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I laugh when Mase slouches and unbuttons his slacks, ready to reveal his junk to everyone if needed.
“Nobody is showing their nuts tonight!” Coach yells, and Mase buttons his slacks.
Ryan turns around in his seat, deathly afraid of the Wrath of O’Brien. He’s like a teacher’s pet. Never wants to get into trouble.
About ten minutes go by, and I turn to Mase again, knowing damn well I should just shut up. “Did she say if Callie went to the doctor?”
Mase shifts his gaze from the screen to me, silent for a moment, and then he rolls his eyes. He doesn’t want to be part of this. “You need to talk to her about that.”
“I’ve tried.”
He raises an eyebrow. “No, you haven’t.”
“Okay, I haven’t.” I sigh and turn toward him, wanting to plead my case. “It’s just a misunderstanding.”
“What’s a misunderstanding?” Remy looks over the seat again. “Did you fuck her best friend or something?”
Mase punches Remy’s seat. “Ami’s her best friend.”
“Yeah,” I defend. “Don’t be nasty.”
Remy laughs. “This coming from the guy who wrotesuck meon his dick with a Sharpie and sent the picture to everyone in his contacts.”
I give them both a blank stare. “I was drunk.”
“No, you were not,” Mase points out. “That was first thing in the morning.”
“Can we just focus? There’s more pressing matters here.”
“Yeah, like your fuckin’ face, man,” Ryan adds. “You look like a pirate.”
I forgot about the stitches and the black eye. I kick the back of his seat. “Looks better than your goddamn hair. Who are you tryin’ to be anyhow, Justin Bieber?”
“I look better than you.”
He’s probably right.
“Stop talking to me,” Mase says, adjusting a new pillow. “I need my beauty sleep so I can fuck my girl when I get back.”
I hate him. I really do.
While he sleeps, I think about how I’m going to redeem myself. It needs to be good so if you have any ideas, I’m all ears.
* * *
The more I think,the more I obsess. It’s around one the next morning when I get back to my condo, and even then, given it’s the first time I’ve seen my bed in weeks, I can’t sleep because doing the right thing means actually doing something.
I call Callie.
I pray she won’t answer because what will I say if she does?
Pressing my fingertips above my eye, checking the tenderness of the hit, I think about what kind of message I will leave. I haven’t spoken to her since that morning two weeks ago in Cabo when she dumped Mase’s drink on me.
As I wait through two rings, I can’t blame her for not answering. She has every right to ignore me.
Every right. I briefly wonder what I will say to her if she does answer or doesn’t. Should I leave a message? And then what will I say? Call me? Tell me to fuck off? Get lost?
And then, to my fucking surprise, she answers.