Oh shit.
She huffs out a breath and wipes at her face. “Jesus Christ. I didn’t even want this!”
I watch Brooke turn away from me, her shoulders hunched forward, her hands coming up to cradle her face as she cries and cries and cries.
Fuck! I can’t take this! I can’t take anymore more of this. It’s killing me. I love Brooke. Wild, crazy, fun to be around, Brooke. This isn’t her. This isn’t even a dulled out version of her. I have no idea who the shattered woman is in front of me, but I know who’s responsible for it.
And that asshole is about to get a little visit from yours truly.
I pick up her apron and lay it across the stool. “Take a minute to get yourself together. I’m going to turn the sign on the door and step out to get something to drink. You’re amazing. I love you. Remember that.”
Spinning around, not giving her a chance to argue or me a chance to see any more of her devastation, I move into the front of the shop and flip the sign on the door, push it open to get outside, and cross the street, sprinting to avoid traffic.
I pull on the door handle.
Locked.
“Really? No classes today, Mister Hemsworth?”
Cupping my hand on the glass, I peer inside the dark studio.
I know Mason lives upstairs. Brooke told me his set-up is similar to Dylan’s. There’s a chance he isn’t here.
There’s also a chance he is.
I dig into my back pocket and pull out my wallet, fishing through for the bobby pin I keep inside.
Billy likes to cuff me. I like to get out of them without him knowing and pounce unexpectedly like a tiger in heat.
I always get off first. Those are the rules my baby likes to forget.
Straightening the pin, I slide it inside the lock and work the mechanism. It takes less than a minute until I’m rewarded with the soft click. The swift glide of metal. I pull the door open and lock it behind me, crossing the room and bounding up the stairs. I’m ready to use the pin again when I test the knob of the next door.
Surprisingly, it turns without any resistance.
I step out into the loft. The room is darkened, courtesy of the drawn curtains, but I can make out the large figure on the bed.
Face down, breathing heavily and clutching a bottle of what looks to be tequila, Mason seems to be out cold, fully clothed and still wearing his shoes. I’m willing to bet he’s going to be waking up with the hangover of his life.
Perfect.
I flip the switch on the wall. Light bathes the room, but the man on the bed remains motionless. Stepping over dirty clothes and other shit on the floor, beer bottles, a few books, and what looks to be camping gear, I move into the kitchen and grab two saucepans from a cabinet.
And then I bang the fucking shit out of them.
Mason’s head snaps up. He blinks fast, alarm and confusion in his dimmed gaze as he attempts to focus on me. The bottle in his hand rolls off the bed and onto the floor, spilling amber liquid. He covers his one ear and buries his face into the pillow, groaning.
I toss the pans in the sink and brush off my hands.
Ah, that felt good.
“What the hell? What are you doing?” Mason grunts.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I got so hungry on my walk over here I thought about making something, and then I remembered that I don’t really cook. My boo does. Thought I’d make some music instead. Did you enjoy that?”
He grumbles something I don’t make out. He slides his hand off his ear and turns his head to look at me through half-lidded eyes.
“Afternoon,” I sing, smiling as I move closer. “I gotta say, you know, I am a bit disappointed in you, Mason. I mean, for years I have been let down by American men doing dumbass shit, but you have managed to prove to me on an international level that the majority of the male race are complete fucking idiots. Way to represent your country there. Bravo.”
“What . . . how did you get in here?” he asks, still looking just as disordered, trying to sit up and then moaning, collapsing back onto his stomach. “Fuck. My head. Can you switch that light off?”
I study my nails. “Nah. And to answer your question, I picked the lock. This building is like a billion years old. A monkey could get in here if he wanted to.”
Mason grabs a pillow and covers his head with it.
“You know I was rooting for you, right? Really rooting for you. And now I look like the shitty friend who pushed a guy who was not who we all thought he was on someone I really care about.” I kick the mattress, jarring his body a little. “Thanks for that. I doubt Brooke will ever take my advice again.”
Mason lifts his head, snatching the pillow off and glaring at me, until his sudden movement registers in pain across his face and he winces. “Could you . . . please stop talking? Please.”
I bend down. “No. I have a lot to say, and you’re going to hear every word of it.”