Spite Club (Mason Brothers 1)

“What’s the matter with me is that I wasted four months!” I said. “Four months on that jerk! Being nice! He was supposed to be the one! We were supposed to make plans! And he went off and banged some massage therapist with no pants, and you think I should just—should just—”

“Fuck someone,” Nick supplied.

“Is that what you’re going to do?” Oh, God. Suddenly, I had a vision: Nick Mason, naked, in bed. I looked at his perfect mouth, and the dip between his collarbones, which I could see past the neck of his T-shirt, and it was so easy to picture. All that taut, muscled skin. It was all mixed u

p with his muscles and his reddened knuckles and the gravel of his voice, and suddenly my girl parts woke up. I mean woke up. I didn’t even like him, and he’d just insulted me. It was exciting and horrifying at the same time.

“I might fuck someone,” he answered me, oblivious. “I’m still considering. I punched Bank Boy, and that felt pretty good. It’s you who has the anger problem.”

That startled me out of my lust. “I do not have an anger problem.”

“You do,” he corrected me patiently. “Your problem is that you don’t have enough of it. You need to get good and mad.”

“I am already good and mad,” I argued back. “At you.”

“Then take it out on me,” Nick said, immune to my insults. “I’m at a boxing gym every day at five.” He told me an address that I recognized in a not-so-nice part of town. “Come meet me if you want to work up a sweat.”

My reply was immediate. A boxing gym? With Nick Mason? “No way.”

He licked cheese from his thumb, pulled some bills from his wallet, and stood up. “Whatever. See you later, redhead.” Then he turned and walked for the door.

I stared after him, stunned. And I couldn’t help it. I watched his ass as he walked.

It was amazing.

I stared for a long time after he was gone, still picturing it.

Then I ate my damned sandwich.

Three

Nick

A redhead in overalls. Overalls. What the hell?

She wasn’t my type of woman at all. I didn’t really have a type, except maybe “willing to put up with my shit” and “too self-involved to ask questions.” Evie Bates was neither. I shouldn’t have paid any attention to her. I should have just punched Bank Boy, dumped Gina, and moved on.

But I hadn’t. Oh, I’d punched him all right—Gina and I may not have been Romeo and Juliet, but no guy can stay calm at the idea of his girlfriend taking another guy’s dick. And as for dumping her, I suppose I’d made it pretty clear that Gina and I were done.

But then Evie Bates had walked in.

She had brown-reddish hair, brown eyes, clear skin, and a nice, rounded body. She didn’t look like a lingerie model or a party girl, but she didn’t have to. She was very fucking hot in a way I could appreciate, even with Gina’s bare, cheating ass on display.

But I was right when I said she was nice. It came off her like a smell—a nice smell, but still a smell. She was a nice girl, with a nice boyfriend, who was obviously keeping her chin up through the shock and hurt when she caught him fucking someone else. That look on her face when she came through the door made me want to punch Bank Boy all over again.

And again, in the diner, her feelings had been right there. She’d practically put them on the table between us. Feelings were not something I was familiar with. Feelings were not how I roll. Except anger. And when Evie stopped looking hurt and started getting angry, I decided to see if she would agree to come hit me.

So sue me, I was curious. But that’s all it was. I wasn’t about to mess around with a girl that nice.

It was four o’clock in the morning now, and as I let myself into my loft apartment I heard the unmistakable clicking of dog toenails on my hardwood floor. Gina’s fucking dog. Her name was Scout, she was a Chihuahua, and Gina had given her to me because her landlord had implemented a no-pets policy. I didn’t want a dog, but Gina had begged me. There was no one else to take the thing, and it would get put to sleep. So now Scout lived with me.

I opened the door, and she came running, her tiny body wiggling in excitement, her tongue lolling. She stood on her hind legs—she only came to my knee like that—and scrabbled her tiny paws, which I could barely feel through the cloth of my jeans. This meant she wanted to be let out.

“I can’t believe this,” I grumbled at her as I grabbed the leash from the hook, which made her nearly explode with excitement. “Gina cheats on me, and I’m stuck with her stupid dog.” I looked Scout over as I clipped the leash to her pink collar. “Are you even a real dog, anyway? I’m not sure.”

Scout took my insults happily, trying to lick my face before I could stand up again. I dodged her—I knew where she put that tongue. We went outside and she did her business, her happy as fuck, me shivering in the drizzle and tired now as the events of the night set in. A few early-shift people were setting off to work, giving me curious looks as I waited for my Chihuahua with her pink collar to finish peeing. I wished I had a sign saying She’s not my dog, I’m just stuck with her.

I wasn’t a dog person. I wasn’t an anything person. I took Scout back upstairs, gave her some of her kibble, stripped down to nothing but a pair of sweatpants, and lay on my sofa, staring at the ceiling.