“You’re really hot, you know,” she says suddenly, and I nearly spit out a mouthful of beer.

“Phoebe!”

She looks at Waylon innocently. “What? Don’t tell me you’re so insecure with your—”

His face hardens. “You’re fourteen.” He turns to me, a scowl twisting his mouth. “She’s fourteen.”

I give him a look like he just sprouted a dick from his face. That would be less ridiculous than what he’s implying. For a boat load of reasons. “I’m gay.”

His face bunches up and he looks down.

“And I’m starting to get really pissed off you seem to think I have a thing for kids—”

“What? When did I—”

“My first day back,” I cut him off in a flat voice. “You, more or less, accused me of being a child rapist. Of all things. Why? I have no fucking idea—”

He scoffs. “It wasn’t personal.”

“How the fuck is that not personal?” I all but shout.

His mouth forms a hard, bloodless line. Then, roughly, he says, “You know what, I take that back. Not the personal thing, because it wasn’t. Personal. I’d ask that of anyone who showed up here unannounced, thinking they can just...” He waves a frustrated hand. “Waltz right in like it’s fucking nothing. We don’t know you. We don’t know what your intentions are, or what you’ve done, or—”

“I told you,” I grit out, my voice dropping several octaves.

He pauses. Glancing down, he clears his throat. “I know. You’re right. But...”

“But what?” I spread my hands.

He goes still.

Phoebe’s quietly watching us, gaze ping-ponging between us.

Clearing my throat, I wash what emotion lingers down with a swig of beer. Tapping the bottle with my thumbs, I shake my head. “Whatever. Just forget it.”

Heavy footfalls sound from the stairwell just before Mason and Shawn join us, putting an end to the conversation.

“Shit! Gotta blast,” Phoebe whisper-shouts before hopping off her stool to land in a crouch. She slinks around the bar like she’s a secret agent, walking her fingers over the grooves of wood paneling as she tip-toes toward the little alcove near the front of the bar.

I hear a chuckle—Mason, I think—while I watch as Shawn rounds the bar. Like it’s nothing—like this is perfectly normal—he plucks her up by the back of her black robe.

Whirling her around, he shoves the Ghost Face hood back, revealing a wide toothy grin that is borderline certifiable. Frizzy dark blonde hair lifts up around her head from the static, and a flush clings to her cheeks.

“Busted,” she whispers dramatically, gray eyes sparkling.

I frown. Wasn’t she just on the verge of tears as she complained about him?