiculous “request.” How they’d like fifteen more glocks added to their order. On the house, of course. Blah, blah, no fucking way, blah.

Mason’s got plenty of time to run diagnostics on the situation. The head guy likes to talk. A real pompous ass. He ain’t wearing a shirt—maybe because it’s summer. But more likely because the front of his torso is entirely covered in what has to be thousands of dollars’ worth of quality ink. Beneath two beautifully rendered tattoos of ornate Mexican cartel revolvers, the boss man’s pecs stay puffed up like he’s part rooster.

Mason knows the soon-to-be-dead fuck’s name is Razo. Not because he introduces himself proper or anything like that, but because the asshole’s name is inked clear across his stomach in large, ornate script: RAZO. And Mason has to admit it looks pretty slick beneath the huge HIJOS DE LA MUERTES etched along the guy’s collar bone. Every single bit of his front torso, including his arms, have been turned into a living canvas. Mason spots a few less skillful tattoos buried under the quality stuff, but he can see that somewhere down the line, Razo got real smart about his body art. Hooked himself up with a talented visionary. A real artist…nothing like the washed out old man Mason knows back at the SFK clubhouse, the one who inks new members with the official SFK seal.

Given that Razo is a full foot shorter than Mason, he’s sure the little bitch shows up shirtless to every deal. After all, the tats make him look more bad ass in every way. Tougher, bigger, more powerful. Like the overlord of a serious Mexican drug cartel rather than the leader of a small-time Latino street gang. The intimidating ink combined with the handle of the GAT sticking prominently out of Razo’s pants have most definitely convinced other sellers to give him what he wanted.

But not tonight. Because now this beaner prick is dealing with Mason Fairgood.

“Sorry, hombre. Southern Freedom Knights don’t do nothing on the house,” Mason answers when Razo’s finally done flapping his lips. And he doesn’t bother to sugarcoat his words with a friendly tone, like his cousin D might have done. No, Mason’s voice is flatter than all those miles of highway he traveled to get here from Tennessee.

The Hijos de la Muertes have holed up in what the SFK often refer to as a roach town. The brown roaches move in, and the whites move out. Ceding their pretty properties to beaner scum in favor of new and improved—and as yet un-infested—suburbs. What was once a nice neighborhood is now completely occupied by Razo’s crew. Their distinctive graffiti tags cover every street sign, dividing wall, fire hydrant, and sidewalk. Damn shame.

But there are only three guys standing behind Razo. Likely his most trusted and strongest gang members. Not that it really matters. Nobody beats Mason in a fight. Not even hardened street cholos like these. No, the odds aren’t fair for Razo and his men. They might look tough but Mason knows these inner city gangs don’t weapon train for shit. No mandatory time spent in target practice. No game hunting in the woods. Just time spent shooting at each other in brief street skirmishes, like something out of a lame-ass video game, using illegal weapons provided by the SFK and other distributors.

The thought of these pussies referring to themselves as “soldiers” turns Mason’s stomach. But whatever, at least it gives him the advantage in close situations like these. He supposes he ought to be grateful that these low-rent assholes lack basic shooting and hunting skills, even as more and more of them sprout up across the country. More gangs equal more business opportunities. And more target practice for Mason.

The only Hijos he really has to worry about are the five or six guys milling around on the front porch of the house Razo exited to do this deal with Mason. There could also be a few men hidden in the surrounding cul-de-sac.

And if any them actually have something with a sight on it, well…hello bullet straight to the head. Even a kid could hit a moving target with that kind of set up.

“You Knights don’t do nothing on the house?” Razo asks. “That ain’t what I heard, man. I heard your cuz gave the Lightning Bolts in Little Rock a couple of AKs. Like as a bonus and shit.”

Mason shrugs. “My cousin and I handle things different.”

Unspoken: Also, I’m white and you ain’t. Which means no extras as far as any business deals go. The truth is, the SFK board doesn’t exactly like to advertise that they do business with buyers who don’t—how to put it—match their preferred client profile.

But the SFK likes money, and thanks to the growing heroin problem across the Midwest and Deep South, these fucking beaner gangs are flush with cash. Too much to just leave on the table.

So the SFK board decided to strategically split off the gun sales. They sent Dixon, Mason’s pretty boy cousin—who also happens to be the gang’s prez—to make deals with preferred customers (read: white gangs). And they sent Mason, the enforcer, to run all the beaner deals. Well, at least that was the original plan. Until D up and disappeared a few months back. Ever since, Mason’s had to handle both sides of the coin for the SFKs.

But that’s a whole ‘nother shit show. So to Razo, all Mason says is, “You’re dealing with me now. Not my cousin.”

He doesn’t notice the hand-rolled cigarette Razo’s smoking until the shorter man puts it to his lips. He takes a long, thoughtful drag before pointing out, “This is a big order, bolillo.” Razo nods towards the suitcase of money one of his men handed Mason a few minutes ago. “Fifteen more glocks. It’s the least you can do, in my opinion.”

Bolillo. White bread. Mason works hard not to let the slur throw him off his game. After all, he knows a thing or two about slurs.

“Well, you know what they say about opinions,” he responds. Like any creature raised to kill and maim, Mason lacks a certain finesse.

“You sure about that, man?” Razo asks, his voice pleasant as the cheerful picket fences surrounding the perimeter of each house in the cul-de-sac. He casually rests his cigarette hand on the butt of the piece sticking out of his waistband. The gun is even more ostentatious than his tattoos: gold plated with a pearl grip, featuring a huge honking silver cross. Pretty as a girl, but lethal beneath the sexy exterior. A clear message to Mason that Razo doesn’t give a flying fuck what anyone says about opinions, and if Mason knew what was good for him, he’ll give Razo what he wants.

Mason suppresses a smile. He almost has to give the guy some respect. Razo’s balls are a thousand times bigger than most of the two-bit dipshits Mason usually deals with. And he clearly knows how to read a situation.

See, Mason always does these secret side deals alone. To protect the fragile egos of the Kool-Aid drinkers among the ranks of the SFK who might take issue with the fact that some of the funds in their “race war” hope chest come from selling guns to non-white clientele.

Razo, like Mason, had clearly run his own diagnostic: Mason was one guy to Razo’s four (and that didn’t include his men on the porch, or any other gang bangers he might have hidden throughout the cul-de-sac). So as far as he was concerned, Mason would either give him what he wanted to get out alive, or Razo and his boys would take out a major player in one of the nation’s top white supremacist organizations. Either way, it would give the little cholo something to brag about over tacos at the next gang banger potluck.

It would actually be a pretty solid plan if Razo was dealing with anyone other than Mason Fairgood. So even as Mason grudgingly gives the gang leader his due, he’s working out exactly how to eliminate this motherfucker in the best way possible. Point blank? Too fast. Maybe snatch that pretty gun Razo was so casually threatening him with and use it to shoot the three beaners lined up behind him. Then use Razo as a human shield to stave off any fire that came from the houses. Yeah, that sounds like a plan—

KABLOOM!!!

The echo of a projectile hitting the conversion van he drove here in reverberates across the cul-de-sac. No, not a projectile…a soccer ball, he realizes, when a raggedy orb rolls past him as he runs toward his van.

What the hell!? What they do, shoot the damn thing out of a cannon? His van’s still rocking from the impact.

And when he yanks open the back doors, his heart freezes at what he sees.

His baby. The sweet baby he’d brought along for the trip, lying on her side.

Imploding deal all but forgotten, he pulls his poor motorcycle out of the van and sets it carefully on the sidewalk. “You okay, baby?” he asks the lovingly restored chopper as he checks it everywhere for damage.

Only after he’s sure she’s okay, does he turn his attention back to the street. Was it a distraction? Maybe this is all a set-up, designed to confuse him. Bracing himself to get jumped he pulls out one of his Colt M1911s. Not nearly as fancy as Razo’s piece, but it’ll do the trick, he decides, scanning the darkened cul-de-sac for the motherfucker who’d dared kick a ball into his van.

“Oh, man, is that your bike?!?!””

Mason stops, his eyes narrowing when he spots a kid standing there, the same worn soccer ball that hit his van tucked under his thin arm. The boy is small and scrawny as fuck. Nine, maybe ten at the most. Darker than Razo, possibly mixed with something other than Mexican. Black maybe. Some kind of kin to Razo? Maybe a son? Nephew? Whoever he is, the kid is goggling Mason’s bike so wide-eyed, he’s completely failed to notice the gun Mason’s aiming at him.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing out here, kid?” Mason demands.

The boy finally looks up from the bike, finally sees the gun in Mason’s hand.

“I was just…I was just…” he says, taking a big, nervous step back.

“You were just what?” Mason asks, cutting off the kid’s sudden case of the stutters. “Looking to get killed?”

The sound of running footsteps startles him, and Mason realizes maybe this is all a set-up, designed to distract him so the beaners could get the jump on him from behind.

Mason aims, preparing to shoot first and ask questions later. But then his vision is completely filled with the figure of a girl.

But not a little girl. Not with those curves. This is a young woman, he realizes, his finger freezing on the trigger.

She’s darker than the boy, with a wider nose—a black woman. Which is strange, because he usually don’t see blacks, like at all, on these runs. But aside from the color of her skin, she looks exactly as you’d expect a girl living in a cholo neighborhood to look: tight white tank top that barely contains her large breasts, and a pair of fringed denim shorts that cover her thick hips, but leave the bottom of her ass exposed. She’s even wearing an L.A. Dodgers cap over her long straight black hair. All she’s missing is the chola teardrop tattoo next to her eye…

Definitely beaner girlfriend material. Maybe even Razo’s woman. She looks like someone he’d want. Arresting and different.

She’s parked herself in front of Mason’s gun, and doesn’t seem to be thinking about moving, even though her eyes are wide and terrified beneath the wide blue brim of her Dodgers cap.

And she stays put as the kid behind her says, “Sir, sir…please put away the gun. She didn’t do nothing to you.”

Mason Fairgood doesn’t take orders from anybody, especially colored kids.

But he re-holsters his gun, even as he spits out, “That ghetto monkey of yours just kicked his fucking soccer ball into my bike.”

His eyes flicker over to his baby, and then back to the girl. She visibly swallows, but still says nothing.

“You hear what I’m saying?” he asks.

No answer. Just more standing there like she don’t exactly trust him to keep his gun out of sight.

“You retarded?” he finally asks.

“No, sir, she ain’t retarded. She just don’t talk much,” the boy answers from behind her. His young voice is perfectly friendly as he asks, “Did I hurt your bike? Because if I did, I apologize. But if I didn’t…”

Mason squints at the kid. “You still need to apologize. Do you know how much work went into that bike? Me and my cousin built it from the ground up. That’s a 50K custom job right there. Bike’s worth three of you—”

The woman startles the shit out of him with a sudden movement. She turns her head, and shakes it at the boy over her shoulder.

“She don’t agree with you about that bike being worth more than my life,” the kid translates, before asking, “Did you really build it yourself? How long did it take?”

What the hell is this kid’s damage? Still no apology, and now he has the nerve to ask questions. But despite himself, Mason answers, “Few months. Hammered out all the body panels, mixed the paint. Even skinned and tanned one of our old cows to make the seat.”

“Whoa!” the boy says, stepping around the woman, and moving toward the bike as if drawn by a magnet.

More sudden movement from the girl. This time, she grabs the kid by the back of his shirt, drawing him to his original position behind her.

“It’s okay, June. I just want to look—”

“Why you two out here?” Razo’s voice cuts him off.

The woman goes completely still, like prey scenting a predator in the wild. And the night seems to tick with a new tension as she urgently motions the boy back towards a house that’s parallel with the passenger side of his van.

But the kid just laughs, like he’s run into an old friend on the street. “Hey, Razo!” he calls out. “I didn’t know there was anybody out here. I was just kickin’ a few balls before June left out…”

Mason’s now wondering if the kid, not the girl, is the retarded one.

The girl—June—is obviously terrified. He can see the whites of her eyes, reminding him of a deer he shot last season, just before he pulled the trigger. The woman starts pushing the kid towards the house. When he doesn’t budge, she squats down to his eye level and they have some kind of argument, made up mostly of head shakes and pointing. One she apparently wins.

Under the orange light of the street lamps, Mason can see the shadow that falls over the boy’s face. One so familiar, it feels like he’s staring into a dark mirror. The kid gives up, and without another word, skulks away. Back to the house the girl was pointing at.

At least that’s where Mason figures he’s headed. The boy disappears from his view, but Mason’s eyes stay on the woman.

That’s when he realizes he actually can’t stop staring at her. Because even when the boy moves away, Mason’s eyes remain where they’ve been since she stepped in front of his gun. Stuck on her, and only her. What. The. Fucking. Hell?

There’s no reason for him to react like this to her. No reason he should stand in the street, not caring that he’s surrounded by gang bangers who could turn on him at any second.

She’s…not beautiful. A black girl can’t be beautiful. He wasn’t raised to think like that.

But she is mesmerizing. So mesmerizing, it feels like it’s just him and her standing out here in this roach-infested cul-de-sac. And for some reason, his dick—which is supposed to be deaf, dumb, and blind to her kind—is thrumming like an engine revving inside his pants.

Mason doesn’t understand. Cannot reconcile it. This girl ain’t white. She ain’t even one of them darkie spics who won’t let you call them black, far as he can tell.

So why can’t he stop looking at her—?

He’s released from her spell abruptly. Because suddenly Razo’s standing between them, grabbing her by the throat. “What I tell you about him and that fucking soccer ball, huh, puta? What I say you about staying out the way when I’m working?”

It’s not exactly fair. Mason prefers to keep his business meetings on par with the most fucked up of cable guys. He provides a vague window of days during which he might stop in with the goods, and usually shows up around dinner time on the first day when he knows they’ll least expect him. Ain’t no way this woman or that boy had any way of knowing who he was, or why he was here, when they left the house.

But the girl doesn’t try to argue with Razo or make excuses. Her body just stiffens, her eyes rolling to the side of her face that’s the farthest from Razo, in a way Mason recognizes more than he cares to admit. June knows she’s about to get hit but doesn’t want to see it coming.

And she’s right.

Razo gives her a short, vicious punch. He’s obviously had a lot of practice. It’s just enough to deliver a painful blow without damaging her face. The woman’s head lulls, but she doesn’t throw up her hands, doesn’t try to protect herself. It’s as if she’s flipped on a zombie switch. Figured out a way to disappear while her boyfriend’s doing this to her. At least Mason assumes Razo’s her boyfriend.

June’s lack of fight seems to diffuse the tension and stop Razo from hitting her again. Instead, he shoves her, sending her stumbling backwards onto her butt. “Get back to the house, bitch,” he spits at her. “I’ll deal with you later.”

Get back to the house. Familiar language you’d only use with someone you were intimate with. Definitely Razo’s girlfriend, Mason thinks. His to command. His to hit. His to do with as he pleases.

But for some reason, Razo’s command to go back to the house brings the girl out of zombie mode. She starts pointing toward something at the end of the cul-de-sac.

“You think I’m gonna let you take the bus to go see that fag now?” Razo answers, voice nearly screeching with anger. “After this!? You out your mind, puta!”

He grabs her by the arm, yanking her to feet—but not out of any sense of chivalry. No, this assist is only given so he can really get up in her face. Bare his teeth at her as he….

Mason doesn’t see it coming. If he had, he would have turned away. But the next thing he knows, he’s watching Razo push the orange end of his cigarette into the woman’s chest, pressing so hard, it collapses like a small, white accordion against her dark skin.

Again she doesn’t make a sound. There’s only a grimace, quick as a flash, like her face has become a valve for releasing pain in silence.

But for Mason, it’s too late. His heart stops, seizing up as his brain’s engine reverses hard into memory.

It’s an old, old male Fairgood tradition, dating back almost to when Winstons first hit the shelves back in the fifties. Fairgood men put their cigarettes out on their boys. It wasn’t considered cruel. It was training. Training the boys up to be men who knew how to endure, so they wouldn’t become too soft, so they could handle pain…

“Now get in the house like I told you!” Razo calls out in the distance.

But in Mason’s mind, his father, Fred Fairgood, is telling him to get back to his room, while he “deals” with Mason’s mother.

She said something wrong again.

Did something wrong.

Maybe asked the wrong question.

Or looked at Fred the wrong way.

Got too fucked up on the drugs Fred plied her with.

There are a million things that could set his parents off. So many, it’s almost not a surprise when a hot cigarette burns against the back of Mason’s neck and he’s told to go, now.

And Mason does, just like that half-darkie boy. Wanting to stay, but knowing from experience he’d only make it worse. That any action or word he could possibly think of would prolong his mother’s suffering rather than end it.

He goes, but the fighting follows him down the hallway. The sound of his father’s low menacing voice growling at his mother. And, depending on how high she is, his mother shrieking right on back at him, telling him he’s washed up, that both him and his brother are disappointments to the SFK board. That he’s lucky to have her. How she knows he’s sleeping with [insert name of latest SFK groupie here]. How if it wasn’t for Mason, she’d have left his ass the first time he laid hands on her. How he’d better not ever sleep too deep, because one night she’d cut his dick off—

And so it goes, a verbal release before the beating. The more creative his mother gets, the longer she staves off the inevitable. His father almost seems to enjoy listening to her. To Mason, her shrill voice sounds like the equivalent of squeezing hard on the throttle. Of someone getting a motorcycle nice and angry, so it’d make the biggest amount of noise as it speeds down the road.

By the time Mason reached the soccer ball kid’s age, he’d learned to climb out his bedroom window during this part. To be anywhere but there while his mother was still shrieking.

But when he was little…

When he was little, all he could do was cower behind the bedroom door. Listen to the shrill screams and the low-pitched yells until the noise of the beating ended all the talk.

Then it was just the hard, dull slaps of fists raining down on skin. The kind of sound that doesn’t remotely resemble what you hear on TV or in movies. This would go on for a surprisingly short time. Five…ten minutes, tops. Then the aftermath. The weird quiet after the beating. Also not what you see on TV. In real life, there ain’t no sobbing after your father’s done beating on your mother. Not if he’s done it right. Not if he’s a Fairgood. After a Fairgood beatdown, the only sound anybody’s going to hear is him…his breath, panting from the exertion of putting his old lady in her place. The soundtrack of him standing over her, waiting to see if she dares get up. Or say so much as another word.

And then he stops breathing hard. And there’s nothing left but the quiet. And if you’re a Fairgood boy who hasn’t learned to climb out the window yet, you just have to wait and see what happens next. Because maybe your father will leave out, go have a few more drinks at the clubhouse. Maybe he’ll head to his room and pass out from drink the way your mom has passed out from her beating. Or maybe he’ll come after you. Finish releasing the rest of his anger, finish what the cigarette burn started—

When Mason returns to reality, everything has changed. The woman is gone. And Razo and his original three-guy crew are in front of him. Exchanging unsettled looks with each other in a silent conversation Mason can easily translate as, What the fuck is up with this loco gringo?

Bad things happen when he’s triggered. Most often people get hurt. Sometimes they get dead. Are they looking at him that way because he snapped?

But no…he looks around the cul-de-sac. No blood, no dead bodies, and the porches are empty now—but in a smart, disappearing act way, not in an aftermath sort of way. He knows aftermath. Really well. And this ain’t it.

Mason lets himself breathe again, somehow knowing she’s inside one of those graffiti-covered houses. Maybe the same one as the boy. Safe. At least for now.

“Hey, you alright, man?”

His eyes flicker back to the cholos.

“You was just standing there,” Razo tells him. “Breathing real weird. Like you fixing to explode or something.”

The other three snicker at their boss’s observation.

Only to stop short when Mason hits them with a look. The one he usually saves for right before he pulls out the bowie knife his uncle, D’s dad, gave him for his twelfth birthday. “You can use it on any animal gives you trouble. Don’t matter if it’s on four legs or two.”

At Mason’s look, Razo actually shrinks back, but then manages to regain his poise and find some courage inside his small chest. “We doing this or what?” he asks, lowering his voice a few octaves and tapping both hands against his HIJOS DE LA MUERTES tattoo.

Mason blinks, a deliberate motion that serves to reset his face into business mode.

Yeah, crazy shit happens when he’s triggered. Take, for example, right now when he opens his mouth and unleashes words. Three of them, directed at Razo. “That your girl?”

Razo’s brow furrows, his confusion at Mason’s unexpected question written clearly across his face. “Yeah, and don’t worry, homes. I’m going to make her pay for what happened with your bike. As soon as we get our fifteen extra, you know.”

It’s both a promise and a threat. The original request for fifteen extra guns hangs over the conversation like a storm cloud, warning of shit to come.

But Mason ignores the cloud and asks, “You sick of fucking her yet?”

A thoughtful beat. Then as if just now realizing it himself, Razo answers, “Gettin’ there. I mean she fine, but that kid and—”

Razo cuts off, the obvious question suddenly occurring to him, “Hey, why you askin’ about her?”

Crazy, crazy, shit, Mason thinks. But he asks the next question anyway.

“How much you want for her?”

Twenty glocks. His custom bike. And five thousand dollars.

That’s what Mason pays for Razo’s girl. A fucking black girl. And one who comes as a package deal, no less.

“You take her kid, too,” Razo demanded during the negotiations. “No way he staying here with us. Ain’t good for shit. Can’t even trust him on runs cuz he talk too much.”

Well, fuck…

So that’s how Mason ends up jammed in the front of his van with a silent black woman and her kid…one she maybe had with Razo. She sits as far from him as possible, slumped against the passenger side door so heavily, he’s half afraid she’s going to accidentally depress the handle and roll out into the oncoming traffic of the 303-N.

Sure, it would solve the current situation. But it’d be messy. And create a whole bunch of other problems he really doesn’t need right now.

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

Mason drives, trying to ignore the kid seated between him and the woman. The boy clutches that goddamn soccer ball in his lap like it’s a beloved pet. And he’s been yammering since they peeled out of the cul-de-sac. Forty-five long-as-hell minutes and barely a pause to breathe.

Turns out, the kid only needs someone with a pulse to keep a conversation going. And apparently, he was born completely without the ability to read a fucking room. Because despite Mason’s aggressive lack of response and his mom’s leaden silence, the boy jabbers all the way to Beaver Lake. About Arkansas’s lack of a major league soccer team. About the last World Cup. About that one time he kicked his soccer ball all the way over the house. About that other time he kicked his soccer ball down an open manhole and a worker from the city’s water and power department had to get it for him.

The kid’s one-sided conversation definitely has a running theme, and it doesn’t occur to him to ask a single non-soccer related question until Mason pulls up in front of a lodge with a burnt out neon “Vacancy” sign.

Even then, the boy’s voice sounds more curious than afraid when he asks, “Where we at?” He doesn’t even seem the slightest bit worried that Mason has driven him and his mom to a very remote area of Beaver Lake. With backwoods so dense, you can barely make out the sky above.

“Motel,” Mason grunts back, even though that’s not exactly true. More like a bunch of run-down cabins and a few campsites. Not the ritziest place on the lake, but one that—for obvious reasons—always has vacancies. Also its owner accepts cold hard cash and doesn’t require signatures or paperwork.

“You looking for a room, son?”

Speaking of the owner…

An old man, about the same age as Methuselah, charges out of the lodge towards them. His question might have come off as hospitable if not for the Model 60 Marlin Rimfire in his hands, barrel pointed directly at the van.

“Relax, Burt. It’s me.” Mason says, rolling down the driver’s side window.

“Oh…hey, Fairgood!” Burt lowers his gun with a cackle, recognizing Mason as that guy who’s been coming here once or twice a year for the last five. “Haven’t seen you in a while! Didn’t recognize you in that vehicle.” The old man narrows his eyes, peering further into the dark recesses of the cab. “I see you brought some friends…”

Burt knows who Mason is. What Mason is. He’s seen the patches on Mason’s vest, and once, Burt even came by to warn him he had some colored folks staying in one of his cabins. “I ain’t lookin for no race war on my property, so if it’s going to be a problem…”

It hadn’t been a problem. Mason knew how to keep to himself, and ignore the fact that the rest of the world isn’t as lily white as the one at the SFK compound.

But tonight, with the barely functioning neon motel sign flickering in the background, there’s just enough light to illuminate the interior of the van. Burt squints and strains to get a better look. Obviously trying to figure out if he’s seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. “You…ah…looking for more than one campsite today?”

Mason pushes a wad of cash at the old man through the van window. “I’ll take one of the king kitchenette cabins. Going to be here for…a few weeks.”

Burt’s watery eyes light up at the bills. There’s way more in that bundle than what the cabin’s worth, even at the weekly rate.

The old guy reaches over and takes the money. “3C, last on the left. It’s all yours,” he says without looking up from counting his cash.

Mason leaves him to it.

“How old was that guy?” the kid asks as they drive away. “A hundred?”

Mason glances over at the silent woman, still pressed up against the passenger door. Her hands are folded primly in her lap, making her look like a Catholic school girl in chola clothes.

She still hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t so much as looked in his direction since Razo’s guys shoved her at him after the exchange of glocks, money, and Mason’s bike.

The kid and her had climbed into his van with nothing but a backpack between them. And now she’s shrunk up against the passenger door in a way that makes Mason wonder if she’s permanently flipped on her zombie switch.

“Stay here,” he growls at her and the kid. The van is a stick, which he knows most women can’t drive. But just in case, Mason yanks the key out of the ignition. Sure, she can still escape on foot, but at least now he can give chase if she tries.

Hold up. Why the fuck is he planning how to catch her if she runs? Why in the hell is he figuring out how he’ll track down the woman he had no business buying in the first place? If he had any goddamn sense, Mason would be praying for her to haul ass. And take the kid with her, save him the trouble.

But he sends up no prayers, and not just because he’s been a secret non-believer since his mother died the way she did. No, it’s mostly because of the woman. Because despite her not wanting to be anywhere near him, he gets hard at the thought of her.

And though he knows he can’t keep her for long, his head is filled with thoughts that someone like him should definitely not be having about someone like her. Mason wonders about the body under her tacky clothes. Wonders if it feels as soft as it looks. Imagines her thick thighs wrapped around his waist as he—

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

He shakes his head and tries to clear it of those unwelcome thoughts, all while striding towards 3C. If it wasn’t already clear that his cousin’s disappearance is fucking with his head, it’s sure as shit clear now.

The cabin door turns out to be sticky, so Mason kicks the damn thing open with a heavy motorcycle boot. But this relatively small release of anger does nothing to reduce his pent up frustration. As he turns on every single light in the cabin, and opens every single window not already welded shut, he reflexively and repeatedly pulls on an invisible gun trigger. He wishes he’d killed every one of those cholo motherfuckers. Wishes he’d never met this woman…even as he swears if she so much as thinks about leaving, he’ll hunt her down like a dog.

Mason shakes his head again. He’s all messed up. His mind is a jumble of thoughts about hunting, and gun running. About fucking the black girl waiting for him in the van.

He won’t stay at the cabin tonight. But for June’s sake, he performs a final sweep of the room. Opens the stove, the fridge, and kicks the bed to scare out anything lurking beneath.

Truth is, Burt isn’t exactly known for his high quality housekeeping standards. Last time he stopped in, Mason witnessed a whole family of raccoons crawl out through a partially open cabin window.

But this time, there are no signs of animal life inside. Mason’s about to fetch his two passengers, when the kid appears behind him in the doorway.

“Whoa!” he says, looking around the cabin.

“I thought I told you to stay in the van!” Mason barks, irritation pounding in his head worse than a headache.

But the boy only walks further in, not remotely intimidated, his eyes wide as saucers. “Double beds? A fridge?! Ah, man, we even got a stove!” Looking like he’s just been shown into a room at a luxury hotel, the boy rushes to the old gas stove. “June! Come see!”

June…

She stands in the doorway.

And Mason’s stomach revs up at the sight of her, on cue. He realizes he’s staring. Unable to look away.

June stares right back. But he can tell she’s definitely not checking him out. More like taking him in, getting the measure of him.

Mason lets her, even though he’s sure she ain’t going to like what she sees. He knows he’s scary as hell. Partly thanks to genetics, partly because of him going the extra mile to cultivate a look that says, “the last thing you’ll do on this earth is fuck with me.”

Yet for one crazy second, he wishes he looked more…normal. Less threatening. That the black girl named June in the cabin doorway could see someone else when she looked at him. But those fragile wishes burn to ash when her eyes wander down from his face to the patches on his leather vest…

Oh fuck. Mason suddenly becomes aware that she might not have gotten a good look at his vest under the orange streetlights in Razo’s hood. What with all the drama, she might not have taken in every single bit of him the way he’d taken in every single bit of her.

Her brow furrows as she studies the patches. Puts two and two together.

Then a look comes over her face…

One that stabs Mason in his chest, with a rough, sawing pain far uglier than any inflicted by the serrated blade of his ever-present bowie knife.

“Are you seeing this, June?” the kid asks excitedly from the kitchenette, still clueless about the newly arrived tension in the room. “You can start cooking again like you been wanting to!”

The girl’s excruciating gaze finally swings away from Mason and towards the kid.

And she smiles. For the boy’s sake, Mason senses.

But then her forced smile wobbles, and she doesn’t so much sit as collapse on the bed nearest the door.

“June!”

The kid rushes to her, face drawn into a frown of concern rather than the usual “happy-all-the-time-for-no-fucking-reason” look he’s had on since Mason met him.

The woman’s about to pass out. Mason can tell. But she squeezes the kid’s hand and gives him a reassuring smile. Her face is on par with an angel’s, even as her lids flutter and she keels over on the bed.

“June? June?!” the boy calls out, his voice cracking with worry.

Mason pushes the kid aside and crouches down over his mom to run diagnostics. This is definitely not how he pictured their first touch, but he shoves that thought to the back of his head and does what he has to: checks her eyes, her pulse, and all that other shit.

The good news is she doesn’t seem to have a concussion. She’s hasn’t really even passed out. She wakes easily when he pries one of her eyes open. And when he shines his pocket flashlight into it, she doesn’t flinch. Only closes her eyes as soon as he’s had his look.

“She on anything?” Mason asks the boy.

The kid shakes his head. “No, she don’t do any of that. That’s how her mom died. She don’t even drink.”

No drugs. No alcohol. But the kid’s not quite looking him in the eye. Mason squints at him, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.

“You hungry?” the kid asks all of a sudden, like his mom’s not near passed out. “Maybe…maybe we should get something to eat.”

“Kid, what in the hell does food have to do with—” Mason starts to asks…but then his instincts switch on. “Hold on…when was the last time she ate?”

A long, sober beat passes…then the kid’s answer comes back in a tone way more quiet than any he’s used so far. “Uh, well, Razo brings us food and tells us when we can eat. But sometimes he forgets. And if you remind him…”

The kid trails off in a way that tells Mason everything he needs to know about what happens if anyone asks that little beaner shit for food. It all makes sense now. June’s complete lack of reaction to all that’s happened to her thus far, her slumped position in the car, her sudden need to take a nap. Like, right fucking now.

Mason stands, shaking his head. He really should have killed that cholo prick when he had the chance.

“She was supposed to get something tonight, you know…when Razo let her out,” the kid continues. “But then you showed up. I wouldn’t have eaten our last can of spaghetti if I’d known she wasn’t going to eat at all. But she ordered me to eat…” The boy looks down, a guilty expression on his face. “I should have said no. Made her eat some, too.”

Shit… Mason wearily scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay, okay. Just tell me, when did you eat that can of spaghetti?”

“Two days ago…”

Well, fuck me…

Mason heads for the still open door.

“Where you going?” the kid calls after him.

“To get some food for you and your mom,” Mason calls back over his shoulder.

Then it occurs to him to say, “And kid, just in case you’re thinking about running while I’m gone…don’t. I’ll find you way before you can find your way out these backwoods.”

It’s a threat. A clear one.

“Name’s Jordan.” The kid shakes his head. “But June’s not my mom. And we’ll definitely be here when you get back.”

He folds his arms across his small chest in a way that makes Mason revise his earlier impression about the boy being clueless. “It ain’t like we got anywhere else to go.”