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Turning away from him, I make it two steps before dropping to my knees, and throwing up everything in my stomach.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
He kissed me.
Mason Wyatt fucking kissed me.
He kissed me.
And I kissed him back.
Me…Mason…kissing…
No matter how I spin it, it just doesn’t compute.
And the fact that he was hard?
Yeah, nope. No. I can’t even think about that without my brain going into a full-blown system error.
Now, in his bedroom, back at his apartment above O’Leary’s, I sit on the floor with my back against the side of his bed. Mason’s sitting next to me, head hanging, the bottle of vodka loosely clasped in his hand.
“Can I have a sip?” I say blankly, staring straight ahead.
Shawn’s here in the room with us. He’s standing off to the side, quiet and stoic as ever. He hasn’t said much, not since we arrived downstairs and he barked Mason’s name in reprimand after the latter stupidly, drunkenly thought to offer Waylon a sip of his vodka.
As Mason hands me the bottle and I take a searing gulp, I can feel Shawn’s silent judgment. The brimming accusation. The questions…
What the fuck can I do about it now? I think bitterly, followed closely by, My fault. This is all my fault.
Except it’s not—not really. I know this, and Shawn knows too. I didn’t force Mason to drink. Him breaking his two-year sobriety is on him and only him.
But remembering what he told me at the cemetery—the things he implied I must’ve said when I was shitfaced the other night…
Well, it’s impossible not to feel some responsibility. And Shawn seems to think the same, making me wonder what I missed in the last forty-eight hours.
Still, drunk or not, how the fuck was I supposed to know what would be the thing to send him off the deep end? I was just speaking my truth…some of it…finally.
An obvious one at that…
Or so I thought.
Grimacing, I take another sip just as Mason decides to lay down, putting his head in my lap. Stiffening, I slowly bring the bottle away from my lips, swallowing. The fiery liquid burns a path down my throat, my chest, settling warmly in my belly.
Our eyes meet—his hooded and bleary.
He reaches for the bottle, taking it back, and luckily, it’s depleted enough that he can be careless about the way he holds it, and not have to worry too much about anything spilling, seeing as the cap disappeared somewhere downstairs after he flung it off. Not that he’d probably care at this point.
Bringing it to his lips, he watches me as he takes a sip. How he’s still drinking, I have no idea. After he threw up all over the cemetery parking lot, he simply wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, stumbled to a stand and over to where the bottle had rolled against my tire—miraculously having not shattered when I dropped it—and said, “I need Shawn.”
That’s it.
I tried to tell him to leave the vodka, but when my mouth opened, nothing came out.
I haven’t been able to say a single thing since our kiss, save for the mumbled, “Come on, let’s get you upstairs,” I managed to get out downstairs in the bar before tension could escalate any further.
Between Mason cheerily offering Waylon a drink—a gesture I’m pretty sure would’ve been met with Will’s fist if Waylon didn’t stop him—and the instantaneous mood flip that followed, in the form of a bitter laugh and cruel, pointed words—“Must be fucking nice.”—and the nosy, watchful stares of every single patron in the bar as all of this unfolded…
It was critical I get Mason out of there. Shawn seemed to agree, and hurried to help me guide him toward the steps. Surprisingly, Mason went without a fight.
