Page 115 of Desert Rain
I told her everything. The almost-confession in my kitchen, the heat between Mason and me that had felt like something real for half a second, the way he’d pulled back because he didn’t do half-measures and I wasn’t some club girl who could just walk away clean. The sidewalk kiss that still lived under my skin. Rylee showing up with her perfect dentist husband. And then tonight—how Rick and Eddie had been shattered over their dead wives, how Lena and I had just tried to keep them company, keep them laughing so they didn’t have to drown in it alone. How Mason had seen me sitting close to Rick and lost his entire mind.
“He called me a gold-digging whore, Regan. Right to my face. In front of Lena. Drunk off his ass and mean as hell about it.”
Regan’s eyes went wide, the playful sparkle vanishing. “Shit. About Rick and Eddie? Yeah… about them… They’re kinda like the Hugh Hefners of Santa Fe. Mansions on the hill, check. Rolls-Royces, check. Six-hundred-thousand-dollar cars are chump change to them. Private jets, check. But what they don’t have?” She tapped her chest right over her heart. “Love. They lost both of theirs. Every woman within a thousand squaremiles has been trying to crack that piggy bank open since the funerals. Doesn’t mean you or Lena are like that, though.”
“I know we’re not,” I said, rubbing my arms even though the night wasn’t cold. “Lena’s dad actually lost her mom on their wedding anniversary. When she saw Eddie standing there crying into a handkerchief… it was like comforting a favorite uncle or something. I mean, I think she’s a little attracted to him, but Lena doesn’t really go for—” I stopped, not sure how to finish that sentence without sounding like I was speaking for her. “Anyway. Maybe she’d actually be good for him. She’s got her own degree, her own job, her own life. She’s not a gold-digger. And I’m sure as hell not either.”
Regan nodded, serious now. “I know you’re not into Rick. Or Eddie.”
I let out a bitter breath. “Well, as of tonight I’m not into Mason either. Not after that.”
She bumped my shoulder with hers, softer than usual. “Just… give him a chance to sober up and grovel. And be careful, okay? I’ve already sent a prospect out looking for Bandit. Didn’t tell him why, just said I want to start doing some recon runs out where you collect those water samples. He thinks it’s club business. You watch your back at work. We’ll figure out the rest of this Oakley shit this week, once all the wedding craziness dies down.”
I stared at her for a second, the fairy lights catching in her eyes like tiny stars. The worry in my chest eased just a fraction—not gone, not even close, but lighter knowing I wasn’t carrying the poisoned aquifer alone anymore. Mason’s words still stung, the jealousy and the drunk cruelty still burned, but Regan’s quiet promise felt like armor I hadn’t known I needed.
“Thanks,” I said, voice rough. “For listening. For the recon. For not making me go to the after-party.”
She grinned, small and wicked. “Anytime, scientist. Now go find Lena, get the hell out of those heels, and text me when you’re home safe. We’ve got a wedding hangover to survive… and then we’re going to war with some rich assholes who think they can poison my town.”
I nodded, squeezed her hand once, and turned to find Lena waiting with two bottles of water and a look that said she’d back me up no matter what kind of mess I’d walked into.
The night felt heavier than it had ten minutes ago, but at least I wasn’t walking through it completely alone.
CHAPTER 14
MASON
The smellof coffee and bacon grease finally dragged me out of the rack like a tow chain. My head felt like someone had parked a Harley on it overnight, and my mouth tasted like the bottom of a bourbon barrel. I had zero clue what time it was until I cracked one slat in the blinds. The afternoon sun punched straight through my skull like a tire iron. I recoiled so fast I nearly fell back on the mattress, muttering every curse I knew.
Clubhouse was quiet for a Sunday-after-wedding kind of quiet. Most of the brothers were still sleeping off the scotch or already out riding. I pulled on yesterday’s jeans, no shirt, and shuffled down the hall toward the kitchen like a man walking to his own execution.
I poured a mug of coffee strong enough to strip paint, loaded a plate with bacon and whatever eggs were left in the pan, and found the corner table farthest from the windows. Head in my hands, elbows on the wood, I was halfway through the first strip of bacon when boots clicked across the floor.
Regan dropped into the chair across from me without asking. She stole a piece of my bacon before I could even growl.
“You fucked up,” she said around the bite, cheerful as hell.
I almost snarled anyway. Almost. But it was Regan—Tank’s old lady, the fairy-tale tornado who’d turned this place into a wedding wonderland—so I just rubbed my temples harder and took a scalding sip of coffee instead.
She leaned in, elbows on the table. “Her friend Lena? Mother died on their wedding anniversary. Eddie and Rick were in a bad way at the ceremony—still head-over-heels for their dead wives, handkerchiefs and all. Sienna and Lena didn’t know a soul at that wedding except me and the girls. Rick and Eddie made sense. They were just trying to keep two heartbroken old bastards from drowning in their own ghosts. They’re not gold diggers, Mason. Come on.”
I groaned, long and low, dragging a hand down my face. The bacon tasted like ash now. “It’s better off anyway. I suck in relationships. I suck so bad. I lost her cat, for fuck’s sake. Then my ex traded me in for cufflinks and country-club tee times like I was a used set of clubs she got tired of swinging.”
Regan didn’t laugh. She just watched me with those sharp eyes that saw too much. “You know, I did some research. Bandit? He went home. That’s what cats do. Might take him two or three weeks, but my best guess is he’ll turn up at her old apartment. I might have called a friend in city hall and pulled the address she used on her job application.”
She slid a folded piece of paper across the table. I stared at it like it might bite me.
“Two or three weeks,” she said. “Cat shows up, you have a cat tuna in a cage, you trap Bandit, bring him back. That’ll win her over. She’ll definitely forgive you for that asshole comment you made.”
I picked up the paper, thumb brushing the address like it was fragile. The knot in my chest—the one that had been there since the garden last night—tightened and then loosened a fraction.Bandit. The feral little shit I’d accidentally set free. The one thing I could actually fix.
I looked up at Regan, voice rough as gravel. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
She grinned, stole another piece of my bacon, and stood up. “You’re welcome, asshole. Now go drink some water, take a shower, and start figuring out how you’re gonna grovel when that cat finally shows his furry face. Sienna’s worth it. Don’t fuck it up twice.”
She walked off before I could answer, hips swinging like she already knew she’d won this round. I stared at the address on the paper, the coffee going cold in my mug, and felt the first stupid flicker of hope since I’d called Sienna a gold-digging whore under the fairy lights.
Two or three weeks.
