At the bar, Mason chugs a bottle of water and Shawn taps away at his phone. A couple girls hover nearby, batting lashes and puffing up their chests. Shawn pays no notice, but Mason nods and smiles politely. I’m halfway there when one of the girls launches herself at him, planting her lips on his cheek.

“Hey hey hey!” I call out, quickening my steps. I notice Shawn has gone dangerously still when I reach them.

Gently wrapping my hand around her upper arm, I pull her away, steadying her when she stumbles on a pencil-thin heel. “None of that, sweetheart.”

The girl whips her head toward me, daggering me with reddened eyes. “Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me.”

Immediately I release her, raising my palms in surrender. She teeters forward, but her friend is already there, grabbing her by the wrist and squeezing her to her side. “Sorry ‘bout her. Bad day.”

I nod and watch the two work their way through what’s left of the scattered crowd. Next to me, I hear Shawn shuffling closer to Mason and whispering, asking him if he’s okay.

“It’s kind of funny, don’t you think?” Mason asks, chuckling hoarsely, eyes shining with bitter amusement. “She fucking kisses me without my consent, but you’re the one who gets the verbal beatdown for getting her away from me.”

I shrug into a small smile. “Eh. Comes with the job.”

“Still not right,” Shawn says forcefully, his voice a deep bass among the tinny sounds of clinking glass and lingering chatter. Unlike us, there’s no amusement to be found as far as he is concerned. In fact, he looks downright livid.

“Down, boy,” Mason says, a gentle warning curling around his words. “The girl was clearly going through some shit. She didn’t hurt me.”

Shawn stares hard at Mason, and I try not to shuffle awkwardly as the two engage in some odd, unspoken conversation and battle of wills.

It reminds me of what Waylon said this morning, and I wonder for what feels like the umpteenth time since we met, where Shawn fits into all of this. The guy’s a walking Do Not Enter sign if there ever was one, and Mason’s the only one who seems to have been granted access.

The moment is broken when Gavin lumbers over with a small, circular tray covered inch to inch with six shot glasses filled to the brim—four with tequila, and two with what I assume are mock-shots. Slapping down a plastic cup filled with lime wedges, he grunts out, “Y’all are the saddest motherfuckers I’ve ever known,” before strolling off.

Mason rolls his eyes and grabs one of the red concoctions just as Ivy flounces over. Gavin shouts out a “Last call,” and the few remaining customers scurry in for a drink as if it’s the last one they’ll ever get.