Oh, Christ, not him!
Anyone but him.
Mason Gabehart is the absolute last person on Earth I want to see or deal with right now. Heck, I’d be over the moon if I never had to see his obnoxious jerk face ever again.
And yet, there he stands, almost twenty feet away looking right at me, forcing me to acknowledge his unwanted presence.
God, this day just keeps getting better and better.
As if I don’t feel miserable enough as it is.
But…why is he even here?
Mason continues to stare at me for a moment, not saying anything. I find his silence a bit strange, but then his blue-green eyes quickly travel south to my humongous cast.
Immediately, his face contorts, and for a split second, it looks like he’s concerned, but a wide grin quickly spreads his lips, followed by the unmistakable sound of snickering.
In no time at all, snickering turns into laughing out loud, and he makes no attempt whatsoever to conceal his amusement at my misfortune.
“People usually have casts on after Spring Break, Johanson. Not right before,” he says, still holding his stomach. “Jeez, talk about living life backward,” he adds with another malicious chuckle.
I can only roll my eyes. “Glad I can make you laugh. I guess it’s the least I can do, given how utterly miserable your life must be. Oh wait, never mind. You don’t actually have a life.”
“Neither do you, smart-ass,” he retorts, the lazy grin still toying with his lips. “At least, not for the next ten days.”
I just shake my head. I don’t even know why I’m wasting my time arguing with this numskull. I know all too well how Mason works—probably more than most people, thanks to the fact that he and my brother used to be good friends, and I say that with a really strong emphasis on used to—and I know how much satisfaction he gets from getting under my skin, but I refuse to give it to him right now.
I really have nothing else to say to the douche sack, anyway, so I turn and begin to walk away without another word, making my way backstage slowly—okay, really slowly—but surely, doing my best to ignore the unbelievably rude remarks and gestures from the aggravating man-child behind me.
How in the hell did he ever get hired as a GTA? Heck, how did he even graduate frickin’ high school with that juvenile attitude of his?
I can’t believe I ever thought he was hot, even for a second. He’s such a prick. It’s a wonder anyone can stand being around him for any length of time.
“Here, let me help you,” I hear him call from behind me.
“I’m good,” I reply dryly, the irritation in my voice unmasked.
The absolute nerve of this guy. Does he really expect me to accept his help—or anything else from him, for that matter—after he just blatantly insulted me to my face?
Still, I hear his footsteps from behind, getting louder and I realize he’s approaching me.
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