Mondays (The Wait Book 2)

by Harper Bentley

  Yep. I’m rolling my eyes too.

  I soon grew tired of trying to garner his attention and became the one who played it cool, and that somehow worked. I guess because I wasn’t one of the gazillions trying to catch his eye, I got the guy.

  And I couldn’t have been more thrilled.

  Oh, he’d informed me that it was my long brown hair and green eyes that had captured his attention, not to mention my “tight, round ass,” but I knew my aloof attitude was what really reeled him in. Whatever it was, I was glad and from day one I was thoroughly and completely hooked on Mason Chapman.

  We dated throughout high school with only one blip at the end of our senior year: Allison Mannis, or The Menace, as my friends and I called her.

  Allison wasn’t happy unless every guy in school was drooling after her. She already had a college-aged boyfriend, but that wasn’t enough for her. Nope, she hadn’t been content until every guy from ninth grade up had “Liked” the Instagram pictures she’d posted of herself in a very tiny bikini, her campaigning ultimately leading to tons of jacking-off fodder for the boys, I was sure.

  That had caused a two-week breakup between Mason and me because through snooping, I’d found out that he, along with the rest of the male population at Fairview High School, had liked all her pictures, which had thrown me into a tizzy and I’d told him to get lost. It only makes me laugh now. Hell, if I’d been a teenage guy and had seen those pictures, I’d probably have done the same. They were pretty hot. Oh, and now since Allison is married, has had two kids and lost that bikini body, I can be even more forgiving. So, I’m a bitch. Whatever.

  Anyway, Mason and I made up—after he sent a shit ton of flowers to my house which had had my mom begging me to get back with him. I think what made me forgive him, though, were the cards included with the bouquets saying things such as, “I’ll never like another picture again,” “You’re the only one for me,” “I’m miserable without you,” and “You’re so much hotter in a bikini.” But the clincher— “Your pics are the only ones I want to masturbate to”—had me laughing hard and I’d called him, declaring that all was forgiven.

  After high school, I went on to attend NYU majoring in accounting while he was accepted into Columbia going the business route, wanting to become an investment banker like his dad. After our freshman year, we moved into a small apartment together and life became pretty hectic with school and jobs. Mason worked as a runner on Wall Street which led to an internship as a junior investment banker for his dad’s firm, and I worked in the office of my dad’s sub sandwich restaurant balancing the books.

  While most of our nights were spent studying, we had each other and that was all we needed.

  Fast forwarding to two weeks after our college graduations, I’d just returned home from taking the second part of the CPA exam and I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was eat a pint of Half Baked—while scarfing down gummy bears—and veg, watching mindless television. I’d pulled on a pair of Mason’s gray sweatpants, pulling the string tie as tightly as I could which kept them from just slipping down my hips. Then ridding myself of my bra, I’d donned one of his tank top tees and managed to put my hair up in a messy bun.

  I looked fabulous.

  On his way home from his third internship with a well-known financial holding company, Mason had called.

  “Babe, just making sure you’re there.”

  “Yeah. I am. And I’m exhausted. If I have to answer one more pension-plan question, I’ll scream,” I stated from where I sat cross-legged on the couch.

  He laughed. “I’ll be sure to keep my retirement details to myself then.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll be home in ten. Can’t wait to see you,” he said before ringing off.

  Yeah. I was sure he couldn’t wait, because I so looked the part of someone he’d want to see right then.

  And, damn it, isn’t stress a bitch? Before I could change the channel, I was suddenly shedding tears after watching one of those mistreated animal commercials while one of the saddest songs ever recorded in the history of humankind played in the background. So sobbing into my ice cream carton—having finished off half of it during the ad itself, ugh—I heard Mason come in.

  “Honey, I’m home!” he called goofily.

  Through my tears, I called back, “I’m in here.” Sniff. “And I’m eating junk food that’ll make my hips huge and you won’t want me anymore!” Choked sob.

  “Oh, sweetheart, you always know how to turn me on!” he hollered in return.

  I snorted out a weepy chuckle at how comfortable our relationship was.

  When he came into the living room, I saw the side of his mouth curl up. “You watched one of those commercials again, didn’t you?”

  I nodded tearfully and sniffled as I set my ice cream on the end table.

  “Babe. You’ve gotta stop doing that.” He shook his head as he looked at me all, What am I going to do with you?

  My breath hitched when I explained, “They’re just so…sad. And I didn’t grab the remote in time.” I held the controller up, waving it at him as I said this.

  “So, how was the test?”

  His question made me suck in another sniveling breath as I let out a groan.

  “That rough, huh?”

  I nodded, lamenting, “Just long.”

  “I’ll show you something long,” he answered with a twinkle in his eye.

  This made me giggle as I wiped my fingers under my eyes. “Oh, I know you can.”

  “So,” he drawled, canting his head to the side and looking at me with mock concern. “You gonna be okay?”

  I huffed out a breath and rolled my eyes. “I think so. God, I’m such a baby.”

  “But you’re my baby.” He bent to kiss me, then without further ado, knelt in front of me in one of only three business suits he owned which made me frown.

  “Mase! What’re you doing? You’ll ruin the knee!” I cried watching as he reached inside the suit jacket and pulled out a small box opening it and producing a gorgeous diamond ring.

  Annnd cue more waterworks on my part.

  “Birdie, I love you with damn near my whole heart.” He smirked.

  Through my tears, I smacked his arm and laughed.

  “No, seriously, baby, you have it all.” He smiled at me so sweetly, so lovingly, I choked on another sob. “So, with that all being said, Bernadette Elizabeth Winchester, would you do me the very high honor of becoming my wife?”

  Pretty sure I fainted.

  Chapter 2—Beck

  I remember thinking the first time I laid eyes on Sonya that she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

  We’d met in early October at the Sor-Frat Bash senior year at Penn State. My roommate Paul and I were baseball players not frat boys, but the Bash was always a huge party, so we went every year for the free booze and to watch drunk girls make out with each other.

  Yeah, yeah. I’m a guy. That shit’s hot. Get over it.

  Now, I’d dated my fair share of pretty girls in my life—dated being the equivalent of fucked—and a few I’d even considered to be girlfriends. But not one of them had made me even contemplate getting serious.

  Until I met Sonya.

  Seeing her up on that picnic table dancing so seductively to “Change (In the House of Flies)” by the Deftones, the smile on her face so wide and beautiful, as she slowly waved her arms above her head, her hands and fingers doing some weird rolling motion like she was summoning fairies or some shit, had me mesmerized.

  But here was the thing—and had I not been so captivated by her, I regret to say this probably would’ve been a deal breaker to my shallow twenty-two-year-old self. Sonya wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense of the word. She carried probably an extra ten or fifteen pounds on her medium frame, different from the typical “fit” girls I usually dated. She had long, black hair, which again was different from the blondes I was normally attracted to. And she was tall. I tended to date more petite girls.
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  So what was it about her that caught my eye?

  She was so free in that moment, so happy, and I wanted that for myself.

  I wanted her.

  I’d gone to the table and held my hand out for her to take. When she noticed me, she shot that gorgeous smile down at me then took my hand allowing me to help her down.

  “Thanks, handsome,” she’d said with a laugh then she’d twirled holding my hand above her head as if it’d been I who’d spun her.

  Her long peasant skirt flitted up at the bottom with her revolution and she’d thrown her head back to laugh, which I’d thought made her the most stunning woman I’d ever seen.

  And I was hooked.

  I’d convinced her to go to Merrill’s for coffee and pie with me, where we’d talked until the sun had come up, learning each other. I’d found out that from age seventeen, she’d lived with her aunt and uncle after her mother, father and brother were killed when their car had spun out of control on the ice and slammed into a tree on their drive back from a ski trip in the mountains. She explained that she hadn’t gone because she’d had a job interview at an ice cream parlor which was when she confided she only ate ice cream when she was sad.

  Hearing all this had my protective instincts roaring, and it was as if I subconsciously vowed from that moment on to try to keep her safe always.

  After that, we barely spent an hour apart. I’d been set to graduate with my master’s degree in December, having doubled up on classes the past two years and then taking several summer classes to push things along. I’d sustained a baseball hit to the head the previous season, and when the doctors wouldn’t release me to play again, I’d said, fuck it, and taken all the classes I could. Just before graduating, I’d consequently gotten a job as an industrial engineer in New York City with a major pharmaceutical company. Since Sonya hadn’t completed her degree in sociology—with which she’d planned on becoming a social worker—I’d asked her to go with me, she’d agreed, and we’d decided she’d finish her education after the move.

  Just after Christmas and right before New Year’s, we’d driven the almost three hours to New York City one weekend and found a loft apartment to rent. As a surprise, I’d booked us a room at the Ritz-Carlton at which she’d screamed in glee making me chuckle at her enthusiasm.

  After arriving, though, we’d had a small argument when I explained I needed to leave for a bit.

  “You’re leaving me here in a strange city, in a strange place, all by myself?” she’d questioned, the panic clear on her face.

  “Baby, I got you a spa treatment. While you’re getting all primped up, I’ve got to run an errand. But I’ll be back in less than an hour. Promise,” I’d explained.

  She’d given me her pouty look that I loved, pooching out her bottom lip all cute-like, but I also saw that the idea of the spa had caught her attention.

  “Okay, but only because I’m curious to see what they’ll do to beautify me,” she’d said, cutting her eyes at me.

  “That’s my girl,” I told her, kissing her forehead.

  I’d walked her down to the spa then leaving the hotel, gone a block almost due east to get the surprise I’d planned for her.

  Because she’d had so much hurt in her short life and I loved that the smallest things made her happy, and since she loved Christmas trees—I always teased that she was like that kid in the Home Alone movies—I’d planned a trip that evening to Rockefeller Center. She’d never been and I knew she’d love it.

  So after dinner, we’d taken a cab there and she’d been ecstatic. We rented skates and made our way around the rink several times before I got her to the center where we’d stopped to stare at the tree.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she’d murmured, the reflection of the lights twinkling in her teary eyes.

  “You’re beautiful,” I’d answered from bended knee, retrieving the small blue box from inside my jacket.

  Turning she looked down to see me holding up a ring and I had to chuckle when her mouth dropped open.

  “Sonya Marie Walters, will you do me the greatest honor I could ever have and become my wife?” I asked.

  She’d tackled me to the ice, planting sweet kisses all over my face as she’d whispered, “Yes! Yes!”

  Chapter 1

  “Fuck!” Kyce shouts, shaking his hands. “I said spar, you asshole.”

  He’s always been a little bitch. Baby brother or not, I’m not going to cut him a break. I never have and I’m not about to start now. Standing at a whopping five feet eleven and weighing in at a sparse hundred and sixty-five pounds, the little shit has always been eager to wrangle with me. When he was old enough for me to put him in a headlock and torture the ever-living shit out of him, it became his life goal to beat me fair and square.

  What are brothers for?

  Mom used to get so pissed when he came home busted up, bloodied, and bruised. He did his best to conceal the fact it was me, always blaming someone else, but Mom could see through his lies. She never understood it was his fault. You just can’t run with the big dogs without any repercussions. Hell, I went through the same torment with Jackson, trying to show my worth. Jackson was a shit and taught me how to be a shit. The arrogant asshole knew he was the biggest prick in school and would always bring it home to me.

  I’m six years younger than him, but just as big. Scrapping with him taught me the ropes. Technically, I’m only passing down a favor to Kyce. Not like he needs it. The little shit has soaked in all of my lessons and can stand his ground pretty damn well. He’s gotten good. Too good. So good, I’ve tried talking him into joining the MMAT. But he’s chicken shit. Says he doesn’t particularly care to get beat up for a living even though he comes to all my fights, and as you can see, sometimes he’s my training partner.

  We’ve grown closer since my boy, Matt, moved out of town to North Carolina for his job. Kyce has since become my partner in crime.

  “I am sparring, shithead. Man up.” I chuckle, slamming my gloves together and bouncing on my toes.

  He narrows his frustrated eyes at me. “I’m not Morris Fischer.” It’s his turn to chuckle as the anger melts away to amusement. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his forearm. “Morris Fischer,” he repeats the name. “Who the fuck names their kid that? His mom probably forced him to become a fighter because of the bullies at school calling him names, picking on her precious baby.”

  “You going to put up a fight or fantasize about fucking his mom?” I tease, rousing him. Pissed brother equals pissed fighting with something to prove.

  He shoves his mouth guard back in, raises his gloves closer to his face, and tucks his chin. He steps in and swings, connecting with my glove and then fires off a wide right hook. I duck.

  Told you he’d fall for my pestering him.

  He unloads a flurry of punches as I weave and duck from each. Then vexation saturates the wrinkled lines between his eyes. He drops his hands, his face red. “Man, fuck this.” He rips the gloves from his hands and throws them on the mat.

  I can’t help but laugh at his temper tantrum. “You’re doubting my livelihood.”

  “I’ve trained with you for years and I can’t ever get the better of you,” he snaps, sounding more like a defensive puppy.

  “You’ve won a time or two,” I say.

  He puffs a scowl. “You let me win the first time and the other time your ego was busted up because of Levi. Pretty shitty I can’t win unless you’re wounded.”

  I smirk. “I let you win both times.”

  He shakes his head. His short brown hair, normally gelled up and spikey, lays flat and heavy against his head, drenched in sweat. “Not when Levi handed you your ass on a golden glove.”

  Asshole knows the low blows. Levi didn’t hand me shit. I fucked that up by myself and he was there to take everything from me—my championship, my professional contract, and my dignity.

  “I let you win that, too. Your smile lifted my spirits.” My tone reeks of sarcasm.


  “Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “Your ego is way too big for you to ever let that happen.”

  I slide my gloves off. “What’s with you?”

  He shakes his head, dismissing me with a toss of his hand, and drops out of the ring. I’m at him in a flash, slipping under the ropes and snatching his arm.

  “Dude. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  He bobs his head from shoulder to shoulder and looks away. “Crystal bounced. Not like you care.”

  He’s right. I don’t give a damn about the conniving bitch. She’s had him on a short leash and used him for everything she could think of. But he’s still my brother. “Why?”

  He shrugs a shoulder. “No reason. She spent the night, we had some fun, and when we woke up the next morning, she called it quits. Grabbed her shit and left.”

  “Do you talk in your sleep?” I ask, trying to keep a straight face and do well except for my twitchy lips.

  He closes his eyes, reining in his temper. It’s a Hayes thing—our tempers. It runs very fucking deep in the family along with our eyes. It’s Dad’s dominant genes.

  “I saw it coming weeks ago,” he admits.

  “Did you love her?”

  He looks to his feet. “Wanted to. Does that count?”

  “You can’t force that shit. If it’s there, it’s there. I’d say after what…four months? If you didn’t feel it, that shit wasn’t happening.”

  Jackson was blessed with Dad’s lack of emotions. Poor Kyce was cursed with Mom’s sensitivity even though I tried beating it out of him when we were younger. I swear I tried my fucking hardest. And me, well, I lean a bit more on Dad’s side, but I don’t have a shortage of emotions. I just reserve those for the right person.

  I shove his shoulder. “Good riddance. She wasn’t any good for you anyway.”

  “Good lay.” His eyes smile along with his lips.

  I drop my head back and laugh. “There’s more where that came from.”