Page 21 of Black Roses

From behind, someone speaks softly in my ear. “See—hideous. Is she even house-trained, Mason?”

I turn to give Cassidy a biting stare as she shrugs her shoulders and keeps walking.

“It’s okay, Piper. No harm, no foul.” I show her my injury-free arms, happy the shards of glass didn’t slice through my throwing hand. “Let me see your hands, did you get cut?”

She holds up her hands and I reach out to inspect them, bowled over once again by the warm sparks that ignite between us when we touch. I look up to catch her watching my perusal of her arms. Her breathing stops. She’s just as affected by this as I am. But for some reason, she’s trying her best to hide it.

“Maybe I need that drink after all,” she says, pulling her hands away.

chapter nine

piper

Mason tries to flag down a waiter, but I start to walk away. “It’s okay, I’ll go get them from the bar. Be right back.” Before he can follow me, he gets cornered by somebody who looks important. Somebody who looks like old money. Somebody who is dragging a fashion model behind him.

I turn my attention towards the bar, passing by all the waiters who are offering glasses of champagne. I curse myself for letting Mason and Skylar talk me into this. And meeting his ex? That was a tortuous ordeal. I once again forgot he even had a kid. What am I doing letting myself get involved with someone like that?No—not involved with, just doing a favor for, I reason.

I’m so out of my comfort zone right now I fear anything could set me off. I contemplate bolting out the side entrance. Then I could ditch the five-inch heels and slip into my more agreeable running shoes; falling into that zone where nothing exists but me and my breathing. But morality claims my conscience and I vow to stick it out for Skylar. And maybe a little bit for me.

He said it’ll just take a few hours. I check the large clock on the wall and see that only leaves ninety minutes. Mason Lawrence might be an incorrigible quarterback, but he does seem genuine. He stands up to every good thing I’ve heard about him. And the fact that he enjoyed watching me diss his ex—that was simply an added bonus.

I wait at the bar behind two very large men who seem to be socializing more than ordering. Men who must have had tailor-made tuxedos to fit their burgeoning bodies. One of the men is African-American, sporting long brown dreadlocks that fall far beyond his broad shoulders. The other is all but bald, a tattooed ‘88’ on the back of his neck with the New York Giants logo transposed over the top of it. Don’t these guys sometimes get traded to other teams? And what if his number changes? I remember the pain from getting my tattoo and I wonder just how hard it would be to remove one.

“She likes your ink, Saunders,” a low, burly, Darth-Vader-like voice pronounces.

The man with the tattoo turns around and gives me a face-splitting smile. “Well, what do we have here?” He regards my dress with carnal appreciation. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. Who do you belong to?”

My jaw drops. “I don’t belong to anyone.” I try making myself taller. It’s a futile attempt considering these guys probably tower over me by a full foot, even with my five-inch heels. “Instead of just standing there, how about letting me by for a drink?”

“What are you ordering?” the guy with dreads asks. “Whatever it is, I’m buying.”

I clutch my purse tightly, thinking of the vast emptiness in my wallet. I thought the drinks at these benefit things would be free. All of a sudden sweat dots my upper lip and I feel claustrophobic with these giants hovering over me. I feel the anxiety rising like a slow wave gaining momentum right before it turns into a tsunami. I pivot away from them and notice how crowded the atrium has become in just a few minutes. People are teeming around, making introductions and pointless small talk. I scan their faces, hoping I don’t recognize anyone and praying none of them recognize me.

I find myself frantically looking around the room for Mason. When my eyes spot him, he’s staring directly at me. He looks aghast when he studies me, and he quickly extracts himself from the fashion model trying to drape herself on him. He races across the gleaming marble floors towards me, his long legs churning up the distance between us in just a few strides.

“Relax, honey,” I hear the tattooed man’s voice behind me as a heavy hand grips my waist. “He was just kidding. It’s an open bar.” He runs his hand up my rib cage.

My body stiffens at his suggestive touch. Bile rises in my throat as my knees threaten to buckle. But before the panic outright consumes me, Mason reaches my side, threading his arm around my back while brushing off number 88 at the same time—a guy who’s arguably a hundred pounds heavier than he is. “Piss off, Saunders,” he says. “Go find someone else to reject your ugly face.”

Much needed oxygen fills my lungs as a wave of relief courses through my body. I feel Mason’s strong arm around me, keeping me from collapsing. But what’s utterly confusing is, instead of sending me spiraling further into a full-on meltdown, his touch feels therapeutic. Safe. Pleasant even.

The two burly men walk away, muttering their apologies to me as I beg the floor to swallow me whole. I pray the entire venue didn’t just witness my silent hysteria.

Mason gently escorts me to a quiet corner of the room. Worry darkens his expression. “Jesus, Piper, are you okay? What did they say to you?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head. “It was nothing. They were just being friendly. I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t ruin this for you.” I move my weight back and forth between my feet that are now aching in these pretentious shoes.

“Ruin it forme?” he asks. “Not possible. Besides, I’m the one who dragged you here. I shouldn’t have let you wander off.I’mthe one who’s sorry. I swear I won’t leave your side again. You’ll be safe with me.”

“Safe? You think I need you to keep me safe?” I bite, cringing at the tone I’ve taken with him after he’s shown me nothing but kindness tonight.

A look of dismay flashes across his face, making me feel even worse over my harsh words. Then he laughs it off. “I’ve seen you box, Piper. I’m pretty sure you can handle yourself.”

“You’ve seen me box?” I don’t remember ever seeing him at the gym except for that very first day.

He looks slightly embarrassed, which I find amusing on such a big guy. “I’ve watched you a couple of times, yes.”

My body heats up at the declaration. My first instinct is to tell him not to ever watch me. To‘piss off’as he told those other men. But the way I feel right now—knowing he took the time to notice how proficient I’ve become; knowing he thinks I can take care of myself when nothing can be further from the truth—it’s a strange, yet comforting connection that I’ve only felt with one other person on earth. The one person I abandoned in Barcelona.

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