Spite Club (Mason Brothers 1)

“And you,” Andrew said.

I glossed over the fact that Mom’s visit had left out her other son. I told myself it didn’t matter. “Not likely,” I said.

“It’s likely. She wants to mend fences with you, too.”

“Funny, I didn’t hear my phone ring.”

“Be serious, Nick.”

“I am very fucking serious.”

“Just do me one favor.” Andrew’s voice was on edge now, and I shut up. “If she wants to talk, just talk to her, okay? Listen to what she has to say. That’s all I ask.”

I can’t, she’d said to me at the hospital that last time. I can’t, Nick. I just can’t.

I swallowed down my resentment and my hurt pride and all the other shit. “Okay,” I managed. For Andrew. “If she shows up or she calls, then I promise.”

“Good. You coming over later?”

Someone was coming around the corner of the gym to the parking lot. Someone with familiar red hair. I stood frozen in place. “What?” I said.

“Earth to Mason. You coming over later?”

She was coming closer. Her gaze was fixed on me, and she was walking fast. It looked like I was in big fucking trouble. “I gotta go.”

“Oh, shit. Redhead alert?”

How did he know? “Something like that. See you later.” I hung up and stood next to my car, waiting as she crossed the parking lot toward me. Her hair was down, blowing in the breeze. She was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt tied at the waist, over a white t-shirt. She looked ridiculously fucking sexy. I remembered what every curve felt like, exactly how she’d moved beneath me when I fucked her. Only this woman. Only Evie. I remembered every single fucking thing.

In boxing, it isn’t always about hitting, it’s about taking the hits, too. There’s a certain way to take a hit so it minimizes damage. Your stance, the way you angle yourself so you’re not unbalanced. So you can keep moving, take the hit, and hit back.

I just stood and faced her straight on. Sometimes you don’t dodge, you take it. Even when it hurts.

“Hey,” she said when she got close enough. “You haven’t answered my texts.”

“Evie,” I said.

“Don’t Evie me. I have been texting you. I texted”—she shoved me in the chest, hard—“you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You did.”

“See, Nick, this is how civilized people behave. Civilized people who are not assholes”—she shoved me again—“and who feel bad about wrecking someone’s family dinner, then taking off without a word. Civilized people, when they get a text after that, they answer it. Preferably with the word Sorry.”

I lifted my ball cap, scratched my forehead, then put the cap on again. “I got kicked out of dinner. I didn’t take off.”

“You did!” She was mad. Really mad. Why was it that Evie Bates was only really mad around me? “Where the hell did you go, anyway? I looked for you. Do you have some secret transporter or something?”

“I walked,” I said. “Part of the way, anyway. When I got tired, I called a cab. With my cell phone. No transporter.”

“It was a figure of speech! I couldn’t find you. You just left!”

“Because I was told to leave, remember?”

“Damn it, Nick. You couldn’t just be nice!” She raised her hands to shove me again, but I was quicker this time. I grabbed one of her hands and pinned it behind her back, firmly but gently.

“I’m not nice,” I said, leaning in close to her ear, smelling her hair and her skin and all the other things I remembered. “I’ve never been nice. I will never be nice. You knew that from the beginning. In fact, that’s why I was useful to you in the first place.”

She went still in my grip. From my position, my mouth just below her ear, I could see straight down into the cleavage of her t-shirt. She was mostly covered, but my imagination didn’t need much to go on. I could see the beginning of the shadow between her breasts, and it made me want to pull every stitch of clothing off her. That was how not nice I was.