Loving Mason (Imperfect Love Book 2) Read online

  “God, no! You go out way more than I do. You choose.”

  Tapping my straw with my index finger I say nonchalantly, “I was thinking we could go back to Torment ...”

  “That where we went two weeks ago?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure. I liked it there.”

  I relax, taking a long sip from my cola while Kayla cuts into her spicy chicken. “You like that guy, huh? What’s his name? Mason?”

  I wasn’t expecting that and my drink goes down the wrong tube. I end up coughing and hiccupping for several seconds, but Kayla waits patiently. “That’s who you were spying on earlier, right? Wasn’t he with a kid?”

  She watches me with a saccharine smile and I chastise myself for thinking I could get one over on her.

  ******

  He’s not here.

  Nine o’clock has been and gone. His friends are at their usual table but there’s no sign of Mason. Kayla has four empty shot glasses lined up on the table and she’s currently at the bar, restocking. Sometime between our shopping trip to the mall, and our coming out tonight, she found time to finish things with Jono. It’s obviously hit her hard, possibly more so because Jono argued his corner and broke down when she took her things and left. I can’t help feeling sorry for him. Who knows? Maybe the shock of losing Kayla will spur him on to kick the habit. Or at least cut back.

  Holding the shots as if they’ll explode if she drops them, Kayla weaves her way back to the table. “Man, these shots are strong. Is the room swaying or is that just me?”

  I glance around the room, as if I’m taking her question seriously. “Nope. Just you.”

  “Huh.”

  “You sure you don’t want some water? I could go get you some.”

  She shakes her head and smiles. It’s not a sober smile. It’s wide and crooked and her eyes don’t seem to want to stay open. I have a feeling it’s not going to be a long night.

  I’m right.

  By the time Kayla downs her fifth shot she’s beyond smashed. Her elbow is resting on the table and her chin is perched on her hand. A bunch of guys are staring at her. She looks beautiful and drunk and I know they’re going to make a move any second.

  “Okay, sweetie,” I say, gathering my coat and purse. “Time to cut the party short.”

  “So soon?” she wails, her big brown eyes doleful enough to inspire empathy in a high-scoring psychopath.

  “Yeah, ‘fraid so.”

  I help her into her fake fur coat, though it takes several attempts for her to find the armhole, and I don’t know which one of us is giggling more. I pick up my own coat, but I don’t have time to put it on because Kayla’s already heading for the door on bambi-legs that threaten to buckle at any second. Stepping into the cold February air, my bare arms sting and an icy chill slips down my throat, invading my lungs. Kayla heads to the right and I grab a handful of fake fur to stop her in her tracks. “Wrong way, Einstein.” I link our arms and turn her in the direction of the cab queue.

  A guy in black Red Wing boots blocks our path. My eyes skim upwards and I see Mason standing directly in front of us, wearing a white shirt, black jeans and tie, a scuffed denim jacket and a black blazer over the top. He looks good. No, that’s not fair. He looks sexy as hell! His hair is dishevelled – there’s a lock falling onto his forehead – and he looks stressed, as though he’s running late, which given the time and his usual Saturday night habit, I guess he is.

  “You leaving already?” he asks, glancing between me and Kayla.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  He looks disappointed and that’s when I remember I owe him cash for the drinks. I rummage in my purse, which is not an easy thing to do when Kayla is hanging on one arm and my coat is draped over the other.

  “What are you doing?” He sounds uptight and when I hold out the cash he steps away and lifts his hands in a ‘whoa’ gesture.

  “Take it, Mason. I owe you for drinks, remember?”

  “You already paid me.” His tone and expression are insolent. I don’t like it. I tighten my hold on Kayla’s arm when she wobbles in her heels, but she still manages to knock me sideways.

  “She okay?” he asks, nodding towards Kayla. “She looks wasted.”

  Kayla gives him a sappy, wide smile and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Yep, she’s totally wasted. We’re calling it a night and heading home.”

  “You want a lift? My car’s over there.” He gestures to the kerb and I glance over expecting to see his Audi R8, all blue and shining like it’s been dipped in hot wax and buffered to death. Only it’s not there. There is, however, a beautiful white Lexus SUV that looks like it’s come straight from the showroom. I don’t have a chance to decline his offer because Kayla is grinning excitedly and pulling me towards the dumb car. Its lights flash and the car beeps, apparently a signal for Kayla to climb into the front passenger seat.

  Mason closes her door for her and opens the back door for me. I teeter unsteadily on my heels and he cups my waist in both hands. “Christ, you’re tiny,” he mutters. Even looking up into his face I can’t tell if this was a compliment or an insult, so I pull away and climb in, knowing I’ve probably given him an eyeful of my skinny thighs.

  I’m trying to get the seatbelt in place, its chosen path cutting clear across my neck, while Mason settles behind the wheel and starts the engine. “Where to?” he asks. Kayla gives him her address and asks if it’s okay to turn on the radio. She sings along to a ballad, her voice soft and sultry and it confirms what I already know. Everything about Kayla screams sex.

  I sit in silence, forgotten, like a child separated from the grown-ups in the front, and I’m thinking this is yet another Frankie Finnegan disaster. It doesn’t take long to reach Kayla’s apartment block. It’s an ugly, flat-roofed construction, with floor to ceiling windows that don’t fit the scale of the building. Mason helps her from the car and we walk her up to her apartment together, Kayla’s arm now hooked through Mason’s. She lives on the third floor, which is also the top floor. Half way there she sits down and removes her shoes, handing them to me as though they’re a gift. Mason waits patiently and offers his hand when she tries to rise and fails miserably. Her giggles bounce up the stone stairwell.

  “Ready?” he asks. She places her hand in his and I try not to watch because the gesture seems intimate and it makes me feel as if I shouldn’t be here.

  Mason waits in the corridor outside her room while I help Kayla get into bed and fetch her a glass of water. When I return she’s curled up on her side, a dreamy, far away expression on her face. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” she asks on a sigh.

  “Who?”

  “Mason, of course. He’s pretty damn beautiful, don’t ya think?”

  Startled, I give myself time to answer, placing the glass on her shabby chic cabinet just so. My non-committal answer is primed and ready to go, when I realise her eyes are closed and her breathing is slow and steady. She’s asleep. Which means I don’t get to find out what was behind her remark. Unsettled, I hover, watching her sleep as though her thoughts will come to me, if I just wait long enough.

  Shit!

  Does Kayla like Mason?

  He’s leaning against the wall when I close the door behind me. He doesn’t smile or make eye contact, but simply takes my hand and leads me down the corridor and out through the security doors. Back inside his car, this time in the front, it’s warm and luxurious―and frustratingly silent. I don’t know him well, but I’ve seen him with his friends, and the one thing I’ve noticed is that he likes to talk. Not that he monopolises the conversation or anything, because he doesn’t, but he enjoys being sociable. So the fact that I get nothing is not good news. Not that I want more than he’s giving, because I don’t ... but still, a little interest on his part would be welcome.

  It’s six miles from Kayla’s apartment to my small house. With four miles to go, the silence is wearing thin; my knee is jumping up and down and my fingertips are tapping against my thigh.<
br />
  “You’re a fidget,” Mason says, taking his eyes from the road for a second to glance at my bouncing knee. I cringe when I recall how he misinterpreted my restlessness at the bar a couple of weeks ago.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, embarrassed by his observation.

  “Are you nervous?”

  I open and close my mouth, my eyes narrowing when I see his mocking smile.

  “No, I’m not nervous! It’s just a habit of mine. Ivy says I’ve been this way since I was a baby.”

  “Ivy?”

  “My gran. She raised me.”

  “Your parents are dead?”

  The question itself is insensitive, but his brown eyes are warm, gilded with curiosity as though he’s genuinely interested.

  “I never knew my father, but my mother’s still alive.”

  “So how come she didn’t raise you?” he asks.

  I debate whether to share. It’s not that it’s a secret, but I prefer if people get to know the real me before I dish out that particular sob story. But since Mason is asking the question, and I don’t want to lie, I give him the truth.

  “She drinks.”

  He doesn’t respond immediately. His thumb traces the line of stitching on the leather steering wheel and I wonder if he’s comparing my childhood to his. I picture him growing up with a loving family in a cinnamon-scented home. I imagine shadowy rooms furnished with softly glowing lamps, comfy sofas brimming with fat cushions, and open fires that crackle and hiss. I see cats lying on windowsills, partially hidden amongst lush green ferns, waiting to pounce on mice that don’t show. It’s the stuff of fairytales and childhood dreams and it’s not until Mason speaks that I realise I’m gazing sightlessly at empty, soggy streets.

  I blink and stir in my seat. “Uh, sorry?”

  “Do you see her?” he asks.

  I tug on a curl at my temple, pulling it taut until the curl is no more. “I haven’t seen her in years. Not since my sixteenth birthday.” There’s a whole other story there, but I’m not in the mood to divulge and Mason doesn’t ask any more questions.

  My restlessness creeps back and I struggle to hold it in check. Maybe it registers with him, because he weaves his fingers through mine and brings my hand to rest against his thigh. It’s an intimate gesture, but it’s not sexual; our hands are closer to his knee than his crotch. “I saw you today,” I say.

  He shoots me a puzzled look.

  “At the mall,” I explain.

  He smiles and his fingers flex against mine. “You saw me with Josh, huh?”

  “If that’s the miniature you, then yeah, I saw you with Josh.”

  He smiles proudly and I can’t help asking, “Is he your son?”

  “He’s my sister, Carolyn’s, boy.” He’s silent for a while before our eyes meet again and he asks, “You think he looks like me?”

  There’s curiosity and a hint of something else – pride, maybe – in his question. “He’s the spitting image of you,” I say, smiling. “Even the way he tilts his head. You’re obviously his favourite uncle.”

  “His only uncle, but yeah, we’re close.”

  We lapse into silence as Mason concentrates on junctions and traffic lights. When he releases my hand to change down a gear it feels cold and neglected and I don’t know where to place it. Mason doesn’t seem to register my awkwardness and when he’s back in top gear, he returns my hand to his thigh.

  Pulling up outside my house, the windows are black hollows, meaning that Ella and Nora are staying with their respective boyfriends. It’s often the case these days. I miss them. I feel as though I’m stationary, that the world around me is changing, morphing into something dark and unfamiliar.

  Mason rounds the car while I gather up my coat and bag. He opens my door and we stroll single file down my narrow garden path. Nervous, I toy with my keys, their jingle-jangle loud in the tranquil night air. I slow and turn before I reach my front door. Mason steps in close, but my coat and bag are clutched in my arms, a barrier to the kiss I know he wants to give. He takes them from me and drops them to the ground beside my feet, stepping in close until we’re almost touching. I tilt my head in invitation and his mouth meets mine; it’s scary how much this feels like coming home. An ache builds low in my stomach and my fingers itch to wrap themselves around his neck. I savour the taste and feel of his tongue, echoing his low groan when I have to draw away because Patsy Kline’s ‘She’s Got You’ is blaring from my phone.

  Mason recaptures my mouth and says, “Ignore it.”

  I want to, but the ringtone is Ivy’s and she wouldn’t call me on a Saturday night unless it was important. Which means I already know this call is bad news. I give up the kiss with a groan and reach into my bag for my phone.

  “Ivy?”

  “Frankie? Where are you?”

  “I’m, uh, just outside my house. Why?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Ivy, what’s going on?”

  “She was here! Turned up at my door, shouting like a crazy person, disturbing the neighbours, making dogs bark. I had to let her in, Frankie.”

  “Ivy, you didn’t?!”

  “I know! I’m a stupid old woman. I made her a cup of coffee, but I swear she topped it up with something while my back was turned. Drunk as I’ve ever seen her. Meaner too. Talking crazy talk about how I took you from her, how I stole her baby. Made out that you and her were one big happy family until I meddled.”

  “Did she hurt you?”

  Mum’s an unpredictable drunk. Happy and reasonably lucid in her best moments, scary-volatile at her worst.

  “She didn’t mean to―”

  “She hurt you?!”

  “It’s only a bruise. She found your birthday card. I left it on the side, ready to post, and she saw it. I tried to get it back, but she grabbed me by the wrist and threw me on the sofa. She left with the card, Frankie.”

  Ivy sounds distraught and I try to calm her. I don’t dwell on the fact that it’s not my birthday for weeks because this is Ivy. She likes to be prepared. “It’s okay, Ivy. It’s just a card. It’s your wrist I’m worried about―”

  “No, Frankie, she left with your card! It has your name and address on the envelope!”

  Oh, shit!

  It’s been almost three years since I last saw my mother, three years without fear of verbal or physical abuse. Three of the most peaceful years of my entire life. And it’s about to end. “How long do I have?”

  “I don’t know, Frankie. She had a car waiting. Maybe thirty minutes.”

  Mason shifts in front of me. He’s watching me closely, his brows pulled together.

  “Okay, Ivy. You sure you’re okay? Do you want me to come see you?”

  “I’m fine, Frankie. What about you? You have friends with you?”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry about me. I’ll go stay with Nora and Carred for a day or two.”

  “Okay. Make sure you call or text me when you’re there.”

  “I will do. Bye Ivy.”

  I hang up and scroll through my contacts, looking for Nora’s name. Before I can make the call, Mason has hold of my wrist and is taking my phone from my hand. “What’s going on?” I try to grab it back, but he holds it high.

  “Mason, give it back!”

  “I will, soon as you tell me what the fuck’s going on.”

  “That was my gran. My mum just found out where I live and she’s on her way.”

  He’s frowning, watching me closely. “I guess by your reaction that’s a bad thing.”

  “Yeah, you could say that. She can be a little volatile. Now if it’s all the same to you, I need to call Nora and see if I can stay with her and Carred.”

  “Let’s get out of here first.” He’s already sweeping up my coat and bag and pulling me towards his car. “I’ll drive while you call Nora.”

  “Mason―”

  “What?”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  He stills and his body goes rigid. “What? You think I sh
ould leave you here?”

  “I’m just saying, it’s not your concern.”

  “It is my concern when I’m here, you’re here, and your crazy mother is on her way.”

  “Honestly, I can deal with this!”

  A light comes on outside my neighbour’s house. Laura, my forty-something neighbour is standing just outside her front door. She’s dressed for bed and I can see her navy pjs peeking out from beneath the hem of her trench coat.

  “You okay, Frankie?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. I’m sorry if we disturbed you.”

  Her gaze switches from me to Mason, who’s crowding me and still has hold of my bag and coat.

  “You want me to get Mick?” she asks.

  Oh god, that’s not what I want at all! Mick is her toy boy. He’s also a muscle-bound gym addict and though Mason can take care of himself – I know this from seeing him fight with Carred – I don’t want this to escalate.

  “No need, really! Listen, can you do me a favour? My mum’s on her way here. She’s not supposed to have contact with me so I’m leaving, but if she gets out of hand would you mind calling me? It’s best not to confront her when she’s been, uh, drinking.”

  Her tough expression softens as understanding registers and she shoots me a compassionate look. “Sure, babe. You get going with your fella and if there’s any trouble I’ll call, don’t you worry.”

  “Thanks Laura.”

  Mason already has the car door open, and my bag and coat are lying on the back seat. I’m halfway in when Laura calls out, “What’s your guy’s name?”

  I smile because Laura’s smart. “Mason Zannuto.”

  Mason and I say it at the exact same time and it’s all the confirmation Laura needs. She grins and closes her door.

  When I look up, he’s staring at me and his expression isn’t exactly friendly. “You know my surname.”

  I nod and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Ella ... she, uh, told me.”

  “She tell you I’ve spent time inside too?”

  I nod again.