Chapter 2

  “Fucking hell.”

  Two months. It’s been two months. Get your shit together.

  Mason rolled over with a groan. Hadn’t he just gone to bed? How was it time to get up already? Sitting up was like moving through molasses, and his head pounded like someone had taken a jackhammer to it. He rubbed his hands over his face, but that did nothing to relieve the drowsiness. Another night of tossing and turning. Perfect. He ran a hand through his hair and stood, then started toward the bathroom but stubbed his toe against the bed.

  “Fuck!” He dropped onto the mattress and checked he hadn’t lost a toenail. With everything intact, he hobbled into the narrow hallway to his tiny bathroom. As he washed his face, he asked himself yet again why the hell he didn’t get a bigger place. He asked himself the same question every time he bumped into something in his small one-bedroom apartment. His answer never changed. You wanted to be near the beach, and a bigger place means using his money. No way on God’s green earth was he going to use that bastard’s money. Until he saved up enough to put a hefty down payment on a nice beachfront house, this would have to do. Just a few more years.

  The apartment was silent, like always, the only sound coming from his razor as he shaved. He rinsed the foam from his face and dried off, then paused long enough to scowl at himself in the mirror. Jesus, when had he gotten old? Not that forty-one was ancient, but these days he felt older than his years. His fair hair had gray strands at the temples, and the corners of his eyes had gained additional lines in the last few years.

  “You’re not getting any younger, Mason.”

  The hell with this pity parade. He’d done fine for himself. He had friends he could count on, a nice retirement fund saved up, and after years of fighting the homophobic bullshit that came with being a gay cop, he’d finally earned a place of respect among his peers. As of two months ago, he’d been promoted to detective for Major Crimes, and although he still came across assholes, he’d managed to educate and enlighten a few minds throughout his law enforcement career, making his presence easier to digest for those perplexed by his masculinity, because after all, weren’t gays supposed to be all “limp-wristed and feminine”?

  When he’d heard those words, it had taken Mason a moment to look around and acknowledge that no, he hadn’t somehow been thrown back to the year 1950. He’d put an end to that nonsense right then and there. For one, being feminine was not an insult, nor should it be treated as such. There was nothing wrong with being feminine. And two, there were more than two types of gay men, none of which were going to be the butt of anyone’s jokes, not while he was around. It probably didn’t hurt that he tended to outmuscle and outweigh everyone he’d ever worked with. No one wanted to fuck with a six-and-a-half-foot Texan. In his youth he’d accepted a lot of shit from people, but as he got older—and more ornery—he’d discovered the marvels of just not giving two fucks what people thought.

  After finishing up in the bathroom, he got dressed in charcoal gray slacks, a deep blue button-down shirt with matching tie, and black boots. He’d have the sleeves of his shirt rolled up his arms by the time he reached the office, but first, coffee and breakfast. It was roughly a twenty-minute drive to work with an added two minutes to get to the little café on US-1. Being close to the St. Johns Sheriff’s Office, the fire station, and a host of other facilities meant the café was always busy.

  With his holster and Glock secured to his belt, his phone in his pocket, and his badge hanging from the chain around his neck, he grabbed the duffel bag containing his workout gear, an extra change of clothes, water bottle, and some protein bars before he realized he didn’t have his keys. He was usually more organized than this. Checking his duffel bag, he finally found them in one of the outside pockets. He locked up and was halfway to the elevator when he realized he’d forgotten his wallet.

  “Goddamn it. Get your head outta your fucking ass.”

  What the hell was wrong with him? There had to be something. It couldn’t be him hung up on a guy. He didn’t get hung up on anyone. No, that was a lie. He’d had a lot of sleepless nights when he’d been with Ace, and part of that had been down to the fact he’d known early on that things wouldn’t work out between them, no matter how much he wanted them to.

  Anston “Ace” Sharpe was an open book. He wore his heart on his sleeve and expected full disclosure from everyone close to him. The man co-owned a private security company, and before that he’d served in the military as Special Forces. His whole life revolved around trust, about being able to put his faith in the people around him. If having a man like Ace and losing him wasn’t bad enough, Mason had to go and screw things up with Ace’s cousin, who also happened to be ex-Special Forces.

  What the fuck was he doing even considering getting involved with another one of these guys, and Lucky of all people? The guy left a trail of men and women wherever he went. Mason didn’t give a shit that Lucky was bisexual, or that he’d had more sexual partners in a month than Mason had the whole of his adult life. What Mason did care about was Lucky’s aversion to sticking around. Even if Lucky was a one-guy or gal type of guy, Mason’s relationships always fell apart. Why was he torn up about all this?

  “Fuck this. You’re thinking way too goddamn much before coffee.”

  Breakfast was good, as always. He had his coffee and another to go. It was time to get to work. At least he could lose himself in his job and not have to think about those long lashes, hooded brown eyes, and pouting lips.

  Yeah, good luck with that.

  Mason greeted his coworkers as he headed to his desk. He’d just sat down when one of his fellow detectives, Erikson, took a seat on the edge of his desk, his expression grim.

  “Looks like someone fucked up.”

  Mason’s head shot up. “What?”

  “That asshole from IA is here,” Erikson muttered, nodding toward the commander’s office. Mason turned in his chair, his frown deepening at the sight of Internal Affairs Officer Malley. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but the fact he was IA was enough to mark him as an asshole because his presence meant someone was about to lose their job or embark on an epic journey of fuckery.

  Malley smoothed out his tie before stepping into the bullpen. Shit. Mason hoped the guy would keep walking and head out the door. Instead he stopped in front of Mason.

  “Mason Cooper?”

  Mason narrowed his gaze and slowly stood. “Yeah?”

  Malley handed him an envelope, and Mason’s stomach dropped. No. This couldn’t be right. His blood turned to ice, and the thin envelope in his hand suddenly felt like it was made of lead. The room plunged into silence, all eyes on him.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  He’d been a cop for almost two decades, and yeah, he’d been investigated by IA for shit he hadn’t done, thanks to some of the homophobic assholes he’d worked with over the years, and although those times had been stressful as hell, he’d known without a shadow of a doubt that he hadn’t done anything wrong. The difference was, at the time, those complaints against him hadn’t come as a surprise because of who he’d been dealing with. Now? He had no idea what the fuck was going on, because as far as he knew, no one had a problem with him. Not that they all wanted to be his buddy, but as long as he did his job right, they didn’t concern themselves with what or who he did in his bedroom. He’d been a detective for Major Crimes two and a half months, and everything he did was by the book. He was meticulous. His fellow detectives liked to tease him about having a hard-on for paperwork. In truth, he liked things to be done right the first time.

  “I would recommend contacting your union rep immediately.”

  Mason tore through the envelope, frantically trying to grasp what was happening. His brain sifted through every case he’d worked on, every conversation he’d had, anything that might shed light on what the fuck he’d done wrong. He read the letter over and over, his heart in his throat, the words in front of him starting to lose focus until only a few remained vivid and clear, burning a hole through the page.

  Drug test.

  Positive results.

  Investigation.

  Suspended.

  “Oh fuck.” Mason sank down into his seat. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Holy shit, he’d done it now. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Cooper?”

  Mason lifted his gaze to Erikson. “I fucked up.” There was no time for further explanation, and he hated the questioning look in Erikson’s eyes.

  “Please come with me,” Malley instructed.

  Mason stood tall as he followed the guy through the bullpen. He was the new guy. They’d put their faith in him. Jaw clenched, he tried not to think about the questions going through their heads, questions that had gone through his own head whenever he saw someone led away by IA. Were they dirty? A rat? Was he losing his shit? Was it an alcohol problem? Domestic violence? Was someone fucking with the gay guy? This time, there was no outside force. He’d fucked himself over.

  Inside the commander’s office, he was asked to take a seat.

  Commander Haynes had Mason’s file open in front of him. The guy had a reputation for being ruthless when it came to the law and the conduct of his people. He was firm but fair, and from what Mason had heard, he hated bad PR. This didn’t look good.

  “I’ve heard nothing but good things about you, son. What happened? If you have an addiction, we can help—”

  “I don’t have an addiction, sir. I have never partaken in any illegal drug use.” Mason shook his head, unable to believe his stupidity. “It was cough medicine. I had a bad cough a few weeks ago. You can ask any of the guys. They kept telling me to get it checked out before I dropped dead and became one of their cases. I went to the doctor, and he prescribed some cough medicine that cleared it right up. I forgot all about the damn thing, which is why I didn’t list it. I remembered the Tylenol and the Claritin, but not the damn cough medicine with the codeine.”

  “If you’d like to appeal, you’re entitled to speak with your union rep.”

  Mason’s jaw clenched, and he nodded. Damn right he was going to appeal. He couldn’t lose his job over this shit.

  “Your gun and your badge, Detective.”

  Mason swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He removed the badge hanging from the chain around his neck. The sense of loss hit him immediately. He placed it on the desk, followed by the Glock tucked into his holster. Breathe.

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  Mason gave a curt nod before standing and leaving the room. He had to go back out into the bullpen to get to the locker room, not that he planned on avoiding his coworkers. He’d fucked up and he’d own up to it.

  As soon as he got to his desk, Erikson was there waiting. He didn’t mind. Erikson was a good guy. Even if he did gossip like a schoolgirl.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I forgot the fucking cough medicine.”

  “Shit.” Erikson shook his head, his lips pressed together in a thin line as he squeezed Mason’s shoulder in sympathy.

  “I need to go. I have to call my rep.”

  Erikson nodded. “Just take it easy, man. Don’t let this drag you down.”

  “Thanks,” Mason replied, doing his best to smile. “Don’t go solving too many cases without me.”

  “Are you kidding?” Erikson waggled his eyebrows. “This is my chance to shine, buttercup.”

  Mason chuckled. “Asshole.”

  “No, seriously. Enjoy the time off while you can.”

  “Sure.” Like that was going to happen. This could take weeks to sort out. What the hell was he supposed to do? He was officially suspended with pay, but if he was found guilty of lying, they’d take the pay from his vacation days and that was it. The end of his career.

  First things first. He needed to make a few calls, and he’d rather not do it from here. Saying his goodbyes, he picked up his bag from the locker room and headed out to the parking lot. He’d been about to unlock his truck when something moved in his peripheral vision. Turning, Mason expected to find Erikson there. Instead, he saw nothing but parked cars. The breeze picked up, ruffling his hair and rustling the leaves of the palm trees around him, making the shadows dance. Man, he needed to get a grip. The last thing he needed was to be jumping at shadows. A flier on his windshield caught his eye, and he snatched it off. He’d been about to crumple it when he saw what it was. He let out a humorless laugh.

  “Fucking Kings.” Every damn day a flier for Four Kings Security ended up under his windshield wiper. Since when did the Kings use fliers? If he hadn’t seen them on some of the other cars, he’d have thought the guys were fucking with him.

  Once inside his truck, with the AC blasting, he called his union rep. He apprised her of the situation and got contact details for one of the union lawyers who had a solid reputation. After thanking her for her help, he called the number she’d given him. Thankfully, Terrance Jones was available. He was a no-bullshit kind of guy who didn’t sugarcoat things or make promises he couldn’t keep, which Mason appreciated.

  “Do you have proof?” Terrance asked him once Mason had given his story.

  “Yeah, I do. I’ve got the prescription from my doctor.”

  “Good. I’ll arrange an interview with IA, and you’ll be investigated. In this situation, you do not have the right to remain silent. I’ll provide a Garrity statement.”

  “Am I going to lose my job?”

  “It was an honest mistake, Detective. You didn’t lie. If they’re looking to terminate you for some reason, they’ll need to prove you’re guilty of what they’re accusing you of. Once the investigation fails to discover enough evidence to prove the allegations made, you’ll receive a letter of Not Sustained and can go back to work. You’ll most likely be required to do a drug awareness class or something similar. As you know, this is going to take time. It can be anywhere from a couple of weeks to a month.”

  “Great.”

  “I would recommend taking it easy.”

  Why did everyone keep telling him that? He was being investigated. His career was on the line. He’d fucked up. Again. “Thank you, Terrance.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. We have a lot of departmental bullshit to wade through. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I appreciate it.” He hung up and took a moment to just breathe. What was he supposed to do now? He needed to work. Sitting at home pretending everything was going to be okay was not an option. Being alone with his thoughts for that long was out of the question.

  He made to start his truck but spotted the balled-up flier on the passenger seat. After unlocking his phone, he opened his contact list, and his thumb hovered over the call button. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, then tapped the screen. A deep, gruff voice answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, it’s Mason.”

  Pause. “Mason,” King greeted. “What can I do for you?”

  “You, um, you got a few minutes to talk?”

  “I answered my phone.”

  Smartasses, these Kings. Every last one of the them. “I meant, can I come in and talk to you. Face-to-face.”

  Another pause. “I’m at the office.”

  “I should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll be in my office. Security will be expecting you.” With that, King hung up.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Mason grumbled as he drove out of the parking lot. Maybe he was losing his mind. After all, he was on his way to talk to Ward Kingston. He couldn’t think about it because if he did he’d head straight home instead of King Street. Maybe he should call Ace or Colton? The thought made him smile. Mostly because he pictured Ace’s scowl every time he was reminded Mason and Colton were friends.

  Mason had lost his chance with Ace; he’d screwed it up. Why would he be a dick about it? Ace was a great guy, which was why they were still friends. Why would Mason begrudge Ace happiness with someone else? Ace finally found someone who gave him everything he needed. Who was able to give all of himself, unlike Mason.

  Before Mason knew it, he was parking in a visitor’s spot in the Four Kings Security parking garage underneath the office. He’d been here enough times to meet Ace when they’d been seeing each other. After taking the elevator up to the reception area, security greeted him cheerfully and handed him a visitor’s lanyard that he hung around his neck. He was shown to the executive-floor elevator, where security swiped a keycard for him. He tapped his fingers against his thighs, his pulse soaring, not because he was on his way to see King, but because he might run into Lucky, and that was the last thing he needed right now.

  The elevator pinged, and he stepped out after taking a deep breath. He made a left and headed down the hall, greeting folks as he went. Outside King’s office, Jay, King’s executive assistant, smiled warmly at him. The guy was cute—one of those guys who looked younger than he was—with blond hair in a trendy cut, a pinstripe slim-fitting button-down shirt with flamingos on it tucked into slim navy slacks. He had big blue eyes and plump pink lips, which were pulled in a wide smile.

  “Hello again, Mr. Cooper. King’s just on a phone call. He’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “Thanks, Jay. Cute shirt.”

  Jay did a little shimmy and batted his lashes. “Aren’t you sweet.”

  “You’ve been working for King a long time, haven’t you?”

  Jay nodded and pursed his lips in thought. “Going on eight years now.”

  “Wow. And King hasn’t driven you nuts?”

  “King?” Jay blinked at him before laughing. He leaned forward, his voice low. “Don’t let that growl fool you. He’s a big, soft, squishy teddy bear.” He sat back and preened a little. “Besides, the man would be lost without me. Technology is not his friend. I swear he’s jinxed when it comes to computers.”

  Mason laughed. The computer part he saw, but the “soft, squishy teddy bear” part? Nope. There was nothing squishy or cuddly about Ward Kingston. Speak of the devil….

  Jay’s phone beeped, and he picked up with a knowing smile. “Yes, sir? I’ll send him right in.” Jay hung up and motioned to the door on his right. “Good luck.”