Wicked Lil' Brat(49)

Maybe it's time I start playing fire with the fire in the same fucking fashion until I can take them once and for all.

But that'll mean I just have to get down and dirty with the rest of them.

Which is fine. I've had to in the past.

There's just one person who might be upset beyond all measure with me.

I'll leave you to figure it out.

"What would you propose our next steps would?" I ask.

Roy takes out his phone and dials it.

“Hi, Lorna,” he says into the device. “I have Mason here. He wants to talk to you.”

He hands me the phone.

On the other line is the salvation for my company.

The chance to live another day.

All for the small price of my soul.





23





Becca





It drives me crazy when I send a text message, and I don't get a response for days. Especially when that someone is Mason Kane. It's been several days and I haven't seen, or heard from, Mason. He hasn't shown up at my apartment, he won't answer my texts, and he won't answer my calls.

At work, he seems to be in meetings all day or offsite.

It's like I'm in the Twilight Zone or something without seeing him.

Can you blame me though, huh?

I love him.

I’m carrying his child.

Oh, God. I need to tell him.

It’s like fate is making this even harder for me to tell him than normal.

I try to send him another text:

"R U Alive?!"

Nothing.

I send another one: "This isn't funny. Can U at least let me know U R breathing?"

He still doesn't respond, and from what I can tell, the messages are delivered, but not read.

It's uncharacteristic of him. What did I do to deserve this?

One minute, things are going great, and the next … they aren't going at all.

I decide to call.

I find him in my contacts and press the call button.

It rings, and rings, and rings some more before finally going to voice mail. But there's still no Mason.

It's what I expected.

Fuck. I really need to speak to him, but given that he won't text or call me, and I can't find him at work, or even at his apartment, it's proving difficult to do.

I've spent the last 48 hours researching Red Lion Aviation, and I'm finding more holes in the company than I've found in the slice of Swiss cheese on my sandwich today. I need to run a few things by Mason. I honestly have so many questions, and he's the only person who can help me answer them.

I decide to call his secretary.

"You've reached the desk of Mason Kane, how can I help you?"

"Hi, it's Becca."

"Oh Becca! Hi! It's been a while," she says. "It's always good to hear from you. Where have you been? I've haven't seen you on our floor."

"I've been around," I say. "Just busy. Listen, I've been looking for Mason. Is he in the office today?"

She thinks for a moment and then responds. “He isn't taking calls. Can I take a message?"

"No, that's okay," I say, slightly pissed off that he’s not taking calls from me. Whatever list he made of people he’d take calls from I guess I didn’t make it. "Do you expect him back in the office today?"

"He asked me to re-schedule all of his meetings today, so I figure he isn't planning on returning today," she says.

"I see, do you have any idea where he might be right now then?”

She contemplates for a moment whether or not she should give me this information and then relents. "Between you and I, he's at the Four Seasons."

"The Four Seasons on 57th?" I ask.

"Yes, that's the one."

Thank you!" I shout. I hang up the phone and can barely contain myself. I need to catch Mason before he leaves. I need to leave now myself. I grab my purse and keys and throw on my coat. I run outside and hail a cab. I can feel the minutes ticking away. If I don't catch Mason at the Four Seasons, I may not have the opportunity again for a while. Especially with the way he's been playing hard to get.

A cab pulls up in front of me and I hop in, directing the driver to the hotel.

"As fast as you can, please," I tell the driver, and he listens because I hear the squeal of our tires against the asphalt.

Within minutes I'm at the Four Seasons. I pay the fare and run toward the hotel, which is situated in an ideal spot in the city—minutes from Central Park and the Museum of Modern Art. But I don't have any time to gawk and take in my surroundings. Instead, I run into the lobby.

I realize I didn't think to ask his secretary what he was doing here. Is he renting a room? Is he in the middle of a conference? Or?

I decide to walk up to the front desk.

There's a middle-aged woman in dark-rimmed glasses staring at me.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

"Yes, I'm looking for a Mr. Mason Kane. I think he may be renting a room here for the night."