Page 49 of Shamed
Keeping my chin up, I brace for them.
Mase’s eyes return to me, the troubled look remaining. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry for what happened to you all those years ago . . . that night.”
“You . . . what?” My mind scrambles to catch up with what he just said.
“If I had known what he was like . . .” He shakes his head again; meanwhile, my stomach turns to acid. “If I knew how evil he was, maybe I could have stopped him or something. I don’t know—”
“Stop,” I blurt, a small puff of misty white air escaping my lips. “Please, just stop.”
Mase closes his mouth and nods as if understanding. He thinks I don’t like talking about what happened. And while that’s generally true, I can’t hear him apologize for Jacob’s actions. I can’t hear himbad-mouthinghim.
Every word is like a slice to my soul.
Youshouldhear this, life ruiner.
Was this what he wanted to say to me all those years ago when I ran into him on the street that Halloween, when I thought he was just as bad as Jacob? He wasn’t angry withme for putting his friend in prison, because Mase believes his friend was evil.
A distant memory rises to the surface, vague and blurry, one where I hear Marni saying it seemed like Mase had separated himself from the others. Like he didn’t want to be associated with them. I had completely forgotten about that.
For some reason I want to yell at him for leaving his friend, for abandoning him. How could he do that, believe the worst, so easily?
Youbelieved the worst of Jacob.
Another twist of the stomach.
Mase takes a deep breath. “I just really hope you don’t hold me in the same category as him. You seemed like you were scared of me.”
I blink him back into focus, landing on his dark eyes, then absorb what he said. Guilt piles onto my already layered shoulders for making him think that. “I don’t think you’re like that,” I tell him, and mean it.
Scared probably isn’t the right word for what I felt when I saw Mase the other night. Startled, then apprehensive, distressed maybe, but not scared—and none of it was for the reason he thinks.
Sometimes I get bad feelings from men, and other times I just feel uncomfortable in their presence, but it’s not like that with him.
His shoulders seem to relax under his black hoodie at my answer, as if it were something that had been bothering him. I’m not sure why it would matter what I thought.
A beat of silence passes before he speaks again, angling his head to the building. “So, you’re really workinghere?”
I lift my chin. “You know I am.”
More rain is falling now, and while I’m covered, Mase is not. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though, as little raindrops slide down his cheek and drip from his jaw. His jaw looks sharper in the daylight, strong and defined—a contrast to the softness of his lips.
His chin dips with another nod. “I guess I’m just wondering why? Why here of all places?”
My brows scrunch together. I know this place doesn’t have a good reputation, but the question is odd and unexpected from a virtual stranger. I guess so was him saying that he was sorry about Jacob, although that makes more sense.
“Why do you ask?”
“You just . . . It didn’t look like you wanted to be here when I saw you.” The compassion swimming through his mysterious eyes as he watches me makes me feel sick. I don’t deserve his compassion; I don’t deserve his kindness or even a second thought from him. Why does he even care, and what is he doing here, anyway?
I resist the urge to scratch at the irritated flesh on my arm while my gaze drifts to the wooden door I will need to go through to start the torture all over again. “You don’t know me, so I don’t know how you can assume that.”
“You’re right. I guess that’s true.” He stuffs his hands back into his hoodie pocket, shifting his feet. “Listen, the card I gave you, you should come to a class.”
“I don’t think so,” I tell him, returning my gaze to his face. “The other girls might, though.” He doesn’t look particularly pleased with my response, but taking one of those classes would better my situation, and that is not something I’m willing to do. “Look, I have to go now.” Without waiting for a response, I walk to the door again.
I can tell he’s still watching me as I go. He did that the other night as well. I had tried to ignore the sensation of his eyes on me, but I could feel them searing into my flesh from across the club, and every time I looked up, there he was, watching.
“Jennifer,” he calls to me just as I open the door.
