Keep Happy

by A. C. Bextor

  “’Cause you agreed. No way, the Katie I knew would ever be so agreeable.”

  “The Katie you knew?”

  Nodding, Mason’s lips thin.

  Using his thumb, he sweeps over his bottom lip and I hold my breath. Mason’s eyes charge with focus, aiming at my mouth, neck, and chest.

  I want to touch him. Remember what he felt like after all this time. If only just once. But it’ll never be just once. Mason and I are an addiction to one another. Deeper than a casual affair, but not forever possible.

  “I’m struggling with this,” I come to admit.

  His brows furrow and he counters, “Struggling with what?”

  “This,” I return, pointing to the space between us.

  Mason understands what I haven’t said aloud. His hard eyes soften and peruse my face before dropping away. The loss of his attention is painful and immediate.

  “We’re friends, Katie. I did you a favor. If you need another one, you call.”

  “I don’t think you can be my friend,” I tense. “I know you’ve moved on, but—”

  “Fuck, I haven’t moved on,” he tells me, his tone seething in restrained intent. “But you have. You’ve moved on enough for us both.”

  Mason doesn’t realize that though I’ve moved on in the sense of time and circumstance, my life with him still flourishes in my dreams. I still see his face, hear his voice, feel him on my skin. I still long for his consolation, his understanding, and his passion.

  “I get you have a husband, house, and kids,” he goes on. “Not askin’ for anything other than to be your friend.”

  “Mason,” I choke.

  “Just fuckin’ call, Katie. You need me, call,” he orders, returning to his annoyance.

  “Okay,” I agree, lacking what else to say.

  Before I can ask him to grant me space and leave, his cell phone beeps with a text at his side.

  He scans the message and states, “Need to go. Work.”

  “Duty calls,” I chime, gathering composure. “I’ll walk you out.”

  In step behind Mason’s, I follow as he heads through the kitchen, into the living room, and coming to the front door. Just as I think he’s about to open it, he stops abruptly. My chest nearly crashes against his side.

  With his hand to the door handle, he turns. His expression is purposeful. Dark. Full of emotion I can’t place.

  “I’m a cop,” he says offhand.

  Nodding, blinking in surprise, I agree, “I know.”

  “So you get I’ve seen some shit.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And some shit involves kids, namely teenagers.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your girl Amelia has somethin’ on her mind. And whatever that is, she’s having a hard time gettin’ her head around it.”

  “You can’t know this. You just met her.”

  “Could be wrong,” he admits. “But if I’m not, I’m givin’ it to you.”

  “Thank you,” I reply. “I’ll talk to her.”

  As if time between us never passed, aching stillness never followed, Mason stares down. His demeanor shifts.

  When he uses his finger to move the hair fallen from my ponytail, he doesn’t place it behind my ear, instead he holds it, twisting the lock in his fingers. His fingertips brush the side of my face and his expression of apprehension follows.

  “I get why you think you can’t do this,” he says, staring at his hand releasing my hair. “And if you really can’t, you say, and I’ll go for good.”

  “Mason,” I interrupt.

  Tears well my eyes, making the beautiful vision of him blurry.

  “Years have passed,” he remembers. “And I’ve had nothing from you.”

  “I’m still trying to wish you away,” I admit.

  Not surprised, he counters, “And I hate that you are.”

  The familiar lump in my throat resides in its place, choking anything else I want to say.

  I’m so sorry I hurt you.

  I still think about us.

  I hate that you believe I’ve moved on.

  I miss my friend.

  “But I’ve missed you,” he continues, his voice gravelly and desperate. “If we were ever anything, we were friends. And if that’s the only part of you, you can give me, I need that back.”

  One second in silent understanding passes…three more follow.

  Finally, Mason bends to kiss my cheek. His lips linger far longer than they should. I close my eyes; feeling his hot breath traveling across my skin where he says, “Keep happy, baby.”

  Past…

  THE ROOM IS SPINNING IN small, dark circles.

  The bright lights and blaring music echo from down the hall, coming across filtered and uneven. Other assorted noises from partygoers break through, adding to the scattered chaos in my mind.

  I don’t know anyone here except Grace, Connie, and Thomas. And none of my friends are anywhere to be found.

  Thomas Dyer, who knew I would be here tonight with his friends, had met us at the door. He stopped just long enough to say hi before leading us to where the alcohol table was set up. Once we were settled with our drinks, he took off to wherever with his friends. I haven’t seen him since.

  When Thomas extended this invitation, Grace was ecstatic and insisted we at least make an appearance. She said the college football team’s surprising win was reason to celebrate.

  I was hesitant. I’m not like other girls my age.

  Other than partaking in the occasional cigarette or beer, I have limited experience with both alcohol and parties. And I’ve never done either so far away from home. With my dad now traveling extensively with his job, I’ve been granted more unsupervised free time. He’d be disappointed, knowing this is how I chose to spend it.

  I think I may be sick.

  Extending my arm, I miss the wall. The palm of my hand lands on a warm, muscular shoulder.

  “Easy there, gorgeous,” an unfamiliar male voice coos, covering my mouth with his breath. I wince, doing my best not to be sick at the abhorrent stench of beer and smoke.

  When my eyes come to focus, a blond man is smiling down on me the same as the Big Bad Wolf did when he startled Little Red Riding Hood.

  Keeping calm, I casually inquire, “Hey there, so do you know Grace Aldean or Connie…”

  Oh my God. Why can’t I remember Connie’s last name?

  The fact I’m drawing a blank is sad in itself. But being that I’ve known her since grade school, also lends to how blitzed I’ve let myself get.

  I’m an idiot.

  A pair of rough hands grope my ass, jarring my body forward. A loud shriek of surprise breaks from my lips. Another man I haven’t met, and can’t clearly see, rests his chin on my shoulder from behind. His arms slither around my waist, bracing his muscled chest against my back.

  Trapped in a small, dark hallway alone with two college-aged men, who I can only assume are as drunk as I am, I start to panic.

  “I’m looking for my boyfriend,” I tell the first lie that comes to mind. “His name is Thomas.”

  Thomas isn’t my boyfriend, per se. He’s the guy my dad insisted I go out with for my first official you-don’t-have-to-sneak-out-anymore date. Our fathers work together, and for the last three years my dad has yammered on about how great of a husband Thomas Dyer will make some lucky woman.

  I’m just barely eighteen.

  Marriage has never crossed my mind, other than maybe when I was a kid.

  All little girls dream of their romanticized weddings. The flowers. The colors. The wedding party. The cake. We have so much to do in way of planning our ideal wedding to our perfect prince, it’s no wonder we’re stressed in finding him as a young adult.

  Thomas, even being good-looking, smart, and so far a successful accounting major, wouldn’t be who I’d ever choose for myself.

  Not at all.

  The man I choose to spend my life with will be tough and rugged. He’s going to speak his mind, never let
ting anyone hurt me with words or fists.

  My husband is going to take what he wants from me, at the same time giving back exactly what I need from him, too.

  He’s going to be tall with wide shoulders and have a comfortable lap for me to fall asleep in. He’s also going to love both country music and classic rock.

  Understandably, my husband looks a lot more like Mason Cole than Thomas Dyer.

  I haven’t stopped fantasizing about Mason since I saw him. I still daydream about how his tattooed hands would feel like against my fevered skin. How he looked at me as I was laying beside him sunbathing that summer. Nothing has been forgotten.

  It’s Mason who I think about when I’m alone at night, in my dark room, and I feel…

  “I didn’t know you were Thomas’ girl,” the dark-haired man excuses. “Dyer’s out front.”

  Relieved the use of Thomas’ name has somewhat set me free from their drunkenness and mine, I take a few quick stumbling steps down the hall.

  The lights in the main room are dimmer than they were when I’d been in earlier. A few partygoers are dancing in the center. Some couples grind their bodies together to the beat of the music. The floor is littered with empty bottles, scattered and crushed red Solo cups, and whatever other unrecognizable trash there is to find.

  Connie is on the couch, making out with a guy wearing our high school letterman’s jacket. Carl? Cody? Colby? Shit, I can’t remember his first name.

  With his ass to the couch, her back to the crowd, she straddles his lap. Her hands roam through his thick dark hair while his meander over her back and ass.

  Grace is still nowhere to be found.

  As I round the kitchen, more couples stand together around the small metal table, the kitchen counters, and some are seated in chairs. A few are making out, obviously not paying any mind to their audience.

  Some of the guys are toasting to tonight’s unforeseen win. Others are giving each high fives before clinking oversized shot glasses and downing the liquid in one purposeful drink.

  It isn’t until I turn my focus to the back door that the air in my lungs makes its hasty escape.

  Holy shit.

  He’s changed. He’s bigger than I remember. His chest is broad, straining under the tight material of his dark blue Henley. His long sleeves are pushed up to the elbow, revealing even more color he must’ve had added to his arms since I’ve last seen him. His jeans are worn—a hole at the knee attesting to their age. The same silver chain he’s always had, hangs from a belt loop to his back pocket.

  Mason Cole.

  It’s absolutely not fair my dream husband is here to see me in this state. Not only that, he’s here with a blonde woman, who’s not only hanging on his arm, but smacking her lips as she smirks out into the rowdy crowd.

  The woman in question is wearing a hot pink tank top and a pair of short white shorts. Her legs are long, slender, tanned, and toned. Her makeup is done to perfection, bringing unfair focus to her big, beautiful dark eyes.

  Mason has his arm tightly wrapped around her waist, all but claiming for all others to see. The tips of his fingers dig into her slender waist at the side. He’s looking down at her like I’ve always daydreamed he’d look at me.

  With affection. Desire. Admiration. Understanding.

  I hate her.

  Luckily, Mason hasn’t seen me yet, which lends hope for a quick, unseen escape.

  When he whispers in the woman’s ear, a smile spreads across her pink painted lips. She nods, then walks herself out of his hold toward the makeshift bar across the room. Men give her room to flaunt her way through them. Women look to her with admiration, as though studying to learn her every move.

  If I were ever in Mason’s arms, as she had been, nothing and no one would tear me from them.

  Calling up sober, I decide my only option to get out of this house is the front door. I can’t wait for my friends. I can’t take time to find Thomas and tell him I’m leaving.

  I’ve got to go. Where? No clue.

  The same time I turn around to make my break, all my plans are foiled.

  Poof.

  Gone.

  Out.

  Damn it.

  “Katherine?” Thomas calls looking down, concern etched across his face.

  Thomas is tall. His six foot frame towers over my five five one. His hair is perfectly combed; the color of it blond and the cut is cropped high and tight. His eyes are light blue and his skin is fair.

  I’m positive he’s a really good catch—for someone else.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” he impatiently prompts, wrapping his arm around my waist to pull me closer.

  His cheeks are red, his eyebrows furrowed. He’s pissed, but I’m not sure why. He left me once seeing I had a drink. He chose his friends over me and scurried off as soon as he could. He left me to wander my way to a room upstairs.

  I’m being a bitch. I should stop drinking. And smoking.

  “I was upstairs,” I tell him calmly. “I lost the girls and couldn’t find you.”

  “Jesus Christ, Kat. This is not the kind of party a girl like you just goes and gets ‘lost’ in.”

  I didn’t do this intentionally, but instead of arguing, I keep quiet. But really, a girl like me?

  Pulling on my upper arm, Thomas moves us out of the way toward a wall near the kitchen. He positions me in front of him. Our chests are touching, our legs tangling together. I feel nothing being this close to him. Only dizziness from the alcohol and surprise at his reaction.

  Searching my eyes, Thomas ponders for a second then states, “You’re blitzed.”

  “I’m fine,” I reply.

  “You’re not fine, Kat,” he returns angrily.

  “I am,” I argue.

  Exhausted, he clips, “Christ, I need to get you home.”

  “I’ll take her,” Mason’s deep, resonating voice interrupts, sending a series of flutters up my spine. “Seems you’re not paying much attention to her, anyway,” he includes, then states again, “I’ll see her home.”

  “Right,” Thomas returns, staring blankly over my shoulder at Mason.

  I understand his response. Up close, especially when he’s annoyed, Mason can appear a menace.

  And how weird this is one of the things I’ve come to love about him.

  Right now, though, I’m struggling to muster the courage to turn around. Mason can’t see me like this. He’ll look right through my guise of sobriety and no doubt call me out in front of everyone. That’s who he is. Mason sees everything. Mason understands everything.

  Well, everything except how much I want to be the girl he’s with tonight.

  Thomas doesn’t seem to have an issue with another guy willing to stake his claim. He’s not jealous or annoyed that some huge man, twice his size and more handsome than he’ll ever be, just voiced his intention to take me away from him. There isn’t an instinctual or possessive reaction from Thomas toward Mason at all.

  I was right. Thomas Dyer is definitely not the marrying kind.

  “Who are you?” Thomas finally questions as the music momentarily stops.

  “Cole,” Mason clips harshly.

  “Cole?”

  “Yes, Cole—”

  I crane my neck to catch a glimpse at Thomas’ face as it gleams with excitement.

  “You went to Logan High,” Thomas excites. “You were on the varsity wrestling team.”

  My gut aches to turn around and ask Mason about a high school wrestling career I never knew he had. But truth is, I don’t know much about him, other than he seems to appear wherever I am. And at the least expected and unfortunate times.

  “I did. And now you know who I am,” Mason irritatingly flips back. “So if we’re done with the introductions, like I said, I’ll take Katie home so you can hang here with your friends.”

  Thomas drops his chin, his eyes blinking slowly.

  Incredulously, he questions, “Mason-fucking-Cole calls you Katie?”

  “Katie, K
atherine, Kat. Whatever the fuck,” Mason bluntly clarifies.

  “Kat’s mine,” Thomas counters quickly. “She’s with me tonight, I mean.”

  “Lovely for you,” Mason returns, his tone feigning care. “By the looks of her, she has no business being yours anymore tonight. So now, we’ll call her mine.”

  My eyes widen and my belly warms then suddenly flips. I sway in place.

  Mine, Thomas had said and I winced.

  Mine, Mason had said and I shivered.

  “She’s fuckin’ drunk, brother,” Mason scolds.

  “And high,” I include on a sigh, as I finally turn around to face Mason.

  I’m still standing in Thomas’ arms. His hand splayed across my waist; my back to his chest where he’s holding me to balance.

  Judging by the ticking of his jaw and his rigid stance, I’ve pissed Mason off by my, what he must deem, outlandish behavior.

  Whatever.

  “You been smokin’?” Mason seethes, searching my face, then shifting his glare over my shoulder to Thomas. “You let her smoke?”

  “I didn’t,” Thomas denies.

  Mason leans in, his face inches from Thomas. “Then what the fuck?”

  When I say nothing for myself, Thomas shakes me in his hold, looks down and prods, “Kat? Someone here give you something?”

  “A group of guys from the football team out back had some…you know…stuff…” I trail off, hating to finish. “They offered, so I—”

  “You got all your shit?” Mason growls, stepping toward me.

  Thomas releases my waist and quickly steps back.

  Chicken! Chicken! Chicken!

  Mason’s glare is malevolent. He eyes me in place, inexplicably marking me, making it so I can’t look away. They’re as beautiful angry as they are bossy and sweet. All of which I know him to be.

  “Katie,” Mason clips, then voices gently, “Stay with me, baby. Do you have the shit you came with?”

  Baby. My husband-to-be calls me Baby.

  This is fabulous!

  At this revelation, I giggle. I must have done so too loudly, because Mason and Thomas are staring at each other as if I’ve grown three heads.

  Get it together. You got this, Katherine Margret Morris.