Spite Club (Mason Brothers 1)

Evie

There was too much sunlight.

I rolled over in bed. I was warm and comfortable, but there was something… wrong about this bed. Something unfamiliar. I rubbed my aching head and stared up at the ceiling, which was also unfamiliar.

It was not my ceiling.

This was not my bed.

My breath stopped in my chest as everything came back to me.

Last night. The party. Oh, God.

It was in a big house, and there had been a lot of people there. Interesting people and great music. There had been fruity drinks, and then shots. New Evie never did shots, but Old Evie… Old Evie came out after the third fruity drink, and downed all of them.

The night had gone downhill from there.

Nick had looked hot as hell in jeans and a leather jacket. We’d acted like a couple, like we’d agreed to, sticking close, but he’d followed the rules. We played it just right, him leaning in to me, saying things in my ear, almost touching me, never going far. He’d introduced me to his friends, who had looked at me with raised eyebrows, because every single one of them knew who I was. Knew who I’d been dating until a few days ago.

It was perfect. We’d caused a quiet little sensation among those people. After the wound-up stress I’d been feeling, it was freeing, and I’d been excited and—okay—really turned on. And his friends were fun. And I’d had a few more drinks, and those shots, then we’d—and then we’d—

I sat bolt upright, making my brains slosh in my head. I was drunk last night, but not so drunk that I didn’t remember. I remembered everything. And Nick and I—

Oh, shit.

I looked around. I started with the window, which showed the sun just coming up. Then the floor, which was strewn with clothes—Nick’s jeans, his jacket, his motorcycle boots thrown in the corner. I very purposefully didn’t look at the body next to me on the bed. If I didn’t look, it wasn’t happening.

Quietly, I lifted the covers and peeked down at myself. I was wearing underwear and a T-shirt—Nick’s T-shirt. It was dark gray with a faded Harley-Davidson logo on the front. I remembered that too—spilling one of the fruity drinks on my shirt, so Nick had given me his to wear instead while he grabbed a shirt from the guy hosting the party. The fruity drink had soaked through the shirt to my bra, so I’d taken that off, too.

Yes, I had done that. I had taken off my freaking bra. At a party with a bunch of strangers and a hot, strange man. I could practically hear my mother screaming in the back of my brain. Not again, Evie!

Don’t panic. Right? Just keep cool. So I’d danced braless at the party to House of Pain’s “Jump Around,” and then we’d gone to Josh’s place, and Nick and I had toilet papered Josh’s nice townhouse condo in his nice neighborhood and let the air out of the tires of his precious Mustang, and then I’d prank called him. And then we’d come back here, and we’d stripped and passed out, and now I was in bed with Nick Mason.

This was not a problem. Everything was fine. It was all fine. This could be contained.

Something landed on the bed, and I jumped. A dog—a tiny dog—climbed onto my lap and started lapping my face with its small, warm tongue. I sputtered and tried to push it away, but it persisted.

The memory came back from last night. The dog greeting us, Nick saying something about having to take her out. He’d gone out briefly while I stripped and got in bed. He said the dog was a girl, and her name was—

“Scout.”

The voice came from the other side of the bed. A low growl, muffled by pillows. My whole body tensed, my pulse going crazy. Do not look. You are not in bed with Nick Mason right now if you do not look. Do not—

“Scout,” he growled again. “Fuck off.”

Scout did a happy jig at the sound of his voice, her buggy little eyes wide with bliss, her tongue lolling out. Her whole body shook with joy. I had never seen a Chihuahua in real life before. It was completely absurd.

“I’ll feed you in a second,” Nick said. “Just chill.”

Scout sat next to my knee, placing her tiny bottom on the comforter and waiting, her tongue still out. She tried to be still.

The room went quiet again. Nothing changed. Because this was happening—I was really here.

I took in the bedroom. It was big and spacious, with a high ceiling—Nick lived in one of those loft places. There was the huge bed, and a window, and a single dresser, with clothes piled everywhere on the floor. The source of Nick’s many worn and mostly unwashed T-shirts, I figured. The entire place screamed Guy living alone.

And the guy who lived here, alone, was still in the bed next to me.

I turned my head and looked at him.