Loving Mason (Imperfect Love Book 2) Read online

“Shit! Fucking town gossips! You’re safe with me. Been out four years, not been in trouble since. Also, I’ve never hurt a woman. Never will. And just so you know, that guy I beat up, he deserved it. And I don’t mean he gave me a bad grade for English. He did some serious shit and he paid for it.”

  “You don’t have to do this―” I’m embarrassed for him. I wonder how many times he’s had this conversation and whether it gets any easier.

  He shrugs and looks away before asking, “We good?”

  “We’re good,” I say.

  He closes my door and jogs to his. I’m already calling Nora when he starts the engine and pulls away. My call goes straight through to voice mail. “Hey, Nora. Can you give me a call when you’re free? Everything’s okay, but I need to speak to you fairly urgently. Thanks.”

  I lock my phone, tucking it between my thigh and the seat.

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “At Carred’s I guess. He lives in Hampstead Heath.”

  “That’s thirty minutes’ drive from my place. If she doesn’t call before we hit London, you can stay at mine. I need to head out to work, but if you’re okay with it, you can hang out at my place.” He glances my way. “You’ll be safe in my apartment.”

  “You work on a Saturday night?”

  “Yeah. I work in a nightclub. Won’t finish ‘til gone six so you’ll have the place to yourself.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Do?”

  “Yeah, in the nightclub. What’s your job?”

  He bites off a laugh. “Me? I’m a jack of all trades.”

  It’s obvious he’s not about to elaborate and I wonder how a jack of all trades can afford two expensive cars. For all I know he could be a drug dealer. I mean, that would explain his money and the fact he works in a club. Maybe he deals on the premises? Shit, I really don’t know him!

  Not taking any chances, I leave a second voice mail for Nora, this time telling her I’m with Mason. I’ll deal with the fallout when I have to, but right now I need to feel safe. Maybe Mason understands, because he asks me if I should call the Police. “I heard you tell Laura that your mum’s not meant to be near you. I figure you have a restraining order in place?”

  He’s right. I should let them know what’s happening, just in case mum kicks off when I’m not there. I dial the non-emergency number and explain my situation to the call handler, giving my number in case they need to call me back. Next I call Ella because with Nora not having called back, the likelihood of staying at Mason’s is looking stronger with every passing minute.

  “Hey, Frankie! How you doing? Guess where I am?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. Where?”

  “Paris!”

  “You are? What in the hell are you doing in Paris?”

  “Coop and Carred arranged a surprise weekend for me and Nora. Didn’t know a thing until this morning. I’m eating the most amazing dessert. Nora and Carred are having dinner in their hotel room, except you should probably substitute the word dinner with sex―”

  “Oh, my god, I can’t believe you! Why are you talking to me if you’re on a date with Cooper, in Paris?”

  “It’s just Cooper, Frankie. He’s not like he’s royalty or something!”

  I have to laugh because the thing is, Cooper is world famous and Ella’s ... Ella. Like Nora, she doesn’t give a shit that her boyfriend’s a rock star. “Why did you call, babe?”

  “As of half an hour ago my mum knows where I live.”

  “No shit!”

  “I kind of panicked and left a couple of crazy sounding messages with Nora and I might have mentioned that I’m with Mason.”

  There’s a heartbeat of silence down the phone and I hear the sharp ting of cutlery hitting china. “You said what now?”

  “Shit, Ella, don’t make this more difficult than it has to be!”

  “Why exactly are you with Mason?”

  I update her on how Kayla and Jono have split up and how the fallout from this caused Kayla to down shots like they were a miracle cure for the lovesick. I also tell her about Ivy’s call and Mason offering to let me stay at his place. I guess it’s a lot to take in, especially if you’re all the way over in Paris, being wined and dined like a princess.

  “Give me a second,” she says.

  I listen to her slow, regular breathing and the background hum of muted conversations. “Okay, Frankie, here’s the thing. It’s done and nothing’s gonna make it undone. Nora’s gonna react whichever way she sees fit, so once we know which way that goes, that’s when we deal.”

  “Damn, she’s gonna go crazy.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Ella soothes.

  “Ella, you’re in Paris, eating at a swanky restaurant with Cooper, drinking ridiculously expensive champagne. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with Mason fucking Zannuto, so forgive me if I don’t run with your ‘it’ll be fine’ scenario.”

  “Oh, shit. Tell me you did not just say that in front of Mason?”

  “What?”

  I can hear Ella talking down the phone, but I’m suddenly aware of the change in atmosphere inside the car. Mason’s fingers are coiled around the steering wheel and his jaw is locked tight.

  “I have to go―” I tell Ella.

  “Dammit, Frankie―”

  “Bye!”

  I hang up and wait, silently counting to nine before Mason speaks. “Stuck with Mason-fucking-Zannuto?!”

  “I ―”

  “Like I’m a piece of shit stuck to your shoe.”

  “I didn’t―”

  “Been dealing with that fucking shit since I got out of prison. Judged by people who don’t know shit about why I did what I did. Didn’t think you were like that. Guess I was wrong.”

  “Mason―”

  “Don’t!” His low snarl has me sinking deeper into my seat. “Tonight you can stay at my place, tomorrow I’ll take you home.”

  I hate that he thinks I’ve judged him. Especially when my comment had not one thing to do with his time in prison and everything to do with my impossible crush on him. But I can’t tell him that. I can’t! Except, the alternative sucks! “Can I explain?”

  “Keep it! I don’t give a shit.”

  “It’s not what you think―”

  “Frankie ...” The way he says my name is a warning; one I don’t heed.

  “I saw you first!”

  His hands twist against the wheel and he glances my way, his frown back in place. “What?”

  “Before you saw Nora, I saw you.”

  “So?” He’s frowning, clearly pissed-off, and trying to figure out where I’m going with this.

  “So I liked what I saw!” There! I said it!

  I can feel him staring, but I don’t acknowledge him. Instead, I choose to stare out of the window, studying the streets and buildings as we travel further into the West End. I watch revellers mingling outside pubs and clubs, and I wish I was there with them.

  “That why you were being snotty when I called to pick her up? You were jealous?”

  God, he doesn’t pull his punches. “Something like that.” I’m too honest, too ready to share details that should remain private. I’m the opposite of a dark horse. Mason swings a right and enters an underground car park, pulling into a space that’s outlined in white and ten feet from a bank of lifts. This time he doesn’t open or close my door. He waits impatiently beside the car while I retrieve my things and when I reach him he bypasses the lifts for the stairwell.

  I glance longingly at the steel doors.

  “Are they broken?”

  “No.”

  He’s way ahead of me already, taking the stairs two at a time. I pick up speed, but I’m still three steps behind him. “Then why aren’t we using them?”

  “I need the exercise.”

  He’s being facetious. I think.

  By the time we reach his floor – level ten of a ten storey block – I’m panting and my face is hot to the touch. My toes are mashed inside my shoes and my lungs are burn
ing. Meanwhile, Mason looks like he’s been for a slow stroll around the block.

  “Next time I’m taking the lift,” I tell him breathlessly.

  “Next time?” His expression is dead-pan, his elevated brows an exclamation mark to his question. Maybe I should feel embarrassed at my presumptive comment, but I’m not. I mirror his raised brows until he grins and leads the way into a wide corridor that’s carpeted in a lush, deep grey. There’s only one door in the twenty feet expanse. He unlocks it, opens it wide, and waits for me to step over the threshold before he follows.

  It’s dark until he pulls out his phone, tapping an icon that has lights blinking on automatically. The space is massive and I don’t have a clue how much it’s worth, but me and my cheap denim dress are out of place here. The floors are a dark wood, obscured here and there by richly decorated rugs that look like they cost hundreds, maybe thousands. Brown leather sofas and chairs are interspersed with glass tables that glisten as though they’ve just been polished.

  I barely take this in before he’s moving and I follow him down another corridor, this one leading to an enormous black and white kitchen. At its centre sits a granite-topped island the size of a double bed. He gives me a fast and furious tour of the space, opening and closing cupboards as he goes. “Glasses and mugs in here. Cutlery here.” He steps up to a large pantry-sized cupboard. “Food in here. Help yourself to whatever you want. My bedroom is down the corridor, second door on the left. I’ll take the sofa.”

  “You only have one bedroom?” My doubt and suspicion is clear.

  He pauses the tour, his expression hardening. “There are two more. One belongs to Josh, the other has no bed.”

  He takes a bottle of water from the fridge. I misread the direction he’s heading. He moves towards me and pulls up sharp. There’s heat in his eyes and it intensifies when his gaze falls to my mouth. I almost squirm under his scrutiny, releasing a breath when he steps round me and heads back down the corridor towards the front door. “I’ve gotta go,” he calls over his shoulder. “Like I said, I’ll be back sometime after six. I’ll have my phone with me if you need anything.”

  He’s almost out of the door when I call after him. “I don’t have your number.”

  “Right.” He pulls his phone from his back pocket. “What’s yours?”

  I recite the digits and he taps them into his phone. Nine Inch Nails’ ‘Closer’ blares from my phone, mid-chorus. Its graphic lyrics and sexy, animalist beat electrifies the already charged atmosphere. Mason glances from me, to the door, and back again.

  “Fuck it!”

  He walks towards me, eyes dark and volatile, gaze unfocused. His mouth hits mine and I’m instantly playing catch-up. His tongue is in my mouth, coasting against mine, giving me a glimpse of something beautiful before it’s ripped away and Mason is gone.

  I’m alone in a virtual stranger’s apartment, breathing hard, my hands curled into fists at my side.

  I should leave.

  I should put on my coat, button it up, and head home.

  I stand undecided for long seconds, my mind conjuring up a familiar photograph taken at a funfair in 1960s London. Ivy dressed in a pastel blue mini-dress and kitten heels, her strawberry-blonde hair backcombed and sprayed solid. Gramps, in a sharp suit and equally sharp boots, his blond hair slicked back, the style not dissimilar to Mason’s. They’re laughing; mouths wide, teeth on show, eyes sparkling, like they’ve known each other their whole lives instead of thirty minutes. Ivy’s told me the story behind that photograph so many times, I know it by heart. How she met gramps at a funfair and knew right away he was the one.

  ‘Believe in the unknown and the magic will happen’, Ivy says.

  I don’t realise I’ve come to a decision until I’m draping my coat over a chair and kicking off my pumps. The floor is blissfully warm beneath my tender feet. I stroll through the apartment and follow Mason’s instructions, helping myself to the contents of his cupboards and fridge. I come away with a ham and mustard sandwich and a bottle of beer.

  Later, when my plate is empty and I’ve watched two episodes of Sons of Anarchy, my phone rings. There’s no name assigned to the caller, but I know it’s Mason.

  “Mason.”

  “So, you liked what you saw?” he asks, as if two whole hours haven’t passed since I communicated that particular piece of information.

  My heart picks up speed. I sit cross-legged on the sofa, fanning my dress out around me, grinning, safe in the knowledge that he can’t see my current dork-like state. “That’s why you’re calling? To gloat?”

  “Hell, no. Got a ten minute break. Thought we could talk, seeing as you’ll be asleep when I get back.”

  “Oh ...”

  “I’ve been thinking about our sleeping arrangements.”

  “Oh ...”

  “Not sure I want to sleep on the couch ...”

  “Oh ...” I’ve become a repetitive doll. “I, uh, that’s okay. I can sleep on the couch.”

  A pause. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I don’t understand ...” And then I do. “Oh.”

  Air huffs from his lungs and I don’t know for sure, but I think he’s laughing at me. “Your call,” he says.

  Not fair! Not fair at all.

  “Are we talking sleep?” I ask, acting obtuse because somehow it seems safer.

  “Yeah, sure, we can sleep―after.”

  “After?”

  “After we fuck.”

  I should be shocked or at the very least insulted, but I’m neither. I’m turned on, caught up in the imagery spawned by his explicit words. I picture Mason climbing into bed, naked and warm, waking me with soft, intimate caresses. I shiver. Goose bumps speckle my arms and my fingers slide down my neck. I have two choices, one is sensible, the other reckless. I am neither, and my situation is ... complicated.

  “Mason, I ...”

  I don’t finish. I’m a coward.

  “I want to see you naked, Frankie. Shit, I’m getting hard just thinking about you in my bed.”

  “There’s something I haven’t told you.” I pull up my legs and scrunch my cheap denim dress between damp fingers, struggling to form the words, leaving a silence he could break if he chose. He doesn’t choose. “I have a boyfriend. At least, I did. He’s in America, travelling. We were together a long time and it kind of got stagnant before he left, so we’re on a break. For me it’s permanent, but Sid, he’s kind of holding out ...”

  “How long?”

  “Huh?”

  “How long have you been dating?” His voice is no longer light, or flirtatious. It’s cold. And hard. It’s frozen ice on a moving lake, splintered and ruptured.

  “Four years, five months.”

  You can assemble a lot of information from those figures. I know Mason is smart, which means he’s processing. I don’t have to wait long. “Take the bed, I’ll take the couch.”

  He’s gone before I can explain further, though I think I pretty much covered everything with the words four years, five months. I’m twenty years old, soon to be twenty-one, and I’ve spent almost a quarter of my life with Sid. He’s as familiar as peanut butter on toast, comfortable as a pair of fluffy socks, and I love him. The kind of love I know will last a lifetime. Only it’s not the right kind of love.

  I glance at my phone, and open the app that gives me the time in San Francisco. Five in the afternoon. I could call him, ask his advice. No-one knows me like Sid. My thumb taps and scrolls, drawing his name from my list of contacts. His photo instantly loads and I gaze into brown eyes that are three shades lighter than Mason’s, which means they’re less intense, less guarded.

  Sid isn’t lean like Mason; his muscles are softened by a few extra pounds, though they sit well on him. And there’s no doubt that Sid is a good-looking guy, with his irresistible rough and ready charm. He’s one of the boys, a friend to all. And until six weeks ago, he was my boyfriend.

  I call him and he answers on the fourth ring. “Yo, Frankie
!”

  I flinch when I hear his voice. I know immediately I shouldn’t have called. It was a dumb idea. “Hey, Sid.”

  “How’s my girl?”

  “I’m good. Sid―”

  “Christ, I’ve missed you! Swear to god, the girls out here are stunning, but they’re nowhere near as cute and sexy as you!”

  “Where are you?”

  “Fort Point. Surf’s fucking amazing here. You’re lucky you caught me, I was on my out again.”

  I imagine him in his board shorts, his stomach slightly rounded, his thighs thick and hairy. Tears gathers behind my eyelids.

  “Sid. I ... uh ... we need to talk.”

  “We do?” He sounds cautious.

  “Yeah. The thing is ... I think I’ve met someone.”

  “You think?” He laughs, but it’s harsh for Sid. “Don’t you know for sure?” he mocks.

  I glance down at the newly formed tear-splatter on my dress, feeling stupid. “I know it sounds crazy, but there’s something about him, and I know I barely know him, but ...” I trail off because now that I’m saying this out loud it sounds ridiculous.

  Sid’s laughter burns my ear. “Let me get this straight. You’re phoning to tell me about some guy you barely know? What the fuck, Frankie?!”

  “I know it sounds stupid and, yeah, I know I barely know him, but it feels right. And I know it might end up being nothing but this one night. But Sid, I think I want to take that chance. I think I want to find out if this could go somewhere.”

  “Are you saying you’re going to fuck him? Is that why you’re calling? To tell me you’re going to sleep with some guy you don’t know because you think it might go somewhere?! Jesus Christ, Frankie, have you lost your fucking mind?!”

  “Sid―”

  “What about us? I thought we were keeping things open until I returned from the States? You willing to risk that on a guy who might not be there tomorrow? What the fuck?!”

  “I know! I know! This is not me. But it is. It’s ... It’s like you leaving to go to America―you had to, because not going was unthinkable, even if it meant the end for us. This is kind of the same.”

  “It’s not the fucking same, Frankie. You sleep with this guy, it’s absolutely the end for us! You think I want some guy’s leftovers? Fuck that!”