Queen In Play (The Manhattan Tales Book 2) (13 page)

My Mason had returned to me.  It felt like the world was spinning on a different axis now.  There could never be any tension between us.  No more secrets.  I didn’t feel the need to struggle for my own voice.  He didn’t make me feel inadequate.

Still, I was afraid to tell him that I loved him.  A sick feeling deep inside told me that my heart would get broken again.  I pushed that feeling deep down into the abyss of forgotten thoughts.
He promised no more games...

12. Mason Woodward

The moonlight filtered through the shades as I watched her sleep.  I enjoyed watching her sleep. It was calming to see her lay so peacefully. My mind was often filled with so many of my own demons, but Jillian soothed that inner turmoil.  Things with Jillian were going very well.  Perhaps it was
too
good to be true.  Sometimes when I was left alone to my own thoughts, I got the twisted feeling that this was all just a dream.  I’d wake in the morning and find that I was living a reality that would not and could not involve Jillian.  The knowledge that she would never belong or fit in with my world in London disgusted me. 
That’s why you don’t live in London.  New York is your home
, I reminded myself. 

Would my father come to accept that I would not acquiesce to his terms and goals for me, for our family? 
Fuck no.  Who am I kidding?
  I knew my time as heir to my great family legacy was coming to an end.  If I am going to walk away from such a birthright, I’d have to ensure she is worth it. 
She is.  Yes, But I will need to know this is permanent, not just long term…
I struggled with the deeply rooted idea that I didn’t deserve a woman like Jillian.  I never did.  It’s a notion that had been ingrained in me since I was a young boy.  I knew that’s why I had pushed her away in the beginning.

I watched Jillian sigh softly in her sleep.

“I love you, Jilly Bean.”  My whisper was soft in her ear and a faint smile curled her pouty lips.

“I love you too, Mason.  So much.”  She responded sleepily.  Her chest heaved softly as she turned on her side toward my side of the bed.  My lips quirked into a small grin.  This was the only time I could hear her say those three words.  She doesn’t know it, but I often spoke those words while she slept.  She still has yet to say it to me while she’s conscious.  I know the reason why, and I only have myself to blame for that.

I started to settle for the night.  The gentle, rhythmic sounds of Jill’s breathing was soothing.  I kissed her forehead, and she suddenly jerked her head away.  The gesture caught me by surprise and I looked at her more closely.  She was asleep.

“No, Mason.  Leave me alone.  You lied.”  Her body writhed and she flipped onto her other side.  Her fists balled and then her hand relaxed.  She writhed a bit more, and then began sobbing in her sleep.  Literally, crying.

What the fuck?

“Jill, you’re having a bad dream,” I placed my hand on her arm to calm her.  She jerked her arm away from my touch angrily, but I had to calm her.  I pulled her close to my body, but she flailed her arms.  I didn’t know what else to do. We spent many nights together like this, and I’d never experienced this from her.

“No.  No! Get off me!”  Her hands gripped the duvet fiercely.  Her arm suddenly jerked upwards and she scratched my bicep.  It was a deep and I felt the burning sting of the cut. 

“Jill!”  I shouted now.  I gave her one shake to pull her out of this terrifying nightmare.  Her eyes suddenly flew open and she jolted upright in a panic.

Her breathing was ragged as she sat in the bed.  I flicked on my bedside light.  My arms wrapped around her small frame and I felt the pounding of her heart within her chest.

“Shh, baby.  It was a dream,” I whispered.  I half-expected her to push me away. 

Instead, she leaned into my embrace, although she was still panicked.

“Oh God, I hate those dreams.”  Her voice was barely above a whisper.  She turned to face me with wide, dark eyes.  Her hair was wild from her thrashing about.  She curled into my tight embrace, and I caressed her hair with my fingers.

“It was just a dream, my love.” 

“I don’t know...” her voice was hoarse.

My hands stilled against her hair.  “You have these dreams often?”

She shrugged lightly.  “They were more frequent a few months ago.  They became more sporadic as time went on.  I haven’t had this dream in about a month.”  She sighed against my chest. 

“I was so fogged on painkillers after the accident. Between that and the concussion, I had a hard time sorting reality from the abstract dreams I had.  It’s just that… the dreams feel
so real
.  It’s like I’m there all over again and it always starts out the same.”

I watched as she wrung her clammy hands while she spoke.  She kept her voice low.  A sick, disturbing feeling was rising within my gut.  A lump was forming in my throat with every word that escaped her mouth. 
Why did I never consider this before?

“Tell me more about these dreams.”  I fought to keep collected as I said this.

Jillian twisted her hands in the duvet.  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Mason.  They’re just bad dreams.  Please, just hold me.”

I wanted to hold her and comfort her, but I could not let this go.  I needed information.  And I needed it now.

“I will hold you, but I would like to know about these dreams in as much detail as you can provide.”  My voice was becoming adamant.

I lay back against the pillow again, and gently pulled her with me so that her body was cradled in the crook of my arm.  She lay her head on my chest and I wrapped my other arm around her as she breathed in deeply.  Her head suddenly shifted and she looked up at me.

“Oh my God, what happened to your arm?”  She asked with wide eyes. 

I raised my arm and saw a few smudges of dried blood where she had scratched me.  It was fairly deep, about an inch in length.

“It’s nothing,” I kissed her forehead.  “I’ve had worse in my lifetime.” 
Understatement of the century.

“Now, tell me about these dreams.”  This was not a request.

She lay her head back on my chest.  “It always starts out with me screaming at you.  We’re always at Jackson’s house.  I’m so angry that you … lied to me.”  Her body shudders against mine and it’s clear she doesn’t want to bring up that past.

“I’m running away from you.  I don’t want you to find me so I climb stairs.  Sometimes they’re metal.  Sometimes they’re wood.  This part of the dream is usually abstract or blurry.  Then, I feel someone push me down the stairs.  I don’t see their face.  I just fall, and fall.  In my dream, I try to catch anything I can hold onto…”

I listen to her quietly, piecing together bits of information in my head. 

“... Then, I wake up.” 

“Have you spoken to anyone about these dreams before?” I continued caressing her hair.

“They’re just dreams, Mason.  I don’t have them all the time.”  She spoke the words, but there was hesitation in her voice, as though she did not quite believe herself completely.

“I told the doctor about my dream when I had a follow-up visit after the accident.  He told me that it is normal for people to dream about things that caused trauma or frightened them.  Sometimes pain medication and concussions can cause distortions of reality.”  She shrugged.  “I didn’t have them all the time so I listened to what the doctor told me.”

I nodded, contemplating everything she told me.  The sick, twisting feeling that stirred within me did not dissipate.  It only grew.  I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself.  I couldn’t alarm her, but my suspicions had me unsettled, especially after the Breaking News earlier that evening.  I rubbed the stubble on my face, deep in thought.  Jillian still rested in the crook of my arm and I rubbed her back softly until I felt her slowed breathing.  She’d fallen back asleep.

I was left alone with my thoughts.  Disturbed images of my childhood invaded my memory, mixed with past shouting matches I’ve had with my father. My blood boiled over with silent rage. Jillian’s smile intermittently came into my mind, mixed with the whirlwind that plunged my mind into darkness.  She was light in my life, but theories came into play within my mind, and it distressed me greatly.

13. Mason Woodward

The strong smell of scotch greeted my nose as I lifted the glass to my lips.  My property on West 87th Street was quiet.  Too quiet.  Since when did I care if my home was
too quiet
? 
Since Jillian re-entered my life
.  A small smile crept up my lips, but the smile faded back to my typical grim expression when I recalled why I was fucking sitting here with a glass of scotch in my hand.  I lifted the glass to my lips again and felt the burn of the liquid down my throat as I stared blankly at a painting. 

There was immense pressure placed upon me, and it went far beyond business and company dynamics.  After the last few weeks, I’d already given the final “fuck you” to my father, but continued to play the role of his pawn simply to appease him.

As I sat at the glossy wooden desk in my study, with only my dark thoughts to keep me company, I reflected on the last few weeks.  I’ve been insanely stressed since I’d learned about the death of Tanaka, the owner of Tanaka & Yoshida Investments in Tokyo.  They were supposed to agree to my father’s terms and work with J.A. Woodward & Company’s expansion in Tokyo.  They backed out at the last minute, before the paperwork was supposed to be faxed, because Tanaka had decided to go with a corporation based in Los Angeles instead.  I didn’t give two fucks about it, but I hadn’t witnessed my father so angry in many years.  That anger was usually turned on me in my younger years, but now that fury had resurfaced.  I clenched my jaw firmly and rested a tightly wound fist against my lips, deep in thought. 

I felt the insatiable burn down my throat again as I nursed the scotch, but it did nothing to settle the torrent raging within me.  Tanaka’s body was found washed ashore just off
Isshiki Beach in Tokyo.  Officials have claimed his death was due to a fatal boating accident. 
Boating accident two weeks after he declined my father’s proposal?  My ass.
  I was extremely skeptical, especially after learning the truth that my father tried to buy out Jill behind my back.  She never took the money.  How many women would have?  A burning intuition was telling me that my father was behind so much more than I knew about.

The buzzer at my front door rang and I stood, feeling anxious but somewhat satisfied.  Punctual as always.  I had zero tolerance for tardiness.  I left the scotch in my study and rounded the corner to open the door to my apartment.

“Charles.”  I greeted solemnly.  I was in no mood for happy occasions or small talk.  I held the door open wider to allow him to enter.

“Good evening, Mason.”  Charles responded in a rich Scottish accent, and I eyed the briefcase he carried with him.  He was a balding man with graying hairs on the sides of his round head.  His dark pinstripe suit with the black tie spoke of his professionalism.  I had patience for nothing less.  I was paying this man top American dollar to do the job I paid him to do. The morning after I’d learned about Tanaka’s death, I hired Charles to go through the surveillance in and around my father’s company building.  It was a grueling task, and it took weeks to pour through the last three months of collected surveillance.  He’s a retired MI-6 Agent, who has become a trusted resource over the years. I led him to my study and offered him a drink.

“MaCallan,” he responded, eying my expensive glass bottle of whiskey on the desk.  I poured him a glass as he set his briefcase down and began retrieving a manilla folder that was neatly kept within. I set the whiskey glass beside him on the small, rounded table in my study. 

“What did you find?”  My tone was all business as I sat opposite him in a plush velvet arm chair.  I reminded myself to go easy on the scotch.  I’d need a clear mind to deal with the information he was about to unleash on me.  I could feel it in my gut.  This man worked tirelessly on the private case I’d hired him for, and asked to meet me here.  He wouldn’t have flown from London to New York if he hadn’t found any information. 

Charles took a swig from his whiskey glass and then retrieved the manilla folder and carefully removed the contents within. 

“I conducted as extensive a search as was possible.  The day-to-day surveillance appeared
monotonous
.”  He pulled out some enlarged surveillance photos and handed them to me.

“This was pulled from the surveillance, dating back to February 23rd of this year.”

I looked at the photo.  It was grainy, at best, but it was captured of a tall man, dressed in expensive business wear. His hair was slicked back with gel and he wore raybans as he exited my father’s main branch in London.  He carried a briefcase in one hand and looked calm and collected.  A rowdy smirk was on his face, and he looked extremely familiar.  I squinted my eyes and sucked in a sharp breath as the recognition seized me. 

What. The. Fuck.

“Most of the people who enter and exit J.A. Woodward & Company do so on a consistent basis, or they enter with a business partner or with a staff for meetings.  It is Atypical for a man to enter only one time, alone, meet for twenty minutes, and then exit.”

“Are you sure he wasn’t just turned down for a job interview?”  I asked, trying to rule out all negative options that were rolling about within my mind.

“...With a smirk like that?”  Charles pointed out with a furrowed brow.

Right.

“Tell me everything.  Stop dancing in circles.”  My voice was getting terse.  I needed to set my scotch on the table and calm myself before I shattered the glass in my hand.

“Your father is a businessman, not a technical man.  That’s why he hired an IT department.  The Cloud drive that hosts the surveillance was easily hacked and I was able to gather this information.”

I looked at the man with a deadpan stare.  I didn’t need an educational lesson on how and why the security was hacked.  I wanted facts. 
Now.  Bloody now!

“I gathered surveillance on all meetings your father had that day, and found a very brief meeting with this man and your father.  There has not been another meeting in person between the two since the twenty-third of February, and then again they met once just one month before Tanaka’s death.” 

I was intrigued, but also filled with horror.  February twenty-third was just one week before Jillian’s accident down the stairs. One month before Tanaka’s death would have provided plenty of time for this
acquaintance
of mine to head to Tokyo, and create a set up… I blinked several times, trying to process everything that was thrown at me.  Was I in slight shock?  My mind was reeling.  I was handed a few photos of my father meeting with that fucker.

“I ran a private investigation on the lad.  He goes by the name Ian Brennan, an obvious freelance.  The question is- what type of freelance?  I have my suspicions.  Your father handed Mr. Brennan a folder, paced back and forth while Mr. Brennan kicked his boots up on the desk like he was at home.  They must know each other well.  I can’t imagine your father allowing
anyone
to do that.”  Charles handed me another surveillance photo of Ian sitting back with his feet perched on the edge of my father’s desk. 
Again- What. The. Fuck?

My fist was clenched tight as I rested it against my mouth.  My jaw was tight.
  I had a pretty good fucking clue what Ian Brennan was hired for...

“What else can you tell me about Ian Brennan?”  I demanded, trying to keep my tone collected.  That wanker has been putting his hands on my girl.  He’s been snaking his way around my social circle, using Jax as a way in.  The rage within me was boiling.  Red was the only color I saw at this moment.

Charles pulled out some documents, which he’d collected from a private background search. 

“I did a little searching of my own to learn more about this lad.  I didn’t find much.”  He handed me a few old mugshots of Ian.  He was just a kid in the shots, holding a sign that read Boston Police Department.  There was a smug half-smirk on his face as he displayed the sign, and he stood just over the six foot mark against the wall. 
Wanker.

“Ian Michael Brennan… let’s see.”  Charles rummaged through some personal notes.  “His father was part of the Troubles back in Ireland...IRA terrorist. He came over to the states in the 80’s, got in rough with a hotshot in Boston by the name of Victor Doran and was reportedly killed in a drunken brawl-”

“I don’t need to know an autobiography, Charles.  I want to know about the bastard himself and what the fuck he was doing with my father in London.”  My patience was nonexistent.  I drained my scotch and crossed the room for a refill.

“I was getting to that, Mr. Woodward.  Turns out Ian Brennan got into a bit of trouble while he lived in Boston.  Looks like nothing major, a few misdemeanors, but was bailed out by this Victor Doran.  Not long after these mugs were taken, his mum was found a bloody mess in their home.  Some say murder.  Some say suicide.  The papers go with suicide.  The police claimed the Brennan kid was no suspect.  If you ask me, his choice of livelihood ain’t honest.”

No shit.
  I drained my second scotch.  The stress was eating me alive. 
Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.
  My father lived by that motto, and drilled it into me while I was growing up. 
Ian fucking Brennan.

“I can conduct more research on the lad.”  Charles offered.  “I didn’t want to waste any time, though.  I think this Mr. Brennan was hired by your father to do his dirty work.”

I rubbed my temples, and then the bridge of my nose.  My head was beginning to pulse with a throbbing ache.

“Thank you, Charles.  I’ll let you know if I need your services any further, but I will take it from here.”

I showed Charles to the door and then reminded myself to breathe.  I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror just outside the door to my study.  I hardly recognized myself:  wild eyes, disheveled, red-faced.  I’d need to calm the hell down before I took any action.  I still didn’t know much about this Ian Brennan, or what I was actually dealing with, but I was intent on one thing.  I pulled my mobile from my pocket and dialed a number.  My cousin answered after the third ring.

“Jax, I’m curious if you have the number for your friend, Ian.  I’ve heard about his reputation as a consultant and I’m interested in doing some business with him.” My tone was businesslike and orderly. It took everything within me to remain collected as I spoke these words.