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Men equaled bastards, and he was most definitely male.
Blinking rapidly, his gaze zipped up to mine. He was obviously startled by my anger. Maybe even a little hurt by it.
I wavered, silently debating whether I actually had the right to be mad at him. Let's see. He'd grabbed me, twice now, and had made decisions for me as if he owned me. Humph, owned me?
No one owned Eva Mercer, so I was going to be ticked at him for trying.
The bastard.
The problem was I wasn't all that bothered. I couldn't think of him as a creeper because everything he'd done had been attentive and protective. Even his staring had been more curious and seeking, as if he were trying to recognize me from somewhere, or he wanted me to recognize him. It certainly hadn't been creepy and leering as if he were visually undressing me. Not that anyone would want to visually undress a pregnant chick with water retention while she was wearing Tinker Bell pajamas. But there were all kinds of weirdos out there. This I knew well.
Frankly, I didn't want to be on anyone's radar as much as I seemed to be on his, so I forced my gaze away from him, even though I was acutely aware of every move he made. Of every breath he took. Of every—God, my reaction to him was so powerful it was irritating.
Only seconds after Mrs. Garrison followed Dr. Kavanagh and who I realized was Gamble down the hall toward the restrooms, she came storming back into the bar area. Without looking at anyone or saying anything, she marched toward the exit and left.
"Oh, going so soon?" Reese taunted after her. "I'm so sorry to hear you're not pregnant after all, you fucking lying bitch!"
The front door slammed, and the nameless bartender hurried after her to lock the doors.
Mason and Reese hugged, murmuring to each other. Relieved this round with the rapist was over, I rubbed my belly, wondering why some people perjured themselves the way Mrs. Garrison just had. I mean, I knew why I'd always lied and pretended and said things I didn't even mean. I had dirty, dark secrets I didn't want anyone to discover. But this . . .
I began to wonder what kind of childhood Mrs. Garrison must've gone through to turn her into such a loose screw. Then I stopped myself because I didn't want to know what made her a raping sociopath. As long as Reese and Mason were done with her for good, I never wanted to think about her again.
Reese dashed down the back hall to thank Dr. Kavanagh for helping her get rid of Mrs. Garrison. When Mason, still looking shaken, slumped forward to cradle his head in his hands and rest his elbows on the bar top, I opened my mouth to ask if he was okay. Then I decided against it, reminding myself we weren't friends.
"So, how far along are you?"
At Pick's question, I jumped. He remained on the other side of the bar, watching me intently.
"Look." I drew in a breath. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but you need to stop."
He opened his mouth, then shut it before shaking his head. "I need to stop what exactly?"
"I just said. I don't know. But cut it out, okay?"
Instead of turning pissy, he grinned. "So, you don't know what I'm doing that's obviously pissing you off, and I certainly don't have a clue, but I definitely need to cut it out?"
I scowled because when he said it like that, he made me sound like a complete idiot. "Okay, fine. You've touched me. Twice now. That's just not cool. Then you told me what I couldn't eat and where I couldn't go like you freaking owned me. Which you definitely don't. And now you're trying to make polite conversation as if we're friends. I don't know you. I've never met you before in my life. We are not friends."
"E.," Mason said, his voice sounding like a dog owner who was commanding his snarling pet to heel. "Leave him alone. He's always protective of women. He's fine."
Oh. I shrank back, guilt seeping into every pore. God, there I went again, automatically assuming every man alive was a bastard. I really needed to cut that out and start giving people the benefit of the doubt. Bad Eva.
"Sorry," I mumbled, ducking my chin and tucking a piece of hair behind my ear because this apologizing business was still so new to me. "I guess if Mason says you're fine, you're fine."
Brows furrowed, Pick opened his mouth to answer me, but Mason snorted out a laugh. "Wow. I cannot believe I just heard those words come out of Eva Mercer's mouth."
I turned to tell him I was at least trying to change, but I got a little distracted by how pale and upset he looked, still slumped against the bar and holding his head. "Are you okay?" I reached for his elbow and drew him to a barstool. "You look like you're going to pass out."
"Yeah, Lowe." Pick grabbed a glass from the back of the bar and filled it with water. "Why don't you sit down?" He slid the water in front of Mason. "Here. Drink something."
Mason sat, but he didn't move to take the glass, so I picked it up and tried to help him . . . to which he sliced me an annoyed glare. "Really?" He snagged the cup from my hand and drank on his own.
Confused by his irritation, I turned to Pick
who winced and shook his head. "Bad move, Tink. Don't emasculate the poor guy by helping him drink."
I lifted my hands. "I was just trying to help."
