Page 60 of Mase
Reed: Don’t be sorry. You’re the lucky one. This is literal hell.
Lucky? He knows damn well Laya has been suffering all week. Besides, this is the best damn party around. I made sure of it.
Mase: You’re a dick.
Reed: You’re not the one with a stinking, short-ass horse grunting at him, and a moaning child attached to you by a rein.
I can’t help the snort that leaves me. This is classic.
Mase: It’s a donkey, dumbass.
Reed: What the fuck ever. Can you come take over?
Mase: No.
I grin to myself as he glances around the lawn again, pleading for help.
Reed: Tate! You either come and take your turn or I’m abandoning the animals.
Shaw: Mase, there’s more than one animal?
Reed: I can assure you there is and she’s the loudest.
Oh, hell no. I imagine Shaw flipping his shit at Reed’s analogy. He’s such a coldhearted bastard sometimes.
Tate: I’m doing my childcare part.
Reed: You’re playing soccer with my son.
Tate: Exactly. You always moan about this, and Bryce said I’m a better coach than you, so…
Reed: You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know a damn thing about soccer.
Tate: Bryce seems to think I do.
Tate: Apparently, I’m the best.
Tate bites his lip as Bryce takes another shot at him, and he quickly stuffs his phone into his pocket.
Reed pinches the bridge of his nose, then in an Oscar-worthy action, he drops his head back with a loud groan. “That’s it! I’m fucking done!” he declares, throwing his arms up.
My chest vibrates with uncontrollable chuckles.
Oh, this is about to get good.
THIRTY-SIX
REED
“Ree-Ree. Cake?”
Jesus, this kid has issues. So many fucking issues, I think she needs therapy. Already.
“Ree, cake!” She points again toward the cake. She’s like a broken record.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I stare down at the response from Tate.
Tate: Exactly. You always moan about this, and Bryce said I’m a better coach than you, so…
