Page 36 of Making It Burn
“You have no idea,” I whispered.
As we drove through Richmond’s empty streets, I stared at my phone.Four unread messages from Beau.My thumb hovered over them.
Then, I turned my phone face-down on my lap and closed my eyes.
When I got home, I’d hate myself enough for both of us.
ChapterSeven
Beau
Iwoke up to sunlight stabbing through my eyelids like tiny ice picks and a headache that felt like someone had used my skull for drum practice.
“Fuck,” I groaned, rolling onto my side and immediately regretting it as my stomach lurched.
Tequila.Why did it always have to be tequila?
I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, squinting at the too-bright screen.11:47 AM.Jesus.And seven—no, eight—unread messages in my thread with Mason.
My stomach dropped for reasons that had nothing to do with alcohol poisoning.
I scrolled up, reading what drunk-Beau had sent, and wanted to die.
Mason, where’d you go?- 10:52 PM
Are you okay?- 10:55 PM
Did I do something wrong?- 11:08 PM
I’m sorry if I pushed too hard - 11:23 PM
That kiss though - 11:31 PM
Forget I said that - 11:31 PM
I mean, don’t forget it because it was amazing but - 11:32 PM
Okay, I’m going to stop texting now - 11:47 PM
“Oh, my God.”I pressed my face into my pillow and contemplated suffocation as a viable life choice.
No responses from Mason.Not a single one.Just my increasingly desperate messages sitting there like a monument to my complete lack of chill.
The worst part?I remembered all of it.Every second.The way Mason had looked at me across that bar, surprise and something darker flickering in his eyes.The shots and the dancing.Oh, and the way his hands had felt on my shoulders, then my hips, then my back, pulling me in closer like he couldn’t help himself.
And that kiss.
Holy shit.Mason Price kissed like he was trying to prove something—like he’d been holding back for so long that when he finally let go, it was explosive.Demanding.Perfect.
And then he’d run.
I rolled onto my back, staring at my ceiling.The same ceiling I’d stared at last night after stumbling home alone, confused and hurt and still tasting him on my lips.
My stomach growled, loud and insistent, reminding me I’d skipped dinner last night in favor of liquid courage and bad decisions.
I needed food.Greasy, hangover-curing food.The kind that would soak up the regret currently sloshing around in my gut.
I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen, already knowing what I’d find: a refrigerator containing three beers, half a container of leftover pad thai, and condiments.Lots of condiments.
