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.”
Groaning, he rests his head back on the pillow, his eyes open but unfocused. “Fine. Get on with it then.”
“Gladly.” I cross my arms over my chest. A large object in the corner by the window grabs my attention. “Why do you have a tent set up in your room?”
Mason pinches his eyes shut, breathing deeply.
“Never mind. That’s not important. What you did, saying those things to Brooke and making her feel the way she does right now was beyond fucked up. We all have skeletons in our closet, Mason. I’m sure you’ve been with other women. You knew Brooke wasn’t a virgin when you first met her. That wasn’t something she kept from you. Getting on her about shit that happened before she even met you is a complete dick move. Yeah, it sucks that you saw it. I’m sure anyone would’ve reacted the way you did, but it doesn’t make it right.”
“Sucks?” He blinks up at me. “It more than sucks, mate. All right?”
We stare at each other for a moment, and it’s then I see how ragged he looks.
His blonde hair is a mess. Pieces sticking straight out and the rest plastered to his skull. His beard is grown out several days worth. It’s thick and dark. He looks older. The same shadowy smudges I just saw across the street on Brooke line his tired eyes. His clothes are wrinkled. I’m guessing they’ve been worn a couple days in a row now.
Jesus. He’s as miserable as she is.
“Is this what you’ve been doing all weekend?” I ask, gesturing around the room, picking up the tequila bottle and setting it on his night stand. “Getting drunk and then passing out?”
He nods slightly, barely a jerk of his head.
“You know what she’s been doing?”
Mason flicks his weak stare to me.
“Crying.”
It darts away again.
“She’s messed up over you. Really messed up, which is only adding to her stress. This fucking wedding she’s got . . .”
“Why?” he gruffly asks, cutting me off. His gaze still lost on something in front of him. “Why is she messed up? She shouldn’t care. She doesn’t love me. She said it herself. None of this ever mattered to her. I never mattered.”
Bending down, I get close enough to his face, he has no choice but to look at me. “You believe that? ‘Cause if you do, you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”
He grits his teeth. “She said she hates me.”
“I’d hate you too if you made me feel like a whore.”
His eyes go wide, as round as saucers. “What?” he asks, his voice eerily quiet.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Of course he has no idea that’s how she would take all that. God, sometimes I wonder why I love men as much as I do.
Cock.
Yup. That’s why. That’s definitely why.
I straighten my spine. “I heard what you said. The whole ‘are there more of these tapes? Does everyone watch them?’ bullshit. How the fuck do you think she would feel after hearing that? And from you? The one person she cares about more than anything? Yeah, I’m sure she does hate you. But that isn’t all she feels.”
He swallows heavily. “I would never think that of her. I was just . . .” his voice trails off as he rubs a hand over his face. “Fuck, I was . . .”
“You were mad and upset, and you said some shit you didn’t mean.”
He releases a stiff breath, nodding, his jaw locked tight.
I squat beside the bed. He looks at me, the pain searing in his eyes. The guilt. I’m happy it’s there. He should feel really fucking sorry for this.