Mason:Inked Reapers MC(100)

Brea shook her head, dismissing her dark thoughts and letting her hair tumble into her eyes.



"Urgh," she scoffed as she released one hand from gripping her bike to  toss the hair out of her line of sight. She was almost home. Just a few  more blocks and she'd be there, with her brother hopefully still  sleeping soundly in his bedroom and none the wiser of her little trip  out.



When Brea got home, she was grateful to have been right. The house was  silent as she crept inside. She braced herself for her brother's anger  when she walked through the door but was met only with tranquility.  Sighing with relief, she headed towards the kitchen and turned on the  cooker, ready to prepare that pizza she promised him. She dropped her  purse but couldn't stop thinking of the printed article inside. She knew  she had to approach her brother about it and this was the best time to  do so  –  when he was well rested.



Brea nervously prepared a frozen pizza. She kept glancing at the clock  and chewing her lip, wishing it was already time for Sylar to get up so  that she could get the awkward conversation out of the way, but then  also wishing time could go slow and prevent their encounter altogether.



Eventually the pizza was cooked, she carefully removed it from the oven,  the cheese atop it all golden and bubbling as distantly a door creaked  open. Sylar was awake. He strode into the kitchen wearing sweatpants and  a loose fitting white t-shirt. The musky scent of sleep still clung to  him.



"Dinner smells good," he commented, patting his belly.



"Just took it out of the oven," Brea smiled a little too widely. Her  nerves were getting the better of her. She sliced up the pizza with a  shaking hand, but she kept her back to Sylar so that he wouldn't notice  the tremble in her wrist as she used the knife.



"You had a good day?" Sylar asked as dropped down onto the sofa and flicked on the TV.



"Uh huh," Brea replied ambiguously. "You sleep okay?"



"Like a baby."



"So you're all good and rested?"



"Yep."



"Awesome," Brea bought a plate of pizza slices over to him which he  gratefully accepted. She lingered by him for a moment, wondering if this  was the opportunity she needed to seize in order to discuss the job  with him. But then she decided it was better to let him eat first.  Rested and well fed would leave Sylar in the optimal mood to approach  the topic. Retreating back towards the kitchen Brea picked up her own  plate of pizza and came and sat beside her brother.



He was watching a Nascar race, his bare feet kicked up on the coffee  table. For a while, they ate in silence, with only the excited chatter  of the commentator and the roar of the engines filling the space between  them. There had been a time when her brother was determined to be a  Nascar driver. He'd power his little go-cart up and down the street and  tell everyone that one day he was going to be a famous driver and be the  fastest in the world.



"Speed isn't everything," their father would warn.



"It is if you want to be the best," Sylar would challenge. Even as a  little boy he was a hot-headed thrill seeker. He'd ride his go-cart so  hard and fast that the tires wore too thin and pedals became loose.  Sylar was competitive too. He'd challenge any kid he saw on their street  to a race and he'd beat them every time, even if they were on a two  wheel bike. It was like there was a fire inside him that would only  diminish when he was racing through the wind on his go-cart and then  eventually his bike.                       
       
           



       



Brea often wondered what happened to that fire after her parents died.  She often thought it must have just been abruptly extinguished by  sorrow. But when Sylar bought himself a motorcycle she began to  entertain the thought that perhaps the fire was still there. Perhaps a  part of Sylar still had to race to be the best. But she never asked.  There was so much between them that went unsaid.





Chapter 4



The race had almost ended when Brea finally worked up the courage to ask  Sylar about the job. She carefully unfolded the piece of paper she'd  earlier wedged in her pocket and smoothed it out on the table beside his  feet, her heart racing the entire time. At first Sylar didn't notice  what she was doing, he was too engrossed in the final moments of the  action on TV. But then he caught a glance of the piece of paper and with  a prolonged sigh hoisted himself up to grab it.



"What's this?" he asked curtly.



"It's what we were discussing earlier," Brea explained sweetly,  clenching her hands in a neat ball upon her lap. She watched her  brother's expression darken as he read the advert he was holding.



"Where did you get this?" he demanded. Brea's heart sank. He was going  to be so angry at her for going to the library that she wasn't even  going to get a chance to plead her case about the job.



"Did you go out while I was asleep?"



"Yes!" Brea cried, springing up to her feet. She'd finally found  something to give her life purpose, to help further her love of art and  she wasn't about to let Sylar ruin that for her. She knew that just  because he'd helped her growing up she didn't owe him a lifetime of  servitude.



"I went to the library, Sylar. Like any normal person would do when they  need to use the internet. You can shout and scream at me all you want,  but there's a big world out there and I'm done with staying away from  it!"



"Don't you realize how dangerous our town is?" Sylar raged as he threw the piece of paper back down.



"No, I don't!" Brea snapped. "I don't because you never let me go out to  experience anything. You just keep me locked up here all day! I need to  live my life, Sylar. Surely you get that?"



Sylar was scowling at her, collecting his thoughts. Brea snapped up the  momentary silence between them to the further advance her cause.



"Yes, I went to the library while you slept. I went there because I want  a job, Sylar. I want to do something that excites me, something that  lets me live a little. And if this town is so damn dangerous you'll be  pleased that the job I want to do is in the next town over!"



Sylar grumbled as he reached again for the paper and re-read the job post, his scowl remaining.



"I love art," Brea continued enthusiastically. "I always have. And this  job would be perfect as I'd be learning a trade and embracing my love of  art. Sylar, you at least have to let me apply!"



"No." He said the word so coldly that Brea was taken aback.



"No?" she echoed.



"No," he repeated solemnly. "I'm not having you going all that way each day to work as some tattoo artist's apprentice."



"You don't own me."



"I'm just looking out for you. Like I've always done." He added bitterly.



"And I'm grateful for that!" Brea insisted. "Truly I am! But Sylar, this  is a chance for me to grow up, to branch out of this town and be my own  person. Don't you want what's best for me?"



"Brea," he said her name as though it pained him to do so. "You don't  understand what it's like out there. There are people who would want to  hurt you."



"Hurt me?" Brea asked quietly. "But why?"



Numerous ugly thoughts ran through her mind. Did her brother owe people  money? Bad people? Is that how he'd managed to take care of them for all  these years? Surely that was just another reason for her getting a job,  to help him get out of whatever debt he was in.



"You wouldn't understand," Sylar waved a dismissive hand at her.



"Try me!" Brea raged through gritted teeth. "Because it sounds to me  like you got yourself in trouble and now I'm the one paying for it!"



"Is this the gratitude I get!" Sylar stood up, his face pinched and red  with rage. "I give up everything to take care of you and this is how you  repay me? Any trouble I got myself into, it was for you! For us!"



"So you are in trouble?"



Sylar was storming off towards his bedroom with Brea flanking his every step, eager for answers.                       
       
           



       



"No," Sylar shook his head, his hand on the door handle. He pulled to  open it, but Brea pressed her palm against the flimsy wood, preventing  him from doing so.



"I'm applying for the job," she told him with confidence.



"No," he growled, "you're not."



"I'm done living like this!" Brea lamented. "If this town is so dangerous, let's just leave!"



"It's not that simple!"