A Different Blue(55)

“Get in, Blue,” Mason yelled across Colby. Colby opened the door and beckoned to me. I

remained on the sidewalk.

“Those boys are completely sloshed,” Wilson said wearily. “I don't recognize either of them.

They aren't in any of my classes.”

“They've graduated. Mason is the same age as you are. Colby's a year younger.” Both had been

out of high school for years. Sadly, neither of them had moved beyond the football field where

they had both excelled.

“You need to let me drive, Mason. Okay?” I knew if I got aggressive, he would drive away,

which was preferable to driving with him at this point, but they really shouldn't have been

driving at all.

“Sure, baby. You can sit on my lap. I'll let you steer. I know you like driving a stick!”

Mason yelled, all the time glaring at Wilson like he wanted to beat him up.

I started walking. They could crash and burn. Mason yelled for me to stop and spilled out of the

truck, staggering after me. The truck stalled. Apparently, Mason hadn't taken it out of gear

before he decided to chase me down.

Wilson was on Mason in a flash, and with one swift pop, Mason's head rolled onto his shoulders

and he sank into a heap, Wilson struggling to support his weight.

“Holy shit!” Colby was half-way out of the truck, one leg in, one leg on the ground. “What

did you do to him, Adam?”

“My bloody name is not Adam!” Wilson growled. “Now come help me get your stupid mate into the

. . . blasted . . . pickup, or whatever you call it.” Wilson had apparently had enough. I had

no idea what he had done to subdue Mason. But I was grateful.

I ran to his side, helping him half-drag, half-carry Mason to where Colby was frozen in an

inebriated stupor. I put down the tailgate, and we managed to roll Mason into the bed of the

truck. Unfortunately, even with Mason unconscious in the back, I had to sit squished between

Colby and Wilson, who surprisingly knew how to drive a stick shift. Colby ran his arm along the

back of my seat, resting his hand on my shoulder possessively. I elbowed him in the side and

moved as close to Wilson as I possibly could, straddling the gear shift. Wilson's right arm

pressed up against me and he grimaced every time he shifted gears, as if he hated touching me.

Tough. I wasn't sitting by Colby.

[page]We drove back to the school, and Colby sat in sulky silence while we got my truck running.

Until he decided to be sick, that is, and puked all over the passenger side of Mason's truck.

Wilson just gritted his teeth and climbed back into the cab, rolling his window down with angry

jerks.

“I'll follow you to Mason's house,” he bit out, as if the whole mess was my fault. I led the

way in my truck, keeping Wilson in my rear-view mirror. When we reached Mason's, we hoisted him

out of the truck and in through the basement door of his parents' house. There was no way we

were getting him up the stairs to his apartment above the garage. He weighed close to 200

pounds, and it was all dead weight. We slung him onto the couch, and his arms flopped

theatrically.

“Is he going to be all right?” I watched for his chest to rise.

Wilson slapped Mason's cheeks briskly.

“Mason? Mason? Come on, chap. Your girl is worried that I've killed you.” Mason moaned and

shoved at Wilson's hands.