The Art Of Inevitability

1. Alarm Clocks, Bras & Dylan Height

1. Alarm Clocks, Bras & Dylan Height

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Shut up," I groaned into my pillow and slapped a hand in the general direction of the noise.

The alarm kept going. Of course it did.

I cracked one eye open and glared at the glowing red numbers. 7:00 a.m.

"Traitor," I muttered.

With a dramatic sigh, I grabbed the alarm clock and pitched it at the wall. It hit with a satisfying crack, the beeping died, and silence wrapped around me again.

Perfect.

I rolled over, hugged my pillow, and was happily sliding back toward sleep when I realized that my pillow was breathing.

I froze.

I dared one of my eyes to open just an inch, peeking through my lashes at the seemingly unknown moving object next to me. I almost screamed in relief once I saw the smirking face of my best friend who seemed to me lounging on my bed way to casually.

I mentally rewound last night.

Club. Shots. Dancing. Zola almost starting a fight with the bartender. Dylan trying to get us kicked out. Me somehow ending up changing clothes in his car because my original dress "looked like I mugged a nun," according to him. Then Mason picked me up and-

Oh.

Right.

I jumped up, my head almost splitting in the process, making me wince and I could hear a loud chuckle erupting from Mason which seemed way to loud for my current standards.

"Shut up." I hissed.

"What the hell are you doing in my bed?

His lips curved into a smug half-smile. "Is that how you greet your best friend?" he asked with that stupid annoying smirk plastered on his face to annoy me.

Mason Hardwin, ladies and gentlemen. One of 'The infamous Five', professional heartbreaker, and somehow, my favorite idiot on this planet. Well, depends on the day really.

"For the record," I said, trying to get some control over my throbbing head, "you scared the shit out of me."

He cracked one eye open and smirked. "Relax, Remington. You drunk-called me at two in the morning and demanded emergency fries. You were out of it so I stayed on the couch. Well, until you threw the alarm clock at the wall.

Bits of last night clicked properly into place: clinging to Mason's arm in the McDonald's drive-thru, stealing his fries, him dragging my half-dead ass up the stairs.

I'd definitely been drunk enough.

"Anyway," he said, stretching. "Zola has been demanding I wake you up. She said, and I quote, 'Drag her lazy ass out of bed, we have an epic plan.' Zola's words. I'm just the delivery boy."

"My alarm clock already did that," I muttered.

"Yeah, about that..." He nodded toward the cracked plastic carcass near the wall. "You have anger issues."

I slid off the bed and padded toward my en-suite bathroom, already tugging at the waistband of my shorts.

"You stayin' while I shower?" I asked over my shoulder, half-teasing, half-curious. Mason had seen me ugly-cry with mascara down my face; modesty wasn't exactly our thing.

He flopped back on the bed, reaching for his phone. "Tempting, but your dad already thinks I'm a bad influence. I don't need to add 'caught naked in daughter's bathroom' to the list."