Page 11 of Mason

I groan but let her pull me through the crowd toward the dance floor where a collection of creatures gyrate to the music. With a little more booze in me, I’d likely ignore a vampire grinding against a sexy cow, but since I’m only one drink into the night, the spectacle brings on a case of the giggles, earning daggers from Rachel. This is her domain, and there’s no room for my immaturity.

I set my shot glass on a passing waitress’s tray and spy Dorian standing against the wall, looking as bronzed and beautiful as ever in a plunging white v-neck and pressed slacks. His tongue is also in the mouth of a leggy blonde in figure skater costume, sending my heart right into a meat grinder.

Well, there goes my night.

I see him before Rachel does, who shrieks once she does. “Oh my God, Emily!”

But it’s too late.

I’m too late.

Our casual flirting was just that to him—casual. Not that it stops my heart from cracking down the center. I liked him. Our laughs. Hugs. Winks. They meant something to me.

“Oh, babe!” Rachel wraps her arms around me, blanketing my body in her sweet perfume. “I’m so sorry! Do you want me to punch her? I’ll knock that bitch into next week!”

“What? No!” I push free, fighting back tears I have no business producing. It isn’t anyone’s fault but my own. Papa taught me to take what I want, and I let Dorian slip through my fingers. If I wanted him, I should’ve gone after him sooner. “I just need a second, and I’ll be okay. Go find Oscar.”

My drama shouldn’t ruin her night, too. We just got here. There’s plenty of time to forget this still.

She squeezes me again, her dark barrel curls tickling my shoulders as she leans in, a good six inches taller than me despite us both wearing heels. “I can’t leave you like this.”

“I’m fine,” I reassure, trying to convince myself at the same time as her. “I don’t want a man that kisses like a fish, anyway.”

She laughs, wiggling me as the humor shakes her thin frame. “I love you, Emily. We’ll find you a hottie. Don’t worry. I’ll see if Oscar has any friends.”

I sigh, pulling away again. “I can’t date any of them. You know that.”

“Italian friends,” she corrects, grinning. “With a big salami for you to choke-”

“Enough!” I wave her off, dangerously close to losing myself in giggles again. “Go hang out with Oscar. I’ll get another drink and dance out of this funk.”

That’s all it takes to send my best friend of ten years scampering into the crowd, leaving me alone with front row seats to Dorian’s mouth-to-mouth catastrophe. He’s really getting into it, sweeping his entire tongue into the poor girl’s mouth while she clutches onto him and practically chokes. It’s the exact opposite of my dream kiss.

Forcing down a laugh, I weave through the packed club to the bar and order a Bay Breeze. As much as it sucks to be back at square one in my pursuit of anyone but Steven, I have to look on the bright side. I’m dodging a terrible kisser, at least. If I’m going to be stuck with someone for life, they better know how to kiss. I can’t spend sixty years sucking face with that thing.

I watch the bartender work, envying her as she buzzes around grabbing bottles. From her short, lavender hair to her full-sleeve tattoos, she screams free. She’s living my dream, working and looking exactly how she wants. She doesn’t have to worry about maintaining a certain image or finding a husband. I’d trade my family name and all its money to be her. To answer to no one but myself. In my world, I’ll always answer to someone. First Papa, and eventually, a husband. The thought makes me nauseous.

“Why the long face?” a deep voice rumbles.

I flinch at the man beside me. Tall and serious, the dark-haired stranger’s eyes are nearly as ebony as Papa’s. He isn’t in a costume, wearing head to toe black instead. A tailored shirt. Dress pants. Expensive loafers. He’s put together, unlike a lot of the meatheads around in jeans and graphic tees. Even Dorian and his freaking v-neck.

I shake my head, pulling my eyes from his to stare back at the bartender. The pools are hypnotic, but I don’t feel at ease when I look into them. They’re too deep. Too dark. Too murky. “Sorry. I must’ve been lost in thought.”

The bartender slides my drink across the marble counter, but before I can hand her my twenty, the man slips her a fifty and lifts my glass. He extends it out to me with his palm shielding the top from the glittered confetti that shoots out of an ill-placed cannon above. The object of my envy smiles when he tells her to keep the change and winks.

A knot lodges in my belly, and I keep the twenty outstretched toward the bartender. “You don’t need to do that.”

Men don’t buy drinks without expecting something in return, and while the stranger is definitely attractive with dark, tousled hair giving him that broody rocker vibe, just standing next to him makes my chest a little tight. And not in a good way. It’s like taking a turn a little too fast in the rain while driving.

The stranger waves a dismissive hand. “I want to. Now tell me why you’re upset, kitten.”

His accent is almost pure Mississippi, the low voice drawling out the words, but with a still-familiar kick. When we moved here from Chicago a decade ago, growing accustomed to the slower speech was hard. Now, I love listening to it, but this man’s accent said southern by the way of Chicago.

Frowning, I slip the twenty back into my cleavage and take a quick sip of my drink. “I’m no one’s kitten, sir. But thank you for the drink.”

“Sir?” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Such impeccable manners.”

It’s a habit more than manners. Papa and Mama drilled me with proper protocol so much that now it’s just natural. But he doesn’t need to know that. If anything, he needs to back off whatever he’s up to before I punch him in the face.

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