Connor and Mason.
“Rachel?” Connor said.
Mason nodded to me.
“You followed us over here.”
Connor glared at Mason like he’d made an inappropriate joke. I, for one, just welcomed the chance to laugh at something relatively light. After what I feared would happen…
“I guess,” I said.
The hesitation, the fear in my voice, was obvious. Too obvious. Was I going to be a baby throughout this whole process? Or was I going to admit I could feel fear and still move forward?
“Eduardo was just in here, wasn’t he?”
The expression on both guys’ faces went dour immediately.
“It’s a half-fucking miracle we didn’t beat his ass in here,” Mason said. “But yes.”
“Did he…”
“Do anything? No,” Connor said. “But make no mistake about it; things are ratcheting up. I wouldn’t be eating out alone right now.”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I was just getting my food to go. I mean, I’m not that crazy.”
“You should eat with us,” Mason said, another statement that drew a suspicious glare from Connor. “They’re probably long gone, but you’re safest if you’re with us.”
It was damn impossible to argue with them. Two of them versus me by myself?
But one of them with you wasn’t enough all those years ago.
Doesn’t matter. Still safer. And you still need to take steps forward.
“I can do that,” I said. I turned to the waitress, told her my name, and the three of us retreated to a booth. Connor looked pissed—he had always tried not to show his anger around me, but it was always obvious. Mason looked purposeful, like he was tasked with making sure no one came within five feet of us without knowing that they would face harsh interrogation from him.
Not that I thought anyone had it in their head that they were going to approach the two bikers who, I fairly assumed, had nearly gotten into the kind of brawl that could have drawn in a whole lot of collateral damage.
But though Mason had made the gesture, the invitation and eating experience was anything but normal. None of the three of us said a word. I kind of wanted to talk, but I was taking my cues from the boys. Connor looked like he was actively trying to avoid slamming his fist through the table at every moment. Mason had his eyes peeled all around him, taking in everyone and everything.
Finally, I just couldn’t take it.
“No place quite like Southwest Dine, am I right?” I said. “Especially their French Dip sandwich. That’s a piece of art.”
Connor grunted.
“I’m more of a double-patty burger myself kind of guy,” Mason said, “but I suppose that might explain why I’ve got two years left before I go from muscular and ripped to being a fatass.”
I laughed. It wasn’t much of a laugh; it wasn’t like one of those movie scenes where the person laughs so hard that they couldn’t hold their food down. But for the context of the moment, it might as well have felt like the gates of heaven had swung open, revealing to me the chance to finally speak.
“And do you get double fries with that too?” I said. “Does your cholesterol reading run higher or lower than your total weight?”
“If I had to guess, probably higher. But if you think I’m letting a doctor test me on that, forget about it. Would rather try and steal Connor’s food here than do that.”
I’d never spent much time with Mason before, but I did vaguely recall how he had one of the driest senses of humor I had ever seen. His voice really only had two levels—neutral or outright enraged. He was no Garrett, nor was he even Brock.
But being around him like this, maybe because of the protection he provided or maybe just because I was pushing myself so far by being out in public, made me want to laugh so hard. And that wasn’t something I did enough of. Laughter wasn’t the best medicine, but it sure was a nice placebo effect.
“Would love to see you try,” Connor growled.
