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From inside the pocket of my dress pants, my phone vibrates for the umpteenth time.
Sorry, Dad. Busy.
Gavin blows out a breath, running his hand over his beard. “Just, uh, be prepared. I flushed the rest of his pills down the toilet yesterday, so he’s not at his best right now.”
With that, he strides past us, and by the sound of his fading footsteps, he’s heading toward the kitchen in the back of the house.
“Great,” Waylon says flatly. He cuts me a wary look, and I just shake my head and turn for the stairs.
It’s like a tomb upstairs, the floorboards creaking under our footfalls the only sound to be heard.
Waylon knocks on Mason’s door. “Mase? It’s me.”
It doesn’t escape me that he says me not us.
But before I can dwell too deeply on that, Waylon turns the knob, clearly not about to wait for a response, and hesitantly pushes the door open.
“Shit.”
Frowning, I nudge him inside and out of my way, fear for the worst momentarily gripping me, scattering all semblance of rational thought.
What I actually find… well, it’s not much better.
Scattered across the floor are pieces of Mason’s Yamaha keyboard. Wires and keys that were flung off. Bits of plastic. Like he didn’t just drop it or throw it. He bashed the hell out of it. Intentionally.
Eyes wide, I follow the carnage over to the bed, where a blank-eyed Mason stares at me from where he’s sprawled out on his stomach, sheets rumpled at the foot of the bed. In nothing but gym shorts, there’s no denying now how much weight he’s lost.
Where normally I’d be panicking at the sight of seeing him half-naked—willing my body not to react—right now I’m cataloging him for completely different and unexpected reasons.
His hair is a shade darker than normal, and damp looking. Greasy.
And by the stale, musty sort of stench in the room, I can’t help but wonder when’s the last time he left this room, or hell, opened a window.
Did he look this bad last time I saw him?
Either I was too blind to it, until I had some distance, or he somehow swan-dove to rock bottom in only a matter of days.
“Jesus, man,” Waylon croaks, and I think I have my answer.
That or Mason was a lot better about hiding it before. From all of us.
“You look like shit.”
Mason blinks at him. “And you two look like assholes.”
I flinch.
His lip curls, and he pushes himself up to rest on his forearm. “What? You just had to rub it in my fucking face that you just came from a funeral?” He waves at our outfits. “Get that shit off you.”
Waylon scoffs.
“Fine,” I snap, and start ripping off my tie. “You want it off? I’ll take it off.”
I have no idea what I’m saying, or where this surge of anger comes from. But suddenly the desperation to be out of these stupid dress clothes is about as strong as my wrath with Mason is right now. Wrath with him for being rightly pissed about what we’re wearing.
“What are you doing?”
I sneer at Mason, and fumble with undoing my belt. “What does it look like? I’m getting out of these stupid clothes.”
