Intercepted (New Hope #1)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mason

The clock on my phone says it's past one in the morning.

I sigh heavily, roll onto my side, and punch my pillow.

Every time I close my eyes, I see Mallory kissing Choir Boy. I see his hands all over her body, the glint of his tongue entering her mouth. Her back arches into him, her eyelids fall shut.

The asshole saw me standing there and did it anyway. I thought British guys were supposed to be polite and befuddled. Charming but not in a 'steal your girl' way. Not that Mallory is mine, but she certainly shouldn't be his either. She's a mom, for God's sake. She shouldn't be sneaking off with her daughter's teacher at her son's football game.

Then again, she's funny, intelligent, and inhumanly beautiful. Men will put up with a slew of kids and a possessive baby daddy to get a shot with her. James didn't have the nerve, but Daniel Higgins certainly does.

The insides of my cheeks are raw from biting at them. The tendons in my forearms are sore from clenching my fists. I'm so wound up, it takes me a moment to recognize Mallory's hushed voice echoing through the hall. I can't make out her words, but she sounds concerned.

I jump out of bed, tiptoe past Blake's bedroom, and peer over the banister.

Mallory has just ended her phone call. She's wearing long, cotton pajamas with Shrek's face printed on the back, the tagline reading 'Can't today, I'm swamped.' She stuffs her feet into a pair of furry boots, grabbing her purse from the coat rack.

"Where are you going?" I whisper-shout, knowing with certainty that Mallory isn't the type to heed a booty call.

She whips her head around, squinting at me in the darkness. "Go back to bed, Reeves."

"Fuck that," I mumble, jogging down the stairs and into the foyer. "What's going on?"

She types a message into her phone, her fingers flying over the touchscreen. "Fine. You can come, but you need to stay calm."

By definition, when someone tells me to stay calm, my mind jumps to the worst possibilities. Grace and Blake are asleep upstairs, but Aidan is out of the house. Did something happen?

"Mal, if you don't start talk—"

She pockets her phone, opening the front door as she explains. "Aidan just called. He was supposed to be spending the night at Payton's. They went to the oil fields to celebrate their win—"

"What?"

"—but they drank too much, and now Aidan doesn't feel comfortable getting in a car with anyone."

I grab my sweatshirt from the rack, ripping it over my head, and stuff my feet into a pair of my son's slippers, which house Homer Simpson's bobble head where my toes are supposed to go. Our respective outfits would be comical if I wasn't so upset.

My heart pounds in my chest, worry and anger like two dueling swords. The oil fields are a place teenagers go to get fucked up. Aidan is a good kid and a stellar athlete. There's no reason he should be dragging his mother out of bed in the middle of the night to retrieve his ass from the shitty side of town.

"Blake and—"

Mallory locks the front door behind us, interrupting me again. "I just texted Grace. If she wakes up, she'll know where we are."

I follow her toward the Range Rover, taking the keys from her shaky hand. "Has Aidan been drinking?"

"He was slurring a bit," she answers, a worried whimper passing her lips.