Razor: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance(6)

At some point, she could’ve easily turned her life around and been any number of things.

Like an investigative reporter . . .

I let out a derisive snort at the thought and closed down my laptop. I didn’t even want to look at the article for the rest of the week. The only good thing that would come out of it, at least I hoped, was enough ad revenue to cover some of my bills.

I walked over to the fridge and opened it, searching for the bottle I kept for times like this. I’d gotten into a habit of keeping it in there — I wasn’t much of a drinker.

“Where the hell is it?” I muttered, eyeing the sparsely filled fridge that consisted of mainly breakfast stuff — a carton of eggs, and several packs of sausage and bacon. At five-foot-two, I was a mousey thing and didn’t eat much, which was a good thing. It kept my food bill down.

Finally, I found what I was looking for and snatched it out.

Humming softly, I placed it on the counter and was in the middle of standing on my tip-toes to get a glass out of the cabinet, when there was a pounding on the front door.

I paused, my pulse quickening.

Who could that be? I wondered. I didn’t get many visitors outside of my generous landlord, and he wasn’t due to stop by for another two weeks.

The pounding continued in a frantic manner.

Scared now, I made my way over to the front door. It was a sturdy thing, made of thick oak wood, so whoever was pounding at the door like a madman would need a tank to bring it down if breaking in was their intention.

For a moment, I debated going over to the window that was behind the couch and peeking out, but I quickly decided against it. Due to the porch’s layout, I wouldn’t be able to see who was standing at the front door anyway.

Of course I can just ask who it is and open the door like a normal person instead of freaking out, I thought.

Images of Ashley’s cold, lifeless body flashed before my eyes, and the continuous pounding only served to heighten my paranoia.

My eyes fell on my gun, a small little handgun I kept on the table next to the couch. Growing up, I was never a fan of them, but as a single young woman living by myself, I’d changed my tune on that one.

Moving quickly, I grabbed the gun and pressed my back against the door as the banging continued unabated.

Call me crazy, but I didn’t care if I was overreacting. I wasn’t going to take any chances.

“Who is it?” I yelled as loud as I could over the banging.

“It’s Mas . . . open . . . th . . . f*cking . . . oor!”

Shit. Who?

I couldn’t quite make out the words, but the voice was male. Deep sounding. And whoever it was, was hell bent on coming in.

“I don’t know who you are, but please leave!” I yelled.

Before I shoot your ass.

“Open the f*ckin’ door, Carly!”

Gathering my courage, I spun about, unlocked the door, swung it open and pointed the gun.

I readied the gun and snarled with as much venom as I could manage, “Get the f*ck off my porch or I’ll blow your f*cking brains out —”

My heart skipped a beat as recognition washed over me.

There he was, standing before me looking as hot as ever.

Blue jeans. White tank top. Grey sweater, unzipped. Green hat turned backward. Adorable dimples.

That same cocky swagger. Yep, it was him.

His sparkling green eyes took me in in one glance, seeming to appraise me in a single instant.

“I’ve had girls offer to blow me before, but never to blow my brains out,” he mocked in that deep baritone that made butterflies flitter through my stomach.

I could only manage one word in response.

“Mason,” I whispered in horror.





Chapter 3





Carly: Pre-college years




“Mason,” I called as I weaved in between and around the surrounding trees. “Where are you?”

I stopped for a moment to listen for a response, my breathing producing a white fog from between my lips. A moment later I heard his voice in the distance, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

What on earth is he doing out here in this cold? I wondered, resisting a shiver and pulling my heavy sweater tightly around me.

Following the direction of his voice, I reached a small clearing a minute later and got my answer.

Sweet Jesus. My breath caught in my throat.

Under the winter sun, only god knows what he was doing, but he was punching and kicking the air, spinning around with a velocity that stole the breath from my lungs.

The way he moved his body was astounding, but I think I was more enthralled by his physique. Sweat glistened on his chest and back as he moved with intense precision, fighting an imaginary foe. He was practicing his martial arts I suppose, but why he was doing it out here in the forty-degree weather and half-naked was beyond me.

“Why in the world are you out here with no shirt on!” I demanded. “You’re going to be sick!” I was shocked by the concern in my voice. Usually, I tried to be as bitchy with Mason as possible, but I couldn’t help myself.

Mason completed a powerful roundhouse kick — probably to show off — into the air and then turned to grin at me, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Because I’m not going to let a little cold get in the way of my training. You should try it sometime. It feels good.” He grabbed his shirt — the one that he should’ve been wearing in the first place off of the ground and dabbed at the sweat pouring down the sides of his face.