Page 12 of Mason

I squirm under his gaze as his eyes practically burn through me. He could give Papa a run for his money with that stare. “Okay, how about fuck off?”

He grins wolfishly, making the knot tighten low in my belly. “That’s more like it.”

I groan, pushing off the bar. “Did Rachel and Oscar send you? Look, I don’t need sympathy drinks. I can pay for my own shit.”

I can’t believe her. She’s wasting both of our time.

He scratches his cheek; the hard planes of his face shadowed with stubble. “The only Oscar I know is a killer, kitten. I don’t know a Rachel, either. Sorry to disappoint.”

I press my lips together tightly, studying him. He’s older—maybe early thirties—with hints of crow’s feet nipping at his eyes. He’s attractive, sure, but in a dangerous way, like the villain of an action movie that specializes in looking irresistible during murderous rampages. “Who are you?”

“Just an admirer of pretty things,” he teases, lifting a beer to his lips I hadn’t noticed in his other hand. He carries himself with catlike grace, every move slow, as if he’d spook me. And he does. My fight-or-flight instinct is through the fucking roof.

“What’s your name?” I take a step back and gulp my drink, trying to steel the rubbery feeling in my knees.

If he is not friends with Oscar, then he’s probably one of the Southern Mafia men, and he needs to be as far away from me as possible. I’m not well-versed with Papa’s business, but I know we don’t cross paths with that group for a reason. Particularly the Carlyles. It’s precisely why Rachel is out of her damn mind to fool around with Oscar, regardless of how respectful the man is. He could get her into a mess of trouble. She doesn’t know who he is or if he has any loyalty to a faction.

His eyes squint, and I swear there’s a twinkle in his nearly black irises. “Are you a reporter? What’s with all the questions?”

“You bought me a drink. I’d like to thank you properly.” It’s a lie, but I don’t care. I’ll do anything to shake an answer out of him. We’re in a room packed with people, but it feels like it’s just the two of us. He’s sucking up all the oxygen.

“You already thanked me, kitten.” He splits his smirk into a full-fledged smile as he takes a step back. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Emily Rose.”

Goosebumps riddle my arms. “Wait, how do you…?” I ask, but he slips into the crowd before I can get the entire question out.

No one calls me Emily Rose except for my parents. Generally, with a side of lecturing.

I need to get home.

Now.

I down most of my drink to take the edge off and set the nearly empty glass on the bar top before heading into the crowd to find Rachel. I might even sneak her into the house with me tonight for safekeeping. That man more than tripped my danger alarm. He has predator written all over his angled face and makes Jason Voorhees look like Mr. Rogers.

Weaving through throngs of partygoers, I pass Dorian, who’s still seeking undiscovered life at the back of someone’s throat, though now it’s a redhead in a bee costume instead of the blonde.

Good riddance. I don’t want a guy who bounces from girl to girl.

Rachel said she planned on hooking up in the alley, but I doubt she’s gone outside in the brief time I’ve been at the bar, so I wander the club searching for her. Even in the foggy conditions, she should be easy to spot in her glitter explosion of a dress.

My heart thunders in my ears over the music, my body still humming in panic after the exchange with the stranger. I check the dance floor, booths, and lounges, searching the faces that seem to blend together.

When I come up empty-handed, I cut through the middle of the club, getting more annoyed as the fog grows thicker and hampers the search. I’m exhausted, and the creepy stranger situation aside, I just want to go home and sleep.

“Dammit, Rachel,” I mutter, flustered when my third and fourth laps are equally futile. My heels feel like cinder blocks.

I really don’t want to interrupt her fucking Oscar, but I have no other choice as I lumber to the hall leading to the bathrooms and emergency exit. We left our phones in the car with our coats and bags, so I can’t even text her a warning. I’ll have to face my fears and jump headfirst into the fire. I just hope she has her dress on and that I won’t see any freckled man parts tonight.

Stumbling down the hall, most people mind their business, though a few stop to eye me, including a handful of men who lick their lips as they not so subtly check out my exposed cleavage. I flip them off, continuing along to push the metal door at the hall’s end wide and step into the alleyway.

“Rachel! Stop fucking Oscar! We need to go home!” I moan, resting a hand on the building’s brick exterior.

My head throbs, and dizziness joins the exhaustion to complete the trifecta of misery. I drank too much too quickly, and now I’m screwed. I don’t even know how I’ll climb back up on the roof like this. I’ll wind up falling off, no doubt. “Please, Rachel!”

I scan the dark alley, but the lovebirds are nowhere to be found. Only dumpsters and trash bags keep me company. Likely rats, too, but I don’t want to think about that or I’ll end up back inside and no closer to getting home.

Listening for moans, I inch along, barely supporting myself with an arm as the world spins. This is probably from the shot Rachel bought. She likely ordered a damn triple to loosen me up.

“Rachel?” I call, pressing a hand to my stomach when a wave of nausea hits. “Rachel, come on! This isn’t funny!”

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