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Stop that shit right now.
I scold myself and refocus on the bloodthirsty thoughts I have about the Hellrazors.
At my side, Sydney yawns. “Mace…”
“Hmmm?”
“Why do you hate me?”
My gaze shifts to her, thrown by the question. It’s the medications making her so candid—the ER doc prescribed her a sleep aid that’s making her loopy—but it doesn’t change the fact that the question pulls at me.
The guilt I’ve been feeling intensifies.
Here Sydney is, lying half asleep in bed, banged up after a deadly encounter, and all she wants to know is why I hate her.
She’s not even mad about the Hellrazors. She hasn’t blamed me once.
I’m such an asshole. Just like Tom. I’m becoming him…
“I don’t hate you,” I say stiffly.
“I don’t hate you either,” she whispers. Her eyes slip close. “I… I’ve wanted you to like me…”
Then she drifts off to sleep without another word.
It hits me as I glance at her and watch her for a moment. The weird sensation returns. A warm fuzziness that’s about as nauseating as the Sweetheart Inn.
I already do.
18
SYDNEY
If you toldme even two weeks ago that Mason Cutler and I would reach a point where we were cool with each other, I’d laugh in your face.
Surely there would be no way the prez of the club who hated my guts on sight would reach a point where he greets me first in a barroom full of club members. He wouldn’t take my side in a spat against Sandie or intervene when a drunk prospect tries to get handsy. We damn sure wouldn’t be laughing at our own inside jokes like BFFs.
All of these things happen.
On Poker Night, Johnny Flanagan yells across the saloon for me to join in. He and some of the other guys have gathered around with cards, chips, and beers. Some of them are already half drunk. Bush has already won the last two games. Kind of fitting since he’s the MC’s treasurer.
I decline at first.
“C’mon!” Johnny calls. “We’re starting up another game! Ozzie’s about to hurl. You take his place.”
A couple of the other guys chime in.
My gaze goes straight to Mason’s. He’s seated in between Cash and Bush. I’m fully expecting him to issue an order or tell me it’s club members only—force of habit given our history—but he does neither of these things.
His forest-green eyes gleam. He holds my gaze and says, “Yeah… Syd can play.”
It feels like receiving the stamp of approval from the cool jock at school.
Which sounds dumb as hell, but suddenly I feel fifteen again. I feel special that Mason Cutler, the president of the Steel Kings, wants me to play Texas Hold ’Em with him and the guys.
Nobody else gets the significance. But I do.
I slip into the chair across from his and my lips tip up. It’s not exactly a smile, though close enough.
