“Sorry,” I say, taking my seat. “It’s hard dealing with people who want to act like assholes because I’m a Holt.”
“I’m so glad I’m allowed to punch people for my job,” Liam says with a groan. “No wonder you hired a boxing trainer. Feels good to kick someone’s ass at least.” He chuckles as if he’s just told the world’s funniest joke. Though he’s not wrong in the least.
“Just because you’re a bounty hunter…” Sophie starts before Liam cuts her off.
“Uh, excuse me, it’s fugitive recovery agent,” he mocks. “I don’t call you an instrument player.”
Sophie snorts. “Not even the same thing.”
Then Maddie snickers, popping her can. “Potato potatoe.”
“Just because you’re a fugitive whatever doesn’t mean you can just openly punch out people. Aren’t there rules for that kind of thing?” Sophie asks. “Or, rather, laws?”
“I work for several bond companies who want their money, and when they don’t get it, they want the fugitive back in jail. They don’t care how I get them or ask questions. And if no one’s asking, no one’s tellin’.” Liam smirks, then sips his beer.
Sophie chuckles, and I hate how her face lights up anytime Liam talks. “You should let me shadow you on the job sometime!”
“Hell no,” I say at the same time Liam says, “Hell yeah!”
We glare at each other.
“And why not?” Sophie directs her question at me.
“Because it’s not safe.” I give her the obvious response.
“I’m a big girl, Mason,” she tells me assertively. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
I can’t tell her the real reason—why I don’t want her alone with Liam more than she already is, why I feel overly protective of her, and why I still struggle with my emotions and feelings for her. I can’t tell her shit. The demons I battle on a daily basis are too much for me to handle, and I can’t put that on anyone else, especially not her.
“Fine. Do whatever you want.” I chug my beer, then stand, toss it in the trash, and head for my room.
Chapter Six
Sophie
The past few months have been hard for everyone, especially Lennon. Losing Brandon almost three months ago, then finding out she was pregnant not long after were hard truths to accept. She hadn’t had time to grieve her loss or process anything that happened before she found out she would be a mother. Though I consider the baby a miracle already, I’ve been worried about Lennon and her health. I’ve been trying my hardest not to “mom” her too much and give her space, but it’s been hard as hell.
Thankfully, Hunter has been there for her. He’s been her saving grace, making sure she’s getting sleep, eating, and taking care of herself, and I will forever be grateful for him. The man has completely turned his attitude and behavior around and has taken it upon himself to protect her. He’s the only one who Lennon doesn’t push away or ignore. At first, it hurt that she wouldn’t talk to me about everything, but I understood why. The pain was too much for her, and I couldn’t relate. All I could do was wait until she was ready, though I’m not certain she ever will be.
It’s come to a point where our parents need to know. Lennon will eventually start showing, and lying to them will be impossible. Sure, they live in Utah, but we’re all close, and they FaceTime us regularly. Considering how religious and strict our parents are, being pregnant out of wedlock won’t be openly accepted, so she hasn’t told them yet. Lennon’s concerned they’ll write her off, and I have been too because the possibility of that is more than real. On a whim, Hunter suggested to be her fake husband and pretend the baby is his, and they flew to Utah this weekend to pull off one of the greatest stunts any of us have ever done. I haven’t heard from her yet, which slightly worries me, but I’m a worrier by nature.
I stir, unable to sleep, and though it’s early as hell, I get out of bed and make some coffee. Anytime I have a concert, I hardly get any rest the night before, so it’s normal. Today is the symphony’s Fourth of July program, and I want to run through my set a few times before heading to the park, so I may as well get started. When I round the corner to the kitchen, I see a sink full of dishes and a dirty pan on the stovetop. The trash is overflowing, and there’s an empty gallon of milk sitting next to it on the floor.
“Are we fucking children around here?” I say out loud, overly frustrated when I set my hand in smeared mustard on the counter. I glare at the bright yellow paste on my palm and almost lose my shit. It’s way too early for this, and I’m two seconds from waking the entire apartment. With everything I have, I try not to scream at the top of my lungs as I grab some paper towels and clean up the mess, but I refuse to do it all and leave the dirty dishes in the sink.