Page 57 of Black Roses

Hiswords resonate through me.I want it to only be me. Always.

A foreign feeling grips the edges of my heart. I think it might be called hope.

chapter twenty-two

mason

Her hand is warm and inviting in mine. We haven’t parted skin for the entire span of the two-hour movie. And thank goodness it’s dark in the theater, because the way her pinky rhythmically moves against the outer seam of my pants has had me sporting painful wood for the duration.

Even when she takes drinks of the bottle of water I bought her, she manages to maneuver it with one hand, holding the bottle between her legs to cap and uncap it. I’ve never been so jealous of a piece of damn plastic.

Shit.

I remember the reason I bought her the water bottle in the first place.I spill drinks on purpose.

My hard-on quickly deflates as I ponder the reality behind that statement. I’m pretty sure I have an idea of what must have happened. And the thought turns my stomach. It makes me ashamed to be a part of the entire half-population that could even contemplate doing such a thing.

“What a great film,” she says, her voice startling me, but in a kind of fantastic way that pulls me from ugly thoughts.

“It was,” I agree. “They had me fooled. I thought for sure the guy’s brother was the killer.”

“Me, too. I love it when things don’t turn out the way I expect.”

I smile and give her hand a squeeze. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

People excuse themselves to walk past us, so we stand up and join the herd exiting the theater. We continue discussing the film in the lobby when a commotion grabs our attention.

Security guards drag a belligerent man past us. “I paid for a fucking ticket. Same as everyone else,” he yells, kicking at them while they attempt to usher him to the front door. He makes eye contact with me. “You!” he says.

I’m used to getting recognized in public, it’s hardly anything new. But the way he looks at me, it’s not with the normal fan adoration. It’s with disdain. And his pin-point pupils in the dim light alert me to his apparent state of drug-induced inebriation.

“Wait!” a familiar voice calls out.

I, along with the security guards and the rest of the lobby, turn to see who’s yelling.

Cassidy.

She runs up to the two men who have the unruly guy in choke hold. “He’s with me,” she says.

“Then we’re going to ask you to leave as well, Miss,” one of the guards replies.

“Ugh!” She stomps her foot like a tantruming three-year-old. Then she sees me. Her eyes are hazy and unfocused, her tiny pupils mirroring those of the man she’s trying to defend. She’s higher than a kite in trade winds.

“Cassidy,” I say. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Mason!” she says excitedly, shouting too loud for our close proximity. “Tell these rent-a-cops to let Nick go.”

One of the security guards turns to me—recognition becoming apparent as he looks at me. “Are these two with you, sir?”

Funny how throwing around a football, even part-time, earns me that title.

Ignoring him, I ask Cassidy, “Where is Hailey?”

“At my mom’s for a sleepover. Why?”

I turn to the guard. “No. They’re not with me.” I grab Piper’s hand and walk out of the theater.

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