“Stop—aargh!” I grip the sides of my head and curl into the fetal position on the hard floor. “My head. Shhh.”
“I’m outta here. I left the shit about tomorrow night on your dresser.” His voice is farther away, as if he went from crouching beside me to standing up. “Bring Angel and that other chick, the redhead.” The sound of a fast-flowing stream of liquid hitting water permeates the air. “These guys have cash, high-roller types. Dress to impress. They don’t—”
“Are you peeing!?” I curl up into a tighter ball, as if the act could protect me from Hatch’s lack of respect for my personal space.
He groans, low and raspy. “Didn’t give me much choice, babe. Tried to get you up.”
“Ewww, get out—ugh! Stop making me yell.” I dig my fists into my eyes and whimper. “Fuck.”
He zips up his fly and the toilet flushes. “You strapped one on last night. Not shocked you feel like shit today.”
“Stop. Talking.”
He grips my shoulders, rolling me to my back, and sets me on my butt. My brain feels like it should leak out my ears at any minute, and I groan as the room sways. He dips to meet my gaze. “Anything you wanna tell me, Trix?”
What a strange thing to ask? I blink, trying to figure out what the hell he’s getting at. “Um . . . no?”
“You sure ’bout that? I’m giving you a chance to come clean.” He holds up a finger. “One chance.”
Oh shit, he must know about Mason. I stretch my legs out, feeling for my phone without making it too obvious. No phone. Dammit. “I don’t know, Hatch. I mean . . . I’m sure there’s a lot we haven’t talked about.”
“You stickin’ with that?” He lifts his eyebrows, giving me a chance to fess up.
“You do realize making me think this hard is excruciatingly painful, right?” I close one eye and look at him. “Are you trying to hurt me?”
I expect him to laugh or at the very least crack a smile, but he doesn’t. He stands and walks away. “See ya tomorrow,” he calls out just before the sound of the front door closes.
What the hell brought that on? I deleted all Mason’s messages on my phone, so if Hatch did snoop, he’d only read one that must’ve come in recently. I drop my head into my hands. If that’s what all this is about, Hatch can get over it. We’ve always had a no-strings relationship that’s gone both ways. No way he’s allowed to get jealous now.
Pushing up to standing, I stumble off-balance, bracing myself with my elbows on the sink. My mouth is dry, and as much as I want water, just the thought of drinking has my stomach protesting. I breathe through a fresh wave of nausea, remembering that I never did end up tossing up my liquor last night. Too bad. Probably would’ve felt better if I had.
Hatch and I drank until . . . fuck, I have no idea. We talked, and with the exception of a few stolen kisses, I managed to get too drunk and avoided having to cheat on Mason.
Memories from the night trickle back, one at a time. He told me about Mexico, that he was on the run for killing a couple of guys who got too deep in MC business. He swears he didn’t do it, not that it matters now. A rival MC wasn’t happy about Hatch’s men offing their members and went after Hatch. I guess the rival MC ended up with an indictment and several mysterious deaths. So things mellowed out. Hatch came home.
I’d brought up the man he started to tell me about before he left—the one who he said, “cut women up for fun.” He’d remembered telling me about him, admitted the dude is bad news, but didn’t give me anything else.
At least he’s back to talking, and I seem to be on the right track. Getting in with Hatch and his associates can only bring me closer to finding out who this guy is, and tonight’s party is the perfect opportunity to do that.
I splash some cold water on my face and pull two pain relievers from the cabinet, washing them down with a palm full of tap water. I never did text Mason last night, but by the time Hatch showed up, I’m sure Mase was already sound asleep. If he tried to contact me this morning . . . A red flag fires in my head. That would explain Hatch’s interrogation. What did Mason say that Hatch read?
Unease crawls through me as I search out my phone. Last time I had it . . . I close my eyes and concentrate, pushing through my painful headache and focusing on what I was doing when Hatch showed up.
Sorting my drawers. I push from the sink and head to my room.
My bed is still strewn with clothes, Hatch most likely slept on the couch. I run my hands through and beneath everything, searching for my phone, when my fingers brush across a photo, slicing into my skin.
“Ouch!” I pull my hand out, sucking on the thin line of blood from the paper cut. Damn, that hurts.
I shove my uninjured hand into the pile and pull out the photo of my brothers and sisters and me. I grin at my Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and Mason’s response to my Disney obsession.