Mason shoots me a stupefied look. “No. Why would I? And why the hell do you care?”
I don’t. Not really. It’s not like I plan on asking her out or ever seeing her again if I can help it. If anything, I want to avoid her at all costs. And after this morning, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want to see me.
Besides, I don’t think my dick would survive another beating. Not the variation she dishes out, anyway.
“I don’t really,” I protest. “I just?—”
“Are you icing your junk because Poor Girl broke your dick or something?” Mason interrupts. “How kinky is the sex you have? Damn.”
He reaches for the bag of ice to assess the damage underneath, but I swat his hand away.
“Damian Jr. isnotbroken,” I grumble. “He’s just sore. And it wasn’t from the sex…” An embarrassed flush creeps up my neck. “Poor Girl kneed me in the boys.”
Just like she did last spring when she confronted me about the list.
Mason blanches, his hand dropping to cup his own testicles in solidarity with my pain. “What a psycho bitch. Wait, is this the same chick who kicked you in the dick that first week back at school after spring break?”
I nod as a dull ache throbs along my hairline, letting my eyes flutter closed. “Yep.” But even as I say it, there’s no heat behind the word.
“Oof.” Mason shakes his head. “Maybe you should start IDing your hook-ups.”
I snort. “Yeah, you might be right about that.”
Beside me, my phone buzzes, trembling with enough force to send it skipping across the table. Only mildly curious, I turn it over and glance down at the screen.
Mein Führer
Your mother and I need to speak with you.
We’ll meet you at Fernando’s for lunch at midday.
Of course, my dad choosesnowof all times, when I’m hungover and stinking of sex, to demand my presence. Dread spreads through my insides like a rush of cold water. Shivering, I push the phone away from me. “Shit. I gotta go. My parents want to meet me for lunch.”
Mason’s dad is also a tightass, so he doesn’t need me to tell him twice to fuck off. Rising, he holds out a hand to fist-bump me. “All right, man. I’ll catch you later.” As he struts out of the kitchen, he throws over his shoulder, “Thoughts and prayers for your disfigured dick. Maybe you’ll get lucky and it won’t be permanent.”
When I flip him off, Mason flashes me a wounded look, holding a hand to his heart. With a demented cackle, he finally leaves, and I exhale a breath of relief once I’m alone again. Unfortunately, that relief is short-lived, blasted into oblivion when my phone buzzes once more.
Swallowing, I pull it toward me, scowling down at the message.
Mein Führer
Don’t be late.
I roll my eyes. “Whatever you say, Hitler.”
One phone call multiplied by the number of steps it takes me to get home = the amount of time I have to panic about what could be wrong with Mom.
I’m out of breath by the time I step through the front door. Conwick’s campus is only a stone’s throw away, but my legs are aching after speed-walking in heels for four blocks, and my hangover is somehow getting worse despite the caffeine weaving its way through my veins like a drug. My head aches, and a stitch forms in my left side as my body mistakes my rush to get home as exercise.
“Mom?” I push the door shut and kick off my shoes, throwing my head back and sighing at the soothing sensation of my bare feet on the worn floorboards. God only knows what I look like right now, but I feel like day-old reheated trash. Thankfully, Mom’s never been one to shame.
“In here, Lex.”
At the sound of her voice, my heart jumps into my throat. Despite how she was on the phone, I’m still taken aback by her tone, which is fraught and wavers, holding none of its usual steadiness. Okay, something isdefinitelywrong. Even in her darkest hours, Mom has always kept her cool. Nothing ever fazes her, which is why she’s the perfect relaxed yin to my somewhat—who am I kidding,very—uptight yang. My person I go to for everything.
My rock.
The fear that propelled me here sloshes in my stomach like acid, and my mouth is unbearably dry as I shuffle into the living room, like an inmate on death row being escorted to their execution. Mom sits on the mustard-yellow three-seater sofa, her back as stiff and straight as a board, her hands clamped together in her lap like a triggered bear trap. She’s unnaturally still, and her knuckles are milk white from how tightly her fingers are straining as they cling to each other.
