Page 10 of Mason

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“Oh, those legs, baby!” Rachel’s wolf whistle turns every head in the line outside of Down Under.

I tug at the lace hem of my dress, wishing the cracks in the sidewalk would swallow me. I don’t need extra attention out here in the open. “Rachel, quiet! If any of Papa’s men…”

She rolls her eyes; the lids donning a silver shadow that glistens under the club’s exterior neon lights. “Hush it. You’re safe here. They’re all in bed for the night.”

Papa’s men never rest, but it’s not worth arguing. She won’t understand.

“Please,” I beg, squeezing her hand, the skin chilled from the cool air. “I need to keep buzz to a minimum. It sounds like some shit went down with the family.”

Frowning, she leans in, dipping her glossy mouth next to my ear. “What kinda shit? Like hunting season or something? Are we not safe? Should I run back to my car and get my knife?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, shifting my weight between feet as my stilettos slowly massacre my arches. Terrible choice in footwear. I don’t want to consider that we aren’t, even if it is a very real possibility. Papa has more enemies than friends, meaning I do, too. “All I know is that he didn’t want me going out tonight. I need to be careful. You too, Tits.”

She grins at the nickname, squeezing one of her boobs. “I packed plenty of protection for tonight, honey. Don’t worry. Oscar and I are going all the way.”

I blink, taken aback. “At the club?”

I can think of a million and one places I’d rather have sex than at Down Under, a nightclub whose floors are sticky by the end of the night. Whenever I have sex, that is.

Virginity is a coveted piece of the marriage game, and I have yet to spend a night with a man. I chickened out the one and only time it was a possibility. The crushing weight of Papa’s expectations was a lust killer for me and my then-boyfriend, Eric, who rightfully thought deflowering the Mafioso’s daughter was a surefire way to earn a bullet to the head. He’d barely touched a tit before he practically ran out of the party we were at and never talked to me again. Real confidence booster at seventeen.

Rachel tossed hers away like a chewing gum wrapper her freshman year of high school. The guy definitely didn’t deserve it, either. But she didn’t want to hear that when I tried to talk her out of sleeping with Matt. Any guy that willingly goes by the nickname Rooster isn’t good enough for my best friend. He proved it, too.

“In the alley,” she corrects, huffing as if I suggested Oscar mount her in a sewer.

The line ahead thins rapidly as the doormen turn away a group of prospective partiers. A few are dress code violations in wrinkled suits, while others just seem to get the boot for being drunk douchebags.

Once we reach the front of the line, Rachel squeals and wraps her arms around a short, red-haired bouncer. He’s a little goofy with a face full of freckles and a high-pitched laugh, but he hugs her with respect—not swatting her ass like the bums she’s paraded around in the past. She kisses him with tongue before gesturing between us in a quick introduction. “Emily, this is Oscar. Oscar, this is Emily.”

“Welcome to Down Under.” He presses a gentle kiss to my cheek. Again, respectful. I like him, even if he’s a big fat no in our world and barely reaches my friend’s shoulder.

I nod my greeting, and he steps aside, letting us both slip beyond the door without a cover charge or ID check. Score.

Rachel’s beaming and kisses him again as we pass, whispering something in his ear that makes him so red his freckles vanish.

Inside, the Halloween theme is in full effect, with fog machines and strobe lights mixing in a haze of chaos. If it weren’t for Rachel’s hand in mine, I’d lose her as she snakes through the packed crowd like a pro. She is, in a way. The only thing Rachel does more than chase boys is party.

Most people wear costumes, sticking with the Halloween vibe, though a few girls wear standard club dresses like us. The only thing people have in common is beauty. It’s like we hit a freaking gold mine of good looks tonight. Beautiful girls. Handsome guys. I can’t spot anyone less than a ten in the crowd.

At the bar, Rachel orders us drinks while I stare at the floor, trying to calm my nerves.

Rachel hands me a blue shot, startling me out of my head. “Calm your tits, Emily. You’re fine.”

Chewing my bottom lip, I study the shot glass. “I don’t know if this was such a good idea.”

Papa’s words keep echoing, dusting off anxieties I didn’t know I had. What if I’m not safe? What if this gets me into trouble I can’t get myself out of?

She downs her shot and frowns. “Don’t be a pussy. The Emily I know would punch you in the twat right now.”

I sigh, knowing she’s right. This isn’t me. I’m not afraid of a little rebellion.

Tilting my head back, I down my shot. It’s fruity, and I actually like the taste for a change rather than cringe. “What was that?”

“Blue Balls,” she shouts, trying to compete with “Thriller” remix overhead. “Let’s find Dorian. You need his tongue inside your mouth before I can sneak out with Oscar.”

Is it wrong that I’d hide to avoid Dorian if it meant she didn’t screw some guy in an alley? Does that make me a shitty friend?

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