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I clamp my teeth together, my neck tendons straining tight.
Mason’s back is rising and falling more heavily under my arm, and I feel fingers biting into the spot right above my elbow. Between the cold shower and throwing up, he must’ve sobered up some. Not enough to walk all that steady, but enough for some sense of awareness to be present that he registers Clay’s taunting.
In front of us, Ivy’s green eyes blaze from over Waylon’s shoulder, glaring daggers at Clay, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He only has eyes for me.
“Come on,” I mutter, leading a stiff, reluctant-to-move Mason toward the steps. Waylon keeps close to Ivy’s side, holding a steadying hand out toward us, his jaw ticking as he darts looks between us and Clay. He’s blinking really fast, and keeps swallowing. I don’t miss the tremble in his fingers.
Gina’s rushing up to Clay and pushing to her toes, leaning against him, wobbling like she too has had too much to drink. She’s saying something in his ear, shaking his arm, but she might as well not exist either.
He looks me up and down, his lip curling with disgust. Even before he speaks, I feel the shift in the air. Taste the promise of bloodshed. I didn’t spend my entire life being bullied to miss the warning signs. Shit’s about to hit the fan if we don’t get the fuck out of here.
He barks out a laugh, and my whole body runs cold. “Well, if this isn’t quite the turn of events…” His gaze lingers on where my fingers grip Mason’s waist, and lip tips up cruelly. “Can’t say I’m not surprised. Double dippin’ are we?”
“Clay!”
He’s still laughing. Belches. “What would your poor sister sa?—”
Before he even fully gets the words out, Mason is rushing him, disappearing out from under me faster than I can blink, and with more agility than I think any of us were prepared for.
The fleshy, cracking sound of a fist meeting bone rings out into the night, above Gina’s scream and the others who curse and cheer and give them a wide berth as they go crashing onto the porch in a heap of sharp elbows.
Mason’s got his hands around Clay’s neck.
I take a step forward, my eyes wide, hands outstretched. But before I can so much as even try to get to Mason, Waylon beats me to it, grabbing him by the back of his shirt, heaving him up with a surprising amount of strength.
“Stop!” he barks, bracing an arm around Mason’s chest, holding him back. I see a flash of red—blood. It drips to the floor where his clenched fist hangs at his side. In the corner of my eye, I spot Ivy keeping back as far as she can, arms wrapped around her middle.
Mason stumbles, and I rush forward, helping Waylon steady him.
Gone is that slackened, desperate expression from the upstairs bathroom. In its place, ice cold rage unlike anything I’d ever seen from him, making him barely recognizable.
My heart slows at the sight, wariness forming a sinking feeling in my gut.
Laughter, ugly and choked, reaches my ears, drawing me out of my daze, and I snap my gaze to where Clay’s rolling side to side on the uneven floorboards, clutching his face. Narrowed black eyes meet mine as he lowers his hands, revealing a busted up nose and bloody smile.
“You’re lucky I’m drunk,” he slurs as we start dragging Mason down the stairs.
Over his shoulder, Waylon says through his teeth, “You’re lucky he is too.”
Ivy’s urging us to get moving, waving us toward the lot. “Come on!”
Halfway down the path, I risk a glance behind me, not at all surprised to see Clay standing, smirking, his gaze leveled on me.
He lifts a hand, forms his fingers into a gun, and pretends to shoot it right at my head.
Where fear should be—anger too—there’s just…nothing.
Nothing but stark apathy, and a sick sort of amusement.
Do it, I think tauntingly. Fucking do it.
If it brought back my sister, I’d take that bullet in a heartbeat.
It’s quiet between the four of us as we cut through the sea of cars. Mason shakes us off, storming ahead. He stumbles, but doesn’t let it stop him.
When my car comes into view, Waylon slows down, hanging back. “I think I’m going to stay for a bit.”
Ivy whirls on him before I can hope to try and muster even a quarter of her outrage. Brushing past them, I jog to catch up with Mason.
