Spite Club (Mason Brothers 1)

Andrew was also the only person I talked to regularly, so I came out with it. “Gina screwed some other guy,” I said. “I caught them together and punched him. Now we’re over. Oh, and I’m stuck with her stupid dog.”

Andrew lowered his coffee and his eyes went wide. “Oh shit.” He paused. “You’re stuck with her dog?”

I glared at him. “You are such an asshole.”

“Okay, okay. I couldn’t help it.” His expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that, man. That sucks.”

We were quiet for a minute. This was our version of an emotional moment.

“At least you punched him,” Andrew finally said. “Did he bleed?”

I flexed my sore knuckles. The anger rose up for a second, pure and red and hot. I’d thought I was done with it, but I needed a session at the boxing gym. “Yeah, he bled.”

Andrew swigged his coffee. His hair and eyes were darker than mine, his face thinner and more sharp because of what he’d been through, his body a little smaller, but otherwise it was like looking in a mirror. “I have to tell you, man, I didn’t think it would work.”

I looked at him, surprised. “You didn’t meet her.” I’d never brought Gina to meet Andrew—I’d never brought any woman, ever, to meet Andrew. I never even told women about him. When it came to Andrew, in my opinion you either earned it or you didn’t, and I’d never yet met the woman who’d earned it.

“No, but when you talked about her—which was almost never—it sounded like you didn’t even like her much.” He shrugged. “Maybe one of these days you should try meeting someone who is actually nice.”

I snorted. And now that word—nice—made me think about Evie Bates. Again. “The guy Gina screwed was cheating, too. I met his girlfriend. I felt bad for her, you know? I took her out for a sandwich.”

Andrew licked a drop of coffee from his lip and raised one eyebrow—a talent he had that I didn’t. “Uh huh,” he said.

“What?” I was instantly on the defensive. “What does uh huh mean?”

“You took the guy’s girlfriend out for a sandwich. Because that’s what you do, take strange women out for sandwiches.”

“I wanted to cheer her up.”

“Uh huh,” he said again. He was such an asshole. “You trying to sleep with her?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“I took a woman out for a sandwich without trying to fuck her, Andrew. Not even a little.”

“So you’re going to try to fuck her next time, then.”

I shook my head. “Dude, she doesn’t even like me. There isn’t going to be a next time.”

He looked skeptical. “What does this girlfriend look like?”

I shrugged. “She’s a redhead. She looked like a redhead.” My brother was steepling his fingers together like a comic book villain and peering at me like he could read my mind, so I said, “Forget it, dickbag. She works in a bank. She’s too decent for me. I just felt bad because he fucked her over, that’s all.”

Andrew was obviously of my gene pool, because he said, “So go put dog shit on his porch or a laxative in his morning latte. Gina, too. They both deserve it. Then try to sleep with the redhead. That’s what I would do.”

“You’re a real role model, you know that?”

Andrew nodded solemnly. “I’ve taught you everything I know, little brother.”

“Mom and Dad would be so proud.”

We both laughed, because the idea of our parents being proud of either of us was ridiculous. Our parents had checked out after Andrew’s accident—it was, apparently, too much for them to handle. There were never two more useless people than John and Rita Mason. The only thing our parents were good for was money, and plenty of it. We’d come into our trust funds at twenty-one, and they’d thrown even more money at Andrew after his accident, because he made them uncomfortable. Me, they just hated.

So my brother had a scheduled caretaker, cleaners, groceries delivered, a home that was fitted for a wheelchair—everything except two parents who gave a shit.

“You need anything before I go?” I asked him.