Vodka.

My sweet, sweet friend.

I finished up my work quickly when Yolanda left, and then I found a bottle of vodka that I’ll replace if I remember, if not, too bad. I have to scrub his toilets; he can give me a bottle of vodka for that task alone. I take my bottle out onto the back patio, overlooking that pool and those incredible gardens, and I sit down, unscrewing the lid. I don’t pour it into a glass or mix it with juice—I put the bottle to my lips and tip it back, swallowing the burning liquid clean down my throat.

I shudder and squint my eyes, hissing through my teeth as my throat protests from the invasion.

I don’t care.

I need something to make it go the hell away.

Because fuck Enzo. And fuck Yolanda. And fuck whatever brought this shit into my life. I was happy, god dammit. I thought I was one of the lucky ones who found the man of her dreams first up, who was going to get married, and have kids and be happy. Sure, I have a shitty ass excuse for a family, but Enzo was the light in all that. To me, he was my family.

And then somehow, we got here.

And fuck being here, because being here is a shitty ass feeling.

I take another drink, cringing with every second that passes as it slides down my throat. I close my eyes, trying to take away the ache in my heart, which is making me feel pathetic. Pathetic because why in the hell do I care for someone like him? What is wrong with my brain? I should just flip it all the bird and move on, yet I’m strangely attached to the man who broke my heart.

Is it purely because he slept with Yolanda, or is it because I actually love him?

And damn her, to hell and back again. The thought of her carrying Enzo’s child, the child that I was supposed to have with him, has me drinking two big gulps of vodka.

Alcohol isn’t meant to solve any problems, but right now it better damn well have a good go at solving mine.

“Bad day?”

I didn’t hear anyone come in, so I flinch and spin around when I hear Mason’s voice coming from behind me. I look over my shoulder for a moment at him, and then I mumble, “Something like that.”

He walks out further, beer in hand, and grabs a chair with the other, dragging it over so he’s sitting sort of in front of me, sort of next to me. I don’t have to twist to see him, so that’s a plus.

“Want to tell me what made you decide to drink vodka straight from the bottle?”

“Ex-boyfriends. Sisters. Babies.”

He glances at me. “Elaborate.”

I exhale, because what the hell? Mason has no involvement with what’s going on, and I don’t need to tell him much, just the basics.

“I walked in on my sister sleeping with my boyfriend. She showed up today to tell me she’s pregnant with his baby.”

Mason grunts. “Fuck. That’s brutal.”

I drink more of the vodka. “Yeah, it gets better, though. After I found them, I went to the cops and told them about his involvement with drugs, and he got six months in prison. I was so damned angry, I mean, my sister ... Seriously?”

“Don’t know what’s worse, your boyfriend doin’ it, or your sister lettin’ him.”

“Amen to that, dude,” I mutter.

“Guessin’ he didn’t take too well to you gettin’ him locked up?”

“Not too well, no. But the worst part is, he got so angry at me and now, somehow, I feel bad about it all. I feel like I need to help him get out and fix his problems, because the thought of him hating me, really sucks.”

“Still love him then?”

I nod. “I guess, yeah. Which makes me disgusted in myself because dammit, he’s a scumbag.”

“Right about that,” Mason mutters. “Fuckin’ scum to do that to your woman. Don’t feel bad about actin’ out your revenge. Fuck, I’d have done a whole lot worse.”

I laugh bitterly. “I’m sure you would have.”

“You still talk to this dick, obviously?”

“Yes, because, apparently, I don’t have a brain.”

Mason grunts, and it almost sounds like he was trying to fight a laugh. “Feelings are fucked, lady. If we could control them, life would be a whole lot sweeter. But we can’t, so we gotta deal with whatever raises its head. I can’t tell you what to do. If it was me, I’d leave the fucker in there and do better, but it ain’t me, it’s you, and only you know what’s right for you.”

I look to him, brows raised. “Damn, biker, that was some solid advice.”

He shrugs. “Lived a little longer than you, learned a few things.”

“Have you learned how to commit a murder without getting caught? Like say your sister sleeps with your boyfriend, and you’re really pissed, and she’s rubbing it in your face, would there, theoretically, be any way to ... well ... accidentally murder her?”

Mason’s eyes flash with a little humor. “Plenty of ways, none of which you’re goin’ to do because you’re too good for that.”

“I was asking for a friend, I’d never do such a thing.”

I press a hand to my chest and feign being offended. Mason looks to me then shakes his head and sips his beer. Then, he stands. “Get up, we’re goin’ out.”

“What? Where?”

“Club cookout. Came home to get changed. You wanna meet the rest of them, then stand up and meet me out front in ten minutes.”

“You’re taking me to your club?” I ask, shocked.

“Yeah, there are women there. Ones who understand all this emotional shit. I’m not goin’ to sit here listenin’ to it all night, depressin’ as fuck.”

I grin at him. “You’re secretly sweet, I knew it.”

“Just said I didn’t want to get stuck with you.”

“You like me.”

“Not particularly.”

“You do.”

“Nope.”

“Yes, how wonderful.”

He growls and shakes his head. “Ten, Saskia.”

“Okay, friend, ten it is. Are we riding on your bike? Because that would be epic!”

“Nah, truck.”

“Okay, bike it is. I’ll put on some jeans.”

I skip off, well on my way to being tipsy, and get changed into a pair of jeans, a clean tank, and then I run a brush through my hair and do it in a lose braid before pulling on a pair of knee-high boots over my jeans and rushing out the front. My smile gets huge when I see Mason on the bike, looking so god damned fine I actually stop and just admire the view for a moment. God damn, he’s the picture of perfection. Scary, dangerous perfection.

His eyes find mine, and his dark hair is loosely tied, so some of it escapes and whips around in the breeze, and damn if my vagina doesn’t curl into itself with need. His massive biceps flash for a few seconds, before he pulls on his leather jacket and yells out, “Those boots.”

I walk over, glancing down at them. “What about them?”

“You know what they mean, don’t ya?”

I grin at him, snatching the helmet from his hands and pressing it to my head. “Yeah, dude. They mean I want to get fucked.”

Then I jerk the helmet down, but not before I see his lips part just slightly.

He didn’t expect that one.

That’s the thing about me, though.

Most people don’t expect what I deliver.

And that’s what makes me wonderful.