Page 25 of Hidden Resolution (Stonebrooke #2)

O ver Mason’s propped-up feet, he watched the Shonda Show.

He nursed a single beer, because at some point after about four or five mouthfuls of vodka, she’d decided she didn’t want to drink alone.

But getting drunk with her wouldn’t be smart.

Before morning, she’d need assistance—most likely holding her hair as she emptied her stomach’s contents, and then to make it to bed.

She was so enraged at him earlier that she’d failed to realize she was clad only in her lacy bra and ass-hugging boy shorts. He’d figured it was kinder not to point it out and embarrass her.

With a grin, he took another sip.

First, she’d toasted to Erica. Next was Jacob, Zack, the imminent death of Christie if Shonda got a hold of her, and anything else she could think to drink to. Even sloppy drunk, she was a sight.

“Oh! I froggot to crawl the Shuttonsh!” she shouted, weaving and bobbing toward the counter.

Mason was up and heading her off before she got halfway.

“Uh, love, it can wait until morning.” Also, he had absolutely no idea what she’d said.

“They’re gonna be sho shad,” she cried pitifully.

Ah, Erica’s parents.

“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you give me their number, and I’ll call them?”

“Shrood be me.”

“I get that, but it might be hard for you to explain right now, love.” He steered her back to the sofa, mentally chanting, “I will practice constraint,” as she shifted and wrapped her arms around his neck. Yeah, he might wish to bury his grief in sex, but it didn’t mean others coped the same way.

And there was always the issue of consent. He wasn’t that guy. Ever.

Easing her arms down, he settled her on the couch and tucked a blanket around her.

“Shrur. Now you wanna be all nice and shrit,” she grumbled, reaching for the bottle and frowning when she noticed it was empty.

“What’s the code to unlock your phone?” he asked.

Palms in the air, she gave a double-shouldered shrug. If she weren’t so fucking adorable, he’d strangle her.

“Okay, plan B.”

Facial recognition. By the time he’d convinced her that he didn’t secretly work for the FBI or CIA and unlocking her phone wasn’t part of a conspiracy, he was annoyed. Anyone who’d dealt with his wasted ass in the past was owed a heartfelt apology.

As he waited for Erica’s parents to answer, he worked out what he would say. They were kind when they had no cause to be, accepting his condolences and promising to contact him when they booked a return flight to Stonebrooke.

They didn’t blame Zack for the terrible tragedy Christie had wrought, and Mason was grateful for their generosity toward his brother. He provided his number in the event Shonda was unavailable. With a last promise to take care of her and any future details regarding Erica, he hung up.

Next, he texted Dane to check on Zack a second time and also to fill him in on the Suttons’ plans.

Scraping noises woke Mason from a fitful sleep.

Since wasted Shonda had a serious inability to keep her hands to herself, he’d taken the couch. It allowed him to keep an ear out in case she needed him. His plan had been to stay awake, but he dozed off. As the scraping continued, he struggled to get his bearings and determine the sound’s origin.

He tilted his head.

The front door.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear someone was picking the lock.

Soundlessly, he rose and padded to the foyer.

The door eased open an inch, making it no further than Shonda’s ridiculous security stick.

Last night, she’d insisted it would keep out unwanted bombers and pyromaniacs alike. To put her mind at ease and stop the ensuing argument, he’d shoved the damn thing under the handle.

And fuck all if the valiant little stick didn’t do its job.

Heart rate kicking up, he considered his option. There was only one.

In a bold move he’d probably question for months to come, he yanked the bar free and dove for the intruder. Surprise was on his side, and he managed to spin the guy around and shove him face-first into the wall, trapping his arm behind his back.

“What the hell, dude?” the intruder cried.

“Shut up!” Mason snapped, giving the man another slam against the drywall. “Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing, breaking into Shonda’s apartment?”

“She’s my cousin! I have a key for when I’m in town.”

He didn’t slacken his hold. “Cousin? What’s your name?”

“Billy. Can you chill, man? You’re ripping my arm from the socket.”

Mason took stock of Billy. Golden hair to his chin, roughly five-ten, and surfer speak. He scoured his memory, attempting to recall if Shonda had mentioned him. He drew a blank.

A rough frisk came up empty except for a wallet. The guy’s driver’s license identified him as Billy Grant from Miami Beach, Florida.

Mason shoved him in a side chair and ordered him to stay put. “Don’t move. If I have to chase you down, I’ll beat the hell out of you. Got it?”

“Yeah, man. I got it,” the younger man said sullenly.

Keeping an eye on Billy, Mason poked his head in Shonda’s bedroom and called her name. When she didn’t answer, he shouted again.

A bleary green eye popped open, struggling to focus.

“Do you have a cousin Billy?” he asked, exasperated from the hassle and lack of sleep.

“Billy?”

“Yes. Surfer type from Florida.”

“Um…”

“It’s a yes-or-no answer, love,” he said dryly.

“Then I’d have to shay… maybe?”

It was too much to hope she had sobered up with a few hours of sleep.

Mason wanted to bang his head against the wall in frustration.

Right now, a guy was sitting in her living room, trying to look so damn innocent, and he could very well be the same one who had mugged her. His timing was seriously suspect.

“Shonda, I need you to come out here for a minute.”

She staggered up, underwear askew. One breast was on full display, along with an ass cheek.

“Love, you might want to grab a robe.”

Her owl-eyed blink was laughable, but Mason held himself in check. With a shake of his head, he rubbed the spot between his brows. He was never going to let her consume more than two drinks in the future. He didn’t possess the patience for this aspect of her over-imbibing.

“Dude, I could come back,” Billy offered, standing and inching toward the door.

“Park it!” Mason barked.

Of course, Bullheaded Billy Boy had to push it with another step.

“One more inch before she confirms your identity, and I’ll break both your legs,” Mason growled.

His last threat rang true, and Billy Boy dropped into the chair, fear in the wild eyes he cast around as he looked for an escape.

When Shonda was safely clad in a robe, albeit a slinky one, she ambled toward him. About two feet away, still out of sight of Billy, Mason stopped her. “Please fix your bra and belt your robe, love,” he suggested in a low voice.

After straightening her clothing as much as she was able, she joined him for a bleary-eyed peek at her intruder.

“Billy!” she cried, throwing her arms wide as if for a hug.

Mason, having anticipated her move, stepped in front of her and secured her robe tighter.

“So you know him?” he asked.

She squinted over his shoulder. “I think sho.”

And because she didn’t sound positive, he gently drew her back to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. “Shonda. I need you to focus. Is this guy your cousin or not?”

“Yessh. Itsh Billy.”

“I told you, man,” the guy said, suddenly smug.

Mason’s dislike was instantaneous. “Whatever, I need a beer.”

“Could you get me one if y?—”

The death glare he cut Billy stopped the bastard mid-sentence.

“Yeah, on s-second thought, I’m n-not all that thirsty,” Billy stuttered.

Keeping him pinned in place with a lethal look felt like pulling wings off a butterfly, but young Billy Boy wasn’t going to take advantage of Shonda in her fragile state.

In any state.

Mason recognized the type. The kid was probably running from trouble and had brought it to her door. Well, whatever was brewing would end now.

After grabbing a beer for himself and a water for Shonda, Mason returned to the living room to find her sprawled out on the couch. Discomfort radiated off Billy like UV rays from the sun.

Good.

Maybe if the little shit realized no one was putting up with his weaselly ways, he’d be quick to hightail it out of town.

Mason placed his beer on the coffee table and repositioned Shonda with her head resting on his thigh.

No reason for her to be in pain in the morning.

Well, other than the massive hangover she would suffer.

As he smoothed the hair away from her cheek, he marveled again at the softness of her skin. God, he loved touching her.

Abruptly, he shut down that line of thinking. Not the place, nor the time.

“Okay, kid, spill. Why are you here? And why now?”

“What do you mean? I’m just here to visit.”

“Yes, and I was born last Friday,” Mason scoffed. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

“No, really. I?—”

“Enough!” he snapped. After the trauma of the last twenty-four hours, he was on an extremely short, frayed leash. If it broke, Billy Boy was in for a world of hurt. “Do you really think the wide-eyed, innocent routine actually works? You can’t possibly be that stupid.”

The guy remained quiet.

Smart move.

At the moment, Mason was tired to his very soul. With his fatigue came a cranky-ass attitude and a heightened intolerance for games.

“I’ll ask one more time. If I don’t get a straight answer, you’re out on your fucking ass. What kind of trouble are you in?”

A snaky emotion filtered through Billy’s moss-green eyes as he cast a glance at his cousin, followed by one akin to fear mingled with regret. An instant later, he pasted on a who-gives-a-shit grin.

“Okay. Let me put this another way,” Mason said silkily. “What have you gotten her mixed up in?”

“Could be classified as corporate espionage, I guess.”

Mason choked on a sip of beer. Yeah, definitely not what he’d expected. He would’ve been less surprised had the answer been drug cartel-related.

“Excuse me?”

Please, God, let him have heard wrong, for Shonda’s sake.

“Corporate espionage,” Billy reiterated, seemingly blasé.

The surfer persona disappeared as if it had never existed.

“I work for an international marketing firm based in Miami, and our advertisements contain hidden codes. It allows competitors to get insider information. What exactly they contain, I don’t know.

But the idea is ingenious and keeps those involved from having to meet in person. Lessens the risk of getting caught.”

“Let me guess, you’ve used Shonda’s design talent to create these ads.”

“No. There are many of us skilled in ad-set creation. And if I couldn’t do it, I’d sweet-talk another co-worker. Unfortunately, she was killed last week in a hit-and-run.”

“Jesusfuckingchrist!” Mason breathed. “It had to do with this, didn’t it?”

Billy refused to answer.

Deciding to circle back around later, he asked instead, “Does Shonda know what you’re into?”

“No. Are you kidding? She’d kill me!” Her cousin seemed genuinely appalled and fearful.

“And I won’t?”

The threat wasn’t subtle, nor was it meant to be. Mason had no idea how much jail time Shonda would serve if she were caught and convicted of a crime she had no knowledge of. He replaced his thigh with a pillow and inched forward in his seat.

“Did you know she was mugged last week, and did you have anything to do with that?”

Though he hesitated, Billy answered. “Yes.”

“Yes, you knew? And yes, you were behind it?”

“Yes to both counts.”

“Why?” Mason barked.

“I was looking for a hard drive or a notebook with the new codes to her division,” Billy confessed.

“So this is the same company Shonda currently works for? She mentioned they were headquartered in Miami.”

“Yes, she got me my job,” he confirmed. “Early last week, after Phoebe was killed, the company revamped security measures again. She was VP of Marketing and Sales in Miami, and Shonda is the only other person who has access to the database I needed.”

Why the guy was so forthcoming, Mason couldn’t begin to guess, but he didn’t trust the fucker as far as he could throw a boulder.

“I thought her company only dealt in television and radio stations.”

“Dude, they’re owned by GenCon Industries. GenCon owns half the fucking world, and they’re heavy into the development of cyber technologies.”

Mason swore enough to make a hardened criminal blush. Yeah, he’d heard of GenCon Industries. They dominated all areas of the global tech market. If Billy, who Shonda had apparently secured a job for, was caught, it would reflect poorly on her. They might even think she was in league with him.

Wasting no time, he whipped out his cell and called John Moore, the corporate attorney for Workout World.

“John, I’m sorry to wake you”—Mason checked his watch—“so early in the morning. I need some legal advice, STAT.”

“Shoot.”

He laid out all the information he had on hand, peppering Billy with questions where he needed things filled in.

John’s advice was for Shonda to hire a damned good attorney, turn her cousin in, and throw herself at the mercy of the company heads.

Having no prior knowledge of the criminal activity going on around her helped.

They had the police reports from the break-ins, the car explosion, and the mugging to back up her story.

“Consider yourself hired on her behalf, John.”

“That’s all well and good, Mason, but she needs a criminal attorney. I’d be happy to take a back seat to whoever she hires and help where I can with corporate law. There’s someone I can recommend. I’ll give him a call to see what we can do to make sure she isn’t affected by this mess.”

“Thanks, John.”

After he hung up the phone, Mason stalked to where Billy sat, smug, leaning toward gloating. He hauled the smaller man from the chair.

“Now. Let’s talk about that car explosion, motherfucker,” he said, planting his fist squarely in the center of Billy’s face. The crunch of bone was satisfying as hell.