It was drummed into Will and me from a young age that drug use would not be tolerated in our house, and alcohol was unacceptable until we were twenty-one.
Will didn’t adhere to that last rule so much, though he waited till he was a senior in high school to have his first drink—at least as far as I know. But I was too terrified of the consequences to even think about trying it.
That’s basically been my motto my whole life—too terrified of the consequences to think about breaking the rules.
And where did that get me? Stuck in a boring job and hating life.
Taking this job for Cataclysm is the closest thing to rebelling I’ve ever done. Which is really kind of sad, I’ll admit.
Though I suppose my rule-follower ways might serve me well in this role of making sure people get where they’re going on time.
Fishing the key card out of my bag—because when I ordered myself the tablet, I also got a messenger bag to carry everything. Marcus told me Blaire always had one and that I could charge it on the same card as the tablet, no problem. So I did. And it has these convenient little slots for cards that I use to store the keys to the guys’ rooms. I feel awkward even having them, but when Chad handed them over, he assured me it was normal, that the guys would expect it, and that I need them to do my job.
How else will I be able to get something they forgot at the hotel if I don’t have access to their rooms?
And how else can I drag a naked Mason out of bed in the middle of the day?
The light blinks green when I wave the card in front of the reader, but the door only opens an inch. “Mason,” I call into the opening. “It’s time to go to the arena. Everyone’s waiting.”
His smirk appears in the crack, and then the door shuts in my face.
I step back, frowning, my arms crossing of their own accord. Of course he shut the door in my face. He’s a jerk. At least to me.
A second later, the door opens, and his gaze drags down and up my body, the smirk never leaving his face.
Gritting my teeth, I do my best to keep my voice and expression pleasant. “Are you ready? It’s time to go.”
In no hurry, his eyes wander their way up to mine, and I hold back my huff when he spends an inordinate amount of time examining my chest. He’s aiming for a reaction, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.
I have an older brother. This isn’t my first experience with a guy trying to get some kind of reaction out of me. Not that Mason is anything like Will. For one thing, Will would never leer at my boobs. Ew. No, his favorite thing was to jump out from around corners and try to get me to scream. After I trained myself to just say, “Oh hi, Will,” like he didn’t just almost make me pee my pants, he eventually got tired of my non-reaction and gave up.
Life was much more peaceful after that.
So I’m hoping the same course of action will work with Mason.
With Will it took at least a month of not reacting to his daily pranks before he learned that he couldn’t get more than a bored hello out of me. I’m assuming it’ll take at least that long with Mason.
“Are you my babysitter now?” he asks at last.
My eyebrows pull together. I can’t help it. “Isn’t this a normal thing for your assistant to do? Come get you when it’s time to go?”
One of his eyebrows arches. “And have you collected everyone else already?”
“Yes,” I confirm. “They’ve all headed down to the cars already.”
Crossing his arms, he props open the door with his shoulder. “So you’ve saved the best for last.”
I tamp down on the sigh that wants to escape, reminding myself that he’s just trying to provoke me. Giving in will only make it worse “If that’s what gets you out the door, then yes. That’s exactly what I did. Are you ready to go now?” Unfortunately, a little of my irritation leaks into my voice. I can’t help it. Less than a week into this job, and he’s already driving me crazy.
With a grunt, he lets the door shut in my face. Stunned, my mouth hanging open, I stare at the beige slab, not sure if I should knock again or just barge in.
Before I can decide, the door opens, and Mason’s there, a leather jacket clutched in one hand and a thin black case thing in his other hand that I’ve learned is his drumstick bag. He lets the door close behind him and gestures down the hall with his head. “Let’s go,” he says and strides away without waiting for me.
I jog a couple of steps to catch up, walking as fast as I can to keep up with his long-legged gate.
Where’s the fire?
Earlier I felt like I was dragging a toddler along behind me, trying to cajole him into walking to the elevator, then from the elevator to the waiting car.
But this evening, if he were walking any faster, he’d be running.
Is this just another way of messing with me?
Probably.
Sigh.
If I have to put up with a month or more of this behavior before he
