Page 295 of Breathe Like Hell

MASON

I pulled into the parking lot of the diner right behind Micah’s truck, still pissed off that he’d won the coin toss that put Dakota in his passenger seat instead of mine. The sky was gloomy, the clouds crawling low and dark over the Earth. A few small raindrops speckled my windshield as I parked, then hopped out. On the roof of the diner, a red and green sign buzzed, glowing through the increasing rain.

Micah was leading Dakota in through the front door, bell jingling over their heads, so I jogged across the cracked pavement to catch up with them. The atmosphere of the diner was familiar, my feet scuffing over faded yellow floor tiles as I made my way over to the booth Dakota and Micah were sitting at.

The sound of quiet chatter, silverware clinking, a receipt being torn off the roll, and sizzling griddles in the kitchen filled the air. Dakota wasn’t sitting next to Micah; she was on her own side, motioning for me to join her. I slid into the booth without giving her a second to change her mind.

Last time I’d been in this diner was before Micah’s death, on the day Dakota shot me. On the day she told me she loved me for the first time. Then, she’d wanted Micah and I to sit on the same side of the booth, for fairness. Not now.

“Do you want the usual stuff?” I asked her, slinging my arm over the back of the booth, my hand dangling near her shoulder.

“Yes, please.”

I nodded, ignoring the way my chest felt tight. I hadn’t directly looked at Micah once since sitting down, but I could see him in my peripheral vision, could sense his presence far too easily.

What will I find when I do meet his eye? What’s he thinking? How does he feel?

I wanted to know if he regretted what we’d done with Dakota last night. What we’d done with each other.

I didn’t regret it.

A waitress arrived at our table, and I placed the same order as last time. Some cups of water, one coffee, and a double stack of blueberry waffles. My hand drifted over to Dakota’s shoulder, brushing her thick sweater. A few golden-blonde strands of hair were draped over the soft knit, silky under my palm. My fingers trembled slightly so I squeezed her tighter to stop their motion.

Thankfully, it didn’t take our waitress long to return with the water and coffee, which gave me something to do with my hands. I took a sip of water, eyeing Dakota making her usual pyramid of plastic coffee creamer cups.

“I like this place,” she commented, eyes skimming the license plates all over the walls. She dumped all the creamers into the coffee mug and stirred it. “I’m happy we went here.”

“Yeah.” I nodded, sipping my ice water again, fingers slick on the condensation-covered glass. “I like it, too.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Dakota announced abruptly, then stared at me until I got out of the booth so she could walk past me. I watched her walk away, heavy boots stomping on the floor, long hair swishing. My hands were really shaking by the time I sat back down, still avoiding looking at Micah, gripping my cup a little harder.

It didn’t make sense for me to avoid him now, not when I’d sucked his dick in front of Dakota last night—and vice versa—but we no longer had the comfort of darkness to ease the tension between us, nor the comfort of Dakota’s presence. We had a pendant lamp, green vinyl booths, and an abandoned mug of too-sweet coffee.

His fingers drummed fast on the table, and I glanced over at his hand.

He marked Dakota as a baby.

He’s the reason I’m alive. Through her.

It was really raining outside now, clear rivulets streaming down the fogged glass windows spanning the entire wall. I looked out at the puddles in the parking lot, the raindrops splashing into them, the shattered reflection of the sky on their surfaces.

The sound of our waitress returning with waffles caught my attention, so I turned back and thanked her as she set the plate down. Tart blueberries, sweet waffles, individually-wrapped foil packets of butter, a sticky pitcher of syrup.

Steam curled lazily off the stack.

I looked at Micah.

He was already watching me. I couldn’t decipher his expression. I didn’t want to try.

I cleared my throat, pushing the plate in his direction. “Do you want…”

“No. You can have them.”

“I’ll save them for when Dakota comes back,” I settled. She’d want more syrup on them than I would likely provide. She liked drowning waffles. I liked drowning girls.

And boys—boy.

Just the one.