Ride the Tide (Deep Six #3) - Julie Ann Walker Page 0,75

seedy bars or walk down dark, deserted alleyways. But people aren’t intrinsically good. And I’m not safe. The world is dark, Mason. And it’s dangerous.”

He wished he were more like Wolf. In a moment like this, the sorry bastard would be able to come up with something perfect and profound to help ease her mind. Instead, the only thing Mason could think to tell her was “Sorry, Alex.”

She patted his chest, her hand light and warm over his heart. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. It simply is.”

She tilted her chin back. “Does it ever get better? Do you ever stop looking over your shoulder, expecting to find monsters creeping up behind you?”

He squeezed his eyelids shut. Partly because he couldn’t keep looking down at her without kissing her. But also because Alex was unsettlingly perceptive. If he looked at her now, she would see him.

All of him. All the good, bad, and ugly things inside.

“Gets better for some people.” His voice was low with solemnity. “They can experience death and violence and put it behind ’em. Move on as if nothing happened. For others”—Including me, he silently added—“they’re changed. Things from their past overshadow their present.”

“What separates one group from the other?” Her tone was as somber as his.

“Wish I knew,” he told her. “But I think you’re the type who’ll be able to forget. It might take time. But I think you’ll see the world through rose-colored glasses again.”

Her lips twisted. “I take it you don’t feel you’re the kind to forget and move on?”

He shrugged and stepped away from her. She was traipsing too close to the truth of him. Also, he’d lost the battle with his body when it came to her nearness. The clean, beachy smell of her had gone to his head. The little one decidedly south of his neck.

He retrieved the picnic basket. “I was born and raised in Southie, babe. My rose-colored glasses were gone by the time I was ten.”

Chapter 20

12:12 p.m.

Alex licked the last of the chocolate brownie frosting from her fingertips and flopped onto the soft blanket Mason had laid down for the picnic. Folding her hands behind her head, she tried to see shapes in the fluffy, popcorn clouds overhead.

It was something she’d done since she was a child. She loved never knowing what sort of pattern would appear next. A pirate ship perhaps? A pig wearing a top hat?

Beside her, Mason was sprawled out, his shoulder touching hers, one arm folded behind him, pillowing his head. It felt nice. Comfortable. Friendly even.

Maybe this will work, she thought optimistically. I mean, it’s okay to be in love with a friend, isn’t it? As long as I don’t screw things up by telling him?

When a cloud morphed into a boy holding a baseball, she mused aloud, “Did I ever tell you that the first baseball game I ever went to was at Fenway Park?”

“No shit?” He turned his head slightly to stare at her.

“Mmm-hmm. My father landed an adjunct professorship at Boston College one semester. A colleague gave him some tickets. It was cool.”

She smiled at the memory of her father enjoying something outside the world of academia.

“We sat really close to the dugout. I could see the players change gloves and dig into the bubble-gum bucket. And in the eighth inning, this really big guy got up to the plate. He swung that bat so hard I thought for sure the ball would end up outside the ballpark. But he only tipped it, and it thudded into the ground at his feet. He picked it up and then, casual as can be, turned and tossed it right to me.”

“Which player?”

She frowned. “He was wearing number thirty-four.”

Mason sat up so fast, she could feel the wind he displaced. “What year?” Both his tone and his eyes were suddenly intense.

“Mmm. Pretty sure it was 2011.”

“Fuck me!” He grabbed his chest like she’d given him a heart attack. “That was David Ortiz. You got a ball touched by Big Papi.”

When she blinked in confusion, he said, “Ten-time All-Star? Three-time World Series champ? Seven-time Silver Slugger winner?”

She winced and admitted, “I wasn’t much of a baseball fan and—”

“Please tell me you kept it,” he interrupted.

“Of course. It’s in a box with a bunch of other souvenirs in my parents’ basement.”

“Listen to me carefully.” He pointed at her nose. “Next time you go ’round to see ’em, you find that frickin’ ball, take it out of the box, and put it