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“I need to head home and call my manager, but I’ll text you later,” I say. I’m in no mood for company, not even Rowan’s.
She reaches out and pulls me into a hug, and I return it, crushing her up against me and inhaling her sweet flowery scent. She fits into my arms perfectly.
“Don’t let that woman get to you. She doesn’t deserve to live rent-free in your head,” she murmurs.
“I know.” I release her and step back. “I’ll talk to you later.” I hurry off, and when I’m outside the hospital, I catch a cab. I’d originally planned to ride the town car back with Rowan, but I just can’t handle it today.
I’m itching for a drink. I can taste the bourbon already, smoky and burning its way down my throat, and the anger would fade and I’d be in a haze, not having to think or feel ...
No.
I call my sober coach, and the phone rings and rings. No answer. That’s fair; it’s not like he was expecting my call.
I call another sober friend of mine, Maxwell Lancaster. We met in rehab. The phone rings a few times, and I guess he’s not going to answer either.
“Damn it to freaking hell, damn everything, what the actual fuckity fuck—”
Maxwell answers. “Mason?” he says.
“That’s me. Unfortunately,” I grumble.
“Did you just say fuckity fuck?”
“Definitely not. Have you been drinking again?”
“You know I haven’t. What’s new? What’s going on in your life?”
“Oh, you know. Hockey. That’s about it, since I’ve been grounded from fun.” I’m feeling sulky. Having my mother around banishes my ability to enjoy anything good in my life. The hospital, the kids’ reactions, Rowan, my adorable puppy—I can’t even focus on them, because of the swirling churn of anger in my gut.
“Was getting drunk off your ass and waking up next to random girls and not remembering what you did the night before a lot of fun?” Maxwell wonders.
“Stop being the fucking voice of reason.”
“You called me because you wanted me to be the fucking voice of reason,” Maxwell says cheerfully. “Tell me about something good in your life.”
I wish I could tell him about Rowan, but I don’t know what’s actually happening there and she’s sworn me to secrecy anyway.
“Well, the season’s going great. My friends on the team are helping me put on a charity event. Apparently I agreed to host a zombie movie marathon. I’m going to have a friend help me with that, I think she’ll be good at giving it a real corpse-y feeling.”
“What friend?” Maxwell immediately catches me out, and I realize that I’m letting Rowan creep into my head and my conversations without even realizing it.
“Platonic,” I lie. “How’s your family business going?”
“Busy. Just got back from a month in the Milan office.” His brother owns several luxury department stores. “I don’t think I’ll able to make it to the toy drive, but I spoke to Chase and we’re each pitching in ten grand, for a total of twenty. Thanks for inviting me.”
“That’s awesome. Must be nice to work well with your family,” I say.
“Is that why you’re calling? Did something happen with your dad?”
“Not my dad.”
“Oh, hell. Did Satan’s mistress make an appearance?”
“Yeah. I don’t know what she wants. She hasn’t asked me for money yet, but I can’t imagine why else she’d hunt me down. She kept trying to call, and when that didn’t work she called my publicist, then she showed up at a charity appearance at a hospital today.” I grimace at the memory. “She gave me her address at a local hotel.”
“What does your dad think?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know; we’re barely speaking these days. He’s still pissy about me being in hockey, says I’m the reason he can’t retire, blah blah.”
