Chapter Thirty

Mason

I’m up to my elbows in geothermal dynamics when my phone vibrates on the table. I knew it. I knew Walker couldn’t go a whole thirty-six hours without getting in touch with me.

“Aha! You owe me a hundred dollars, Miss O’Halloran!” I crow into the phone.

“Miss who?”

That is definitely not Walker’s voice. I pull the phone away from my ear so I can get a look at the display, but it says only “Private Caller.” Damn! I know better than to pick it up before looking. You never know who could be on the other end of the line.

“Who is this?” I ask with some irritation.

“Mason! I can’t believe you don’t know my voice! We were only together for three years…”

Holy. Crap.

“Cassandra?” I venture, hoping to God that this is Bilquist playing a joke on me. A very bad joke.

“Yes, silly! Who else would it be? Oh! I know! The brunette, right? The bartender? You thought I was her!” my ex says before breaking into a fit of giggles.

I know those giggles all too well. I know exactly what they mean, and it’s never good. Ever.

“What do you want?” I ask her impatiently. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to drunk dial me anymore.”

“Maaaacy! Don’t be like that!” I can practically see the pout that goes along with that whiny tone. “Not when I came all this way to see you!”

“Wait, what? What do you mean? Where are you?”

“I’m here, of course!” This strikes her as hilarious and it takes a full thirty seconds for her to calm down enough for me to get anything else out of her.

“Cassandra!” I snap in an attempt to get her focused again.

That’s when I hear a tinny voice in the background.

“This is Northeast Air paging Dr. Michael Lu…”

“Are you at an airport?” I demand.

She gasps in surprise. “How did you know? Mason! We are so connected!”

I rub the bridge of my nose with the fingers that aren’t wrapped around my cell phone.

“What airport, Cassandra?”

“Hmmm?”

“What. Airport?” I try again, feeling my blood pressure start to make its familiar ascent.

“Oh! Ummm…D-d-uh…”

“Duluth?” I can’t hide the incredulity in my voice. Not that she notices. Not that she’ll even remember this conversation tomorrow.

“Yes! D-d-uh…loop!” She cackles.

Christ, this is all I need. But there’s no ignoring the situation because if one person recognizes her the paparazzi will be crawling all over the place. And no way my still-fragile relationship with Walker survives another press feeding frenzy. No, I have to handle this myself. Discretely. And quickly.

“Look, I’m on my way. Can you find someplace to wait for me?”

“Oh yeah… There’s the sports bar, and the wine bar, and the sake bar…”

“Do not go to the bar,” I instruct her, already knowing the admonition is pointless. “Cassandra?”

“Okayfine,” she slurs. “See you s-s-s-soon…!”

My hands go to my temples, where I feel the beginnings of a headache. A very familiar headache. The kind of headache that was damn-near constant when I was with Cassandra. Why did she have to come back now, when things are finally back on track with Walker?

Oh jeez, Walker. I pick up my phone and start to dial her, then stop, finger poised over her number. I should call her. Right? Yes, I should definitely call her. Because, if I don’t, it’ll be just like last time. It’ll be me hiding something big from her. But if I do tell her, she might decide it’s not worth it. That I’m not worth it.

Before I can think about it, I allow my finger to connect with the screen and listen as the phone rings. Once…twice…three times…four times…

“Hey, you’ve reached Walker. Leave a message.”

“Hi,” I say after the beep. “I was just thinking about you. I do that a lot, in case you didn’t know. Anyway, you’re probably working right now. I’ll try you later, but don’t worry if you don’t hear from me. I’ve got…I’ve got to pick up something in Duluth. Okay…I’ll try you later.” I pause, not quite able to hang up until I’ve said something else. Something personal. “I…miss you. Bye.”

…

It takes me just over an hour to make the ninety-mile drive to the airport, praying the entire way that I don’t get nailed by a state trooper. It’s not a huge facility, and I find my ex-girlfriend sitting on a stool in the third bar I try. Ironically, it’s a bad pub knock-off, which makes me think of O’Halloran’s. Which makes me think of Walker. Which makes me think of the intentionally-vague text I sent from the road telling her I had to run up to Duluth on an errand and that I’d call he as soon as possible. It’s not quite a lie. But it’s not exactly the truth either. Crap. There are no good solutions here. I just need to get in, get out, and get Cassandra someplace where she can sleep off whatever bad decision, lost love, or familial tensions sent her spiraling into a bottle of Stoli.

So I threw on a nondescript black hoodie, baseball cap, and sunglasses, just in case someone should recognize Cassandra and try to snap a picture of us. But, even as I approach her, I realize that’s not likely to happen. I mean, I can barely recognize her, and I slept with the woman for three years. Her face is bloated, her eyes bloodshot. She looks sloppy—her hair unkempt, clothing wrinkled.

“Hey,” I say softly, careful not to use her name.

“Maaacy!” she squeals, clearly not feeling the need to take similar precautions. Cassandra throws herself off the stool, launching herself at me so forcefully that her momentum nearly takes us both down. “I’m so happy to see you!” she says, kissing my face all over.

I try to hold her at a little distance, but she’s strong and I don’t want to be too forceful with her.

“Okay, okay,” I murmur, trying to dodge her mouth. She reeks of liquor. And not just her breath, it’s coming out of her pores. I wonder how long she’s been on this particular bender? If I know her, it could be days by now. Maybe a week. “Okay, come on, let’s get you out of here.”

“Oh! Are you going to take me home? To bed?” she asks loudly enough for heads to turn and stare.

Great. Just great. Now I look like a sexual predator trying to strong-arm an intoxicated woman out of the airport and into my car.

Somewhere through the alcohol-induced haze, Cassandra seems to realize this, too. She waves a dismissive hand at the other patrons.

“Awwww, it’s okay! He’s my—” She pauses to hiccup. “He’s my Maaacy! My boyfriend! He lovvvvves me!” she declares.

“Now, Cassandra,” I grit out quietly.

“She’s got a tab,” the bartender informs me.

“How much?” I ask, as I try to wrangle her.

“One-eighty-five.”

“Seriously? How is that even possible?” I practically yell.

The guy shrugs. “She’s been sitting here for like three hours, man. And she likes the top-shelf stuff, if you know what I mean…”

I do know what he means. My ex has always had champagne tastes. And, luckily for her, she’s always had a champagne budget. But, rather than quibble with her, I throw a credit card down on the bar top, cursing myself for not bringing cash. But if he recognizes her, or me, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

Cassandra weaves and giggles her way through the airport, waving at strangers and pointing out things she thinks I need to know about. Like BJ’s Bagelry and the moving sidewalk. All told, it takes me close to twenty minutes to get her off the barstool and strapped into the passenger seat of my car, where she promptly passes out.

What the hell am I supposed to do with her? I can’t just dump her at some random hotel. She’s way too inebriated to be left alone. Especially with a hotel bar or a cache of tiny bottles just a little refrigerator away. I could bring her to my parents’ house. Except, Mom’s out of the country on a shoot and Dad will flip out if I bring a drunk starlet to his house without another woman around. I could just dump her in a rehab facility, but doubtful they’ll take her like this and not likely she’d go willingly anyway.

“Dammit!” I spit, slamming my hand on the steering wheel.

When I glance at my passenger, she’s sound asleep. Not a care in the world. Well, lucky her. She’s passed out the entire way to my house. Because there really is no place else to take her. At least the bottom floor apartment is empty. so I won’t have to try to avoid any renters.

I scoop her up in my arms, trying to negotiate the front door without knocking her head against the wall, using only my pinky, my right foot, and an elbow. When we’re finally upstairs, I take her right to my room and put her on top of the bed I never bothered to make this morning. Exhausted, I collapse into the armchair and watch her chest rise and fall.

“Just like old times, huh, Cassandra?” I murmur.

She doesn’t stir.