Mack wrinkles her nose. “Your breath. Did you empty the plane of all brown-colored liquor?”
“Maybe. After I banged the stewardess in the bathroom a few times.”
I don’t know why I say it. Scratch that—I do. I want a reaction from McKenna, the more fiery the better, and I anticipate that scandalized flush to her cheeks that always happens when I lob something inappropriate her way.
C’mon, Mack. I know you’re still in there.
She meets my gaze with a mild expression. “Congrats on the Mile High Club. I’ve been there many times.”
I refuse, refuse, to have any flush of any damn kind hit my face, so I turn away from her and stalk over to my boys who are watching their instruments be carried out and inspecting them.
East catches my eye as I sidle up to him. “Hey.”
I nod in return, ignoring the stiffness that’s befallen this band since last year. I know what it is, even if they don’t. Once Rex and East found their women and made their families, their attention tore in half. One-hundred percent could no longer be given to our band. Wyn and me, though, being single AF, still devote an insane amount of time and energy to keeping Nocturne Court afloat, successful, and all the background suits in charge of our money happy, and this has made each band member’s effort uneven and severely imbalanced.
It builds resentment.
A black feeling I dislike associating with my boys, guys who’ve been with me since the preteen years, has formed in my chest, but I refuse to accept that once multi-platinum success is achieved, we’ll all go our separate ways.
I wish Rex and East felt the same.
“All good?” I ask Rex as he bends to lift his second guitar case. He passes me mine.
“Yep. Let’s roll,” he says, barely sparing me a glance as he strides by.
My eyes narrow. The bourbon thins my blood. “You got something to say, man?”
Rex throws a look over his shoulder, not slowing his pace. “Nope.”
“Mase.” East lays a hand on my shoulder. “Ease up.”
“Ease up?” I throw his hand off. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Yet,” Wyn mumbles. “Mase, come with me. Get in the car.”
I cast around the area, noticing assistants, agents and managers busying themselves with their own things and expending extra effort in not looking in my direction. Everyone except for Mack, who stands in the thick of it and watches me with interest.
Brax is the only one who dares to touch me again by grabbing my arm. I stumble back against his yank and I’m ready to rip him a new one—
“Don’t do this again, Mase,” Brax says, but only so I can hear. “Not in front of your girl. Hear me?”
“Lay your hands on me again and I’ll—”
“Punch my lights out, kick my dick into my throat, eat my kneecaps, yeah. I’ve heard it all before. Get in the car, drink some water.”
The exasperation with which Brax meets my threat does nothing to temper my rage. In answer, I kick my guitar case across the tarmac. Some poor, young, assistant soul jumps back with a yelp. Mack covers her mouth with her fingers at the action, but displays no further emotion.
I’m close to snarling when Brax shoves me into the backseat of a waiting black SUV, and I can’t keep on my feet. I fall into the leather, nearly face-plowing into the luxury stitching.
“You’ve got a concert to play at. Fans to greet. Fucking act like it,” Brax says, then pushes me farther in to make room for East.
“I’m fine,” I say, but accept the cold bottle of water passed through the front by Wyn.
“We know,” Rex says as he hops in the other side. He pushes me into a seated position in the middle. I let him, because the space is too small and crowded to throw a decent punch.
“You’re the most put together of all of us,” Rex says sarcastically, then glances behind us. “I sure hope bringing Mack along was a good idea.”
I follow Rex’s stare and see Mack standing on the tarmac, highlighted by our car’s rear lights. Once I register her expression, my upper lip curls in distaste.
Pity is something we both left behind in our teenage years. She has no right to pull it out now.
“She’s the greatest mistake I ever made,” I mumble.
Nobody knows how to respond that. Fuck, neither do I.
Maybe, it was never in question.
14
McKenna
High School
Senior Year
Long fingers streak into my vision and steal my french fry.
I slide my gaze up to meet the culprit, and I sigh. He’s late, but there he is. Mason.
He stands at the side of my table, his ripped denim jacket, messy hair and multi-colored bruised eye a far cry from the kids screaming their mirth as they play in the indoor jungle gym.
“When you said to meet you at McDonald’s,” he says, “I thought you were joking.”
Grabbing another fry, I say before popping it into my mouth, “I found the irony in it.”
Mason cocks his head. “Do you have some funny in you, Beckley?”
I answer, with a flat expression, “I hate Big Macs.”
“I see.”
Mason doesn’t move. He’s trying to figure me out. Good. At least I’ve gained his quiet attention for an additional two seconds before he remembers to switch to asshole mode.
I ask, “Why didn’t you call me by my horrible nickname just then?”
At last, he moves, his proximity no longer causing little tingles along my arm closest to him. He takes a seat across from me, scanning the place. “Honestly? It seems wrong to call you that in this establishment, with all these innocent kids running around. Wouldn’t want to teach them bad manners.”
I close the book I was studying and set down my highlighter. “How benevolent of you.”
“Guess you’re still pissed.” Mason reaches over for another fry, but I slap his hand away.
“You’re here to study with me, not steal my food along with my dignity. Where are your books?”
Mason shrugs. “Don’t have any.”
“You don’t have any—” I cut myself off on a low sound of frustration. Of course he doesn’t. I spin, then push, my English book over to his side of the table. “Can you at least read?”
“Oh, my. Direct hit.” Mason palms his chest in a mock gasp. “Did Ronald McDonald lend you his balls for the evening?”
I bite back a sigh. “Consider this neutral territory. You spend an hour resisting becoming a taunting dick, and I’ll use the same amount of time to help you pass our English exam. Then we can part ways and act like this never happened, until the same time next week.”
Mason ponders this. “Fine. But as soon as you step out onto that sidewalk, I’m pouring a soda over your head.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. At least it’s not a hot beverage.”
One of Mason’s lower eyelid twitches at my last statement, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was guilt over tossing my coffee all over my shirt the first time we spoke.
But, I know better. And the way to deal with Mason is to pretend he’s someone else and turn him into someone lot less intimidating.
Like a toddler who’s failing kindergarten and needs help figuring out his shapes.
Staring at his features, all harsh angles and hard life knocks that somehow make him beautiful isn’t doing me any favors, so I start. “So. Catcher in the Rye. Can you summarize—”
“Is that honey beside your ketchup?”
I blink. “What?”
“That.” He points to a golden, sticky puddle I made on my cheeseburger wrapper, next to a dollop of ketchup.
“Yes. Why?”
“What do you use it for?”
“Mason, really. Don’t waste my time.”
“I’ll shut up as soon as you tell me why you have honey sharing real estate with a cheeseburger.”
I sigh. “It’s for my fries. I like dipping them in honey sometimes. Not
always ketchup.”
One side of Mason’s face screws up. “The fuck?”
One corner of my mouth nestles wryly in my cheek. “Don’t knock it ‘till you try it.” I take a breath. “Or, tell the entire school I douse my fries in sugar before eating them to pad my fat ass, I don’t care anymore.”
“Hey, now.” Mason sits back in the uncomfortable metal chair. “I thought you said this was neutral territory.”
“It is.” I shove the cheeseburger wrapper farther to the side. “Can we get to what’s important?”
“Let me try it.”
“Huh?” I can’t tell if he’s being a jackass. “Mason, I’m not here because I want to be and I really don’t want to play any of your sick games—”
“I’m serious. Let’s see what all your fuss is about.”
Before I can object, Mason reaches for a fry and swipes it into the honey, popping it into his mouth and chewing it the way guys do. Meaning, barely one crunch down before it’s swallowed whole.
“Hm.” Mason licks his lips. “Pretty good.”
The tip of his tongue darting across his full lower lip makes me blink. I pretend to flip through my notebook to distract myself. “I’m happy for you.”
“Can I have another?”
I look up from my notes. “You didn’t feel like you needed to ask permission before.”
He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I’m asking now.”
I throw a hand over my remaining fries and drag them closer. “Get your own, Payne.”
Mason’s eyes shutter. His jawline turns hard and thick. Then he motions to my papers. “Nah. You’re right. I’m good. Let’s get down to it.”
My fingers pause in the flipping of pages. I search Mason’s flat expression.
He must feel it, because he shoves back in his chair, crossing his arms, and I’m suddenly witness to the emotional storm cloud forming at his hairline and smoking forward until it darkens his eyes.
“You gonna get started, Big Mack, or are you about to go mute and useless on me like you usually do?”
Mason can’t afford to buy his own food.
The thought hits my mind the same time I instinctually work to school my features into a blank slate, but I’m too late.
“What’s your problem?” he asks. There’s a dangerous twist to his question.
“Nothing.” I straighten, finding renewed interest in scribbling down a bunch of nothing. “Take my fries. Whatever. I don’t care.”
His low voice is like a cold mist billowing over my head and shoulders, goose-pimpling my flesh. “I don’t want your fucking fries.”
“Well, I’m done with them. They’re cold and gross, so if you want them—”
I gasp and jump back in my seat when his hand swipes my food off our table and it all scatters to the ground. “I said I don’t want your fucking fries, Big Mack!”
“Mason!” I say.
He stands. “And I don’t want your fucking pity, either.”
“O-Okay. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Don’t apologize for anything.” He palms the table and leans forward so he’s in my face, and I try not to flinch. “Stop being such a goddamned doormat.”
My hand clenches around my pen. “I’ll stop being scared of you when you stop snarling in my face, Mason.”
Our eyes duel for a few seconds. I don’t feel my breath. Saliva has disappeared from my mouth and throat. Hot, dry fire replaces it, and I’m confused whether staring into the depths of his cerulean blues is causing tingles of fear, or if I’m actually turned on by this jerk.
At last, Mason backs off. “Session’s over.”
I bite out, “Clearly,” before cleaning up what remains on the table. My breath comes back.
Mason stalks away, his heavy steps crushing my now inedible food into the stained, worn down tiles.
I remain seated, planning on ensuring Mason’s complete departure before I move another muscle the same way he probably wants to be rid of my company, but we’re both sidelined when the entrance door is pulled open, and a young, scraggly guy with a bunch of other guys stumbles in.
“Mase!” the scraggly leader says. He’s lean—too thin for his height, his cheeks concaved and pockmarked. When he turns to Mason, I catch the color of his eyes, and freeze when I notice they’re the exact same shade as Mason’s. “Glad I caught you, bro.”
Mason comes to a full stop between the tables, peppered throughout with patrons. The air around him shifts, almost becoming a tangible ice cube bordering his body. His voice is frost when he asks, “What are you doing here, Brax?”
This boy—Brax—digs through his filthy jeans’ pocket, losing his balance a few times as his fingers fumble. “Texted Amy. Said you were here. Meeting…”
Blearily, Brax scans the crowd, but the action is too much and he stumbles into a woman trying to eat nearby. “S-sorry ma’am. There. Meeting that chick. The hot and thick one.”
My cheeks turn to fire. Brax cackles.
Mason’s lips have formed into such sharp lines, they’ve become barbed wire. He tries to hook Brax’s elbow. “Let’s go.”
“No, bro.” Brax weaves out of Mason’s grip, then gestures to the guys behind him. “I’m here with my friends. We’re gonna … what we gonna do, boys? We’re gonna … oh, I know!”
Brax reaches behind his jacket to the waistband of his jeans and pulls out a—
“Gun!” someone screams.
The entire restaurant freaks out, some ducking under tables, others sprinting for the door. I slide from my seat to the floor, hiding under my table, since I’m too far away from the doors. My heart skitters to keep up with my movements, but I’m having trouble breathing. I’m clutching the table’s stand like I can unbolt it and launch the thing at this Brax.
Mason dives for Brax, toppling him to the ground. “Jesus—it’s not a gun! It’s not a gun!”
But it’s too late. Outright panic blankets the restaurant, phones are pulled out and people are stepped on and shoved out of the way to escape. Children cry.
I curl up my legs, tears running down my cheeks even as I register Mason’s yells.
“It’s his wallet! For fuck’s sake, he’s pulled out a black wallet!”
He’s on top of Brax, scanning the crowd frantically, most likely in the hopes that nobody—undercover or otherwise—pulls out a retaliatory weapon. In his right hand he clutches something dark, and I lean forward to see closer and realize that, yes, it’s a wallet. Not a gun.
I crawl out from under the table. “He’s right, it’s not a gun! Everyone, please, stay calm!”
“Mack, get the fuck back under that table right now!” Mason bellows.
I jolt, but stand my ground. Especially when staff members sprint toward Mason and his captive. I scream, over and over, that it’s not a weapon, it’s a misunderstanding, but nobody hears me. When the cops crash in, manhandling Mason and throwing him over a table to lay cuffs on him, I dart forward, trying to reason with the officers.
Mason is red fury under their hands. “Get out of here, Mack! Just go! Before this gets worse!”
“It’s already worse!” I scream. “I can help! My dad knows some powerful lawyers—”
Half Mason’s face is mashed into the table as he’s read his rights, but he manages to spit fireballs of fury at me. “Get away from me, Mack!”
I trip back a step, glancing over to where Brax is being contained. He’s shoved against a window and searched.
“Lookee here,” one officer says. He holds up a white baggie that he’s pulled out of one of Brax’s back pockets. “We’ve caught ourselves a junkie.”
“Or a dealer,” another officer, closest to Mason, responds. “See how much that is? Jesus. You are in some deep shit, boys. Deep fucking shit.”
“It’s mine,” Mason says, his mouth crammed against the laminate table. “He was holding it for me. Arrest me, not him.”
What?
“Mason has nothing to do with it,” I blurt.
“He was with me. We were over there, studying, and this guy came in and accosted him—”
The officer holding down Mason takes the time to glance up at me. “You mean, Mason Payne, miss? The boy who spends more time in my holding cell than at home with his momma? Or are you talking about his brother, Braxton Payne, who has more dope in his system than a washed-up rockstar? Or hey, what about his deadbeat pops, Jasper Payne? Why don’t you alibi all of them while you’re at it? They sure are upstanding citizens that need people like you to protect them.”
My mouth opens and closes. “I…but Mason didn’t do anything. I’ve been with him…”
The officer lifts Mason by his cuffs, yanking him to the point that Mason winces when his shoulder joints are pulled, but he goes willingly.
When Mason’s facing me, I lift my hand. To touch him, to stop the officer from hurting him, I don’t know. “Mason…”
Dead eyes meet mine. All emotion is wiped clean. “Listen to me, McKenna. I’m rotten. I’ll poison you from the inside out. Run away, because I’ll destroy you if you don’t.”
I gulp down the ball of saliva lodged in my throat and respond, “Don’t say anything else. Nothing at all. Not until you get a lawyer.”
As Mason is carted away, he looks over his shoulder, keeping his attention on me.
His tone is flat when he says, “Leave. Now. You don’t belong in my world.”
15
Mason
The concert is a blow-out.
I mean that in a good way. Huge arena, screaming fans, massive pyrotechnics and exploding music—Tokyo knows how to get it done.
I lose myself on stage and become someone other than Mason Payne. Or, maybe I’m still that guy, just a juiced-up version with no past or future, only present tense, with the sole motivation of living through music, jamming with lyrics, and sweating through a detox.
With the amount of liquor I ingested on the plane, I should be comatose in a horse stable somewhere, but my body knows better than to betray me on a concert night. We got it together, especially after one last whiskey shot before hitting the stage, my fingers loose and able on my bass as I assist East on his drums in our opening song.
Strum Me Page 9
