by A. C. Bextor
Taking mental inventory and doing it quickly, I advise, “Yes. I didn’t bring—”
“We’re gone,” Mason informs, grabbing my small, clammy hand and settling it in his large, warm one. Before we start to make our way, he glares back at Thomas. “You see that Katie’s friends get a safe ride home. You fuck that up, you’ll answer for it.”
Thomas’ eyes widen and his face pales. He swallows hard, but luckily comes to common sense and nods his acknowledgment.
As Mason all but drags me toward the door, I turn to find Thomas already melting away in the crowd. He’s no longer paying attention to where I’m headed. Neither is the blonde woman I saw Mason walk in with earlier. The two are together. She’s handing Thomas a drink and he’s looking down on her, giving her his warm bright smile. The smile that should’ve been meant for me. His goddamn date!
The jerk.
Looking back to the same woman, now touching Thomas’ arm, I realize how badly I want to be a blonde.
I want to walk into a room and have all the men turn their heads when I enter. I want Mason’s attention. And not his attention via broody and controlling savior, either. I want him to touch me, whisper in my ear, and watch me walk away. I want it all.
I’m going to ask Mason to marry me, I think.
Maybe he’ll let me carry his babies, naming them each when they arrive. The girl will love the color pink. The boy will be strong and protective.
Then again, maybe I’ve lost my goddamn mind.
Jesus Christ. What in the world am I thinking?
“Did you bring your Harley?” I query, looking out into the array of cars that swamp the street in front of the frat house. Rows and rows of them are parked on either side of the dark road we’re slowly trailing down. The air is still, warm but not humid. I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle, but with Mason, I really want to.
He’s in no mood to chitchat. I get a sense of his agitation when he barks, “Wanna tell me why the fuck you’re at a college party, when you’re too fuckin’ young to be?”
He remembers I’m not of legal drinking age. He must have forgotten to answer my question about his Harley, though.
“Is that a yes you brought your bike or a no you forgot it at home?”
Mason, ignoring my question again, pulls my arm as he continues his lecture. “Or why the hell you’re alone somewhere you have no business being? Again.”
“I wasn’t alone,” I snap, pulling my arm back and stopping us from going any further. We’re standing in the middle of an isolated street, the lights shining down from above. “I was with my friends.”
“Same friends you’ve been with all night?”
His manner is accusing, but I don’t understand why.
“Yes.”
“Then where are they? And why the fuck did that jackass have his hands on you?”
“Jackass?” I parrot, looking around to see if someone else is headed toward us.
“That fat fuck who looks at you like you’re his little sister, but didn’t protect you like a big brother should.”
Oh, Thomas.
“Thomas isn’t fat,” I defend. However, in comparison to Mason, he may have a softer stomach but I wouldn’t know.
“Katie,” Mason calls, exasperated. “Why was he touching you?”
“He’s a friend of a friend,” I explain, rather than going into detail about our fathers’ plan of putting us together forever.
“Liar,” he name-calls in reproach.
His correct assumption of my reply pisses me off, which should be hard to do in my state of intoxication. I cross my arms over my chest and kick my leg out to the side—girl code for extremely pissed off.
“Something else to say?” he clips.
“You think you’re so cool,” I draw out slowly for effect.
Sighing, he asks, “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”
“You.” I point, leaning forward and flailing my arms through the air. “Coming around again to save the day.”
“Wouldn’t have to if you’d fuckin’ behave.”
Behave?
I was nervous when I saw him enter through the back door.
I was agitated at him finding me in my drunken state.
I was annoyed the way he ridiculed me for smoking.
But now? Now—I’m super mad.
“You’re ridiculous,” I huff.
“Katie, let’s go.”
“And you’re controlling.”
“Now,” he growls, pointing to his truck.
“I’m not a liar,” I bite, relaxing as his eyes gentle. “I was having fun.”
Giving in, he grabs my hand and pulls me along but says nothing more.
Once we reach his truck, he guides me to the passenger side. His eyes peruse my face. He shakes his smiling head before putting his hand to the handle. That one single dimple I remember so well looks delicious.
“I’d like to lick your face,” I awkwardly confess.
Oh, my God. Seriously!
“I mean, your dimple,” I add.
Right. Damage control.
“I meant to say I love your smile.”
Mason’s body stills. His head turns slightly, but all of his glare is on me. “What the fuck?”
“I meant to say that I love your smile,” I reiterate. “You don’t smile much but when you do, I love that dimple.” I lean in and touch it with my finger so he knows exactly what I’m talking about. Of course he does, but on the off chance Mason is as intoxicated as I am, he should know I’m not a random face-licking lunatic.
As he positions us, face-to-face, chest to chest, a kaleidoscope of butterflies wreak havoc in my stomach, swarming up my chest. Not unlike a predator finding its prey, Mason bends his neck to get closer. His large arm slowly slides its way across my waist, bringing my body into his full frontal.
This is what I should’ve felt with Thomas. This is what I never will because only Mason could ever have this effect.
With his mouth inches from mine, I taste his breath as he advises, “It’d be good if you didn’t talk about where you’d like to put your tongue.”
Shit.
“Because if we’re doing that, you bein’ drunk or not, I’d be open to sharing where I’d like to put mine.”
Oh, my God.
Ignoring or not noticing my shock, he pushes, “And unfortunately for me, my guess is you’d taste good drunk or sober.”
My hands grasp his shoulders and my back bends back slightly to gain distance. He’s in my space, never being so close. Through his shirt and jeans, the body I’ve longed to touch is overwhelming. I feel dwarfed in his presence. He could crush me, hurt me beyond repair. Emotionally and physically.
“That’s an awkward thing to say to a girl,” I finally get out, breathless.
Laughing, his body shaking against mine, he returns, “Fuck, you’re cute when you’re tryin’ to be badass.”
Again. Seriously!
“No bike, huh?” I stress, bringing us full circle.
Setting me free, Mason takes two steps away and orders, “Get in the goddamn truck so I can take you home.”
Standing too long in one spot, I start to sway. The loss of him is too much. My daydreams are nothing in comparison to being with Mason in real life.
“Fuck me, you’re gonna be sick,” he figures, mistaking the butterflies in my belly for drunkenness.
Shaking my head, I rest my hand on his stomach where his muscles contract on contact. Mason lays his hand gently on the back of my neck and using his fingers, starts to gently rub. My eyes close. Even as fuzzy as the world around us seems, his touch keeps it grounded.
“Does your dad know you’re out tonight?”
“Nope,” I return then exhale.
“He home worried sick about where you went?”
“Nope,” I answer, collecting composure. “He’ll be back Sunday.”
Mason doesn’t ask where my mom is. He already knows. I explained at the lake that my mom left us when I was young, runni
ng off with the town mailman, and living it up happily in Maine, the last I heard.
That same day he told me where he’d gotten the fat lip I remembered. He hadn’t been in a fight. Well, he had, but it wasn’t one he started. His drunken dad found his target and his aim was Mason.
“Your dad’s out of town. And you’re alone like this tonight?” he asks.
At his disposition, I look up. Mason’s eyes are moving back and forth between my face and chest. Seems in my drunken haze, I’d forgotten I wasn’t wearing my own clothes but my more promiscuous friend, Grace’s, instead.
The tank top, with built-in shelf bra, she handed me to wear under the flannel shirt is all I have left after some random woman at the party spilled beer all over it. Thomas hadn’t even noticed. Mason has, though. And I’ll be damned if I hope he’s thinking what I’m thinking.
“Wasn’t asking after your dad ‘cause I wanted to take you home to an empty house to fuck you, Katie,” he states, shaking his head and smirking.
Foiled.
“Then what are you asking?” I reply, hope still threading my voice.
Opening the door and giving me wide space, he points inside and orders, “Get in.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting in his truck outside my house. We’re listening to his kind of music. I hadn’t pegged him for a country music fan, but by all means, if George Straight talks to him and calms the anger he still has regarding where I was tonight, I’ll mindfully thank him for it.
Aside from tolerating Mason’s continuous stewing, I haven’t wanted to get out. The brick porch leading into my house is dark. No one’s home. If I were brave, I’d ask Mason if he wanted to come inside for a drink. My father wouldn’t miss anything we have stocked. He doesn’t drink any of it anyway.
“Give me your phone,” Mason orders without explanation.
Hell no.
I spent the ride home not listening to Mason ramble on about my poor decision of going to the party in the first place. Instead, I’d been texting Grace and Connie about where I am. To include where I was earlier—holding his hand. Being held in his arms. I may have even quoted him a time or two. If he sees those texts, he’ll never look at me the same way again. He may even run away.
Gripping my cell tightly, I ask, “Why do you need my phone?”
Mason doesn’t answer. Reaching over the center console, he rips it from my grasp. I watch the phone light dance across his shadowed face as he fumbles through the programs and types in his information. After, I hear the phone in his pocket ping.
He sent himself a text.
“Now you have my number. I also have yours.”
“Clever boy,” I nudge.
Talking over my comment, he continues, “If you do anything as stupid as you did tonight, you call.”
“I don’t premeditate my stupid decisions, Mason. They just happen.”
“Fuck knows that’s right,” he comments, mainly to himself.
“I’ll call. How’s that?”
“And you’ll promise not to do anything stupid for the next month or so?”
I take offense. “And again, I wasn’t being stupid. I was acting my age.”
“Seriously?” he snarls.
“Seriously. There were a lot worse things I could’ve been doing tonight, rather than sitting alone outside at a party and drinking. Besides, why were you even there? You don’t seem the frat party type.”
“Mallory’s little brother was there.”
Mallory.
My heart breaks hearing my dream husband recite another woman’s name. Her name from his lips hurts more than it should.
“Is Mallory your girlfriend?”
“We’re friends,” he enlightens. My relief is short-lived as he finishes. “With great fucking benefits.”
“You’re crass,” I accuse. “And you have a trashy mouth.”
“I don’t,” he tells me, wiping his top lip with his thumb. If he’s trying to hide that stupid grin, he’s doing a terrible job.
“So, this Mallory. She’s your type?”
“If I had one, yes.”
“What type is she?”
“Quiet,” he scolds. “She’s quiet.”
“Is this you being funny?” I question.
“Maybe,” he gives back.
“You try, but you aren’t a very funny person.”
“I can die happy knowing you’ve figured that out for me.”
Stalling for time alone, I ask, “How come we never hang out on purpose?”
“’Cause you’re a kid,” he replies. “And I’m busy.”
“I’m not a kid. I’m eighteen. And you aren’t busy now.”
“I just finished being busy by takin’ your ass home after that idiot treated you the way he did.”
Not nice.
“Thomas likes to hang with his friends.”
“Thomas is an idiot,” he hisses again. “He should’ve fuckin’ clued in that there was no good reason for you to be at that party.”
“He’s not a bad guy.”
Looking out to the road in front of my house, Mason says with sincerity, “You should stay away from him, Katie. He’s not good for you.”
“Well, thank you, Daddy.”
At my snide name-call, Mason’s head whips in my direction. There are no words to describe his expression.
Not saying more, he turns to the front window and his eyes narrow. He utters something under his breath as he opens his door and hops out of the truck.
“Sit still,” he orders, slamming his door.
When he opens my side, I contemplate kicking and screaming because I don’t want him to go. I don’t know the next opportunity I’ll have alone with him, and I’m not ready for our quiet time to end.
“How old are you now?” I ask to stall.
“Out,” he tells me, pointing to the side of where he stands.
With his truck so high off the ground, I’ll need his help. Well, all right. Technically, I don’t need help but I want his hands on me again.
When I make no move, he reaches over my body, making his way to unbuckle the belt. My heart slams against my chest with anticipation. Again, his face is inches from mine.
He was drinking beer, but his breath smells sweet. Alcohol and my husband-to-be’s scent is a heady combination.
Sensing what I’m thinking, I hear him hiss a quick and quiet, “Fuck”.
My hand covers his at the buckle and he stops moving, so I say, “I’ll do it.”
Stepping back, he nods.
Once I’m turned to face him, Mason lifts his hands in the air signaling for my arms to come out.
An unwanted picture of Mason and that blonde, Mallory, invades. And doing something I’ve never had the guts to do before, I accept his invitation but do one better.
After he’s gotten a firm hold around my waist, I wrap my legs around his hips and wait. So I don’t fall, his hands move to my back and ass, bracing me to him.
My face draws closer to his, our breaths mixing together.
“Baby, what’re you—”
Baby. Again he called me Baby.
That was all I needed to hear.
The little girl who stared out her window for eight weeks one summer, dreaming of kissing her knight in shining armor, goes for exactly that.
The younger teen lying on the beach as the man of her dreams looked down, as if seeing her for the very first time, wants this.
The drunken woman who spotted him across the room tonight deserves her chance.
His lips part first. I push my tongue inside, tasting his. The kiss is rough, inviting, and intoxicating. A mixture of chaos and excitement. Neither of which I’ve ever felt.
Mason moves his hand to rest at the back of my neck. He grabs my hair, fisting it tightly, and I fear he’ll let me go. But he doesn’t.
His other hand releases my ass so I drop to my feet. My back slams against the truck as Mason’s body blankets mine. Music still plays inside—quietly—but there.
Murky darkness surrounds, yet everything between us is so clear.
His hips grind against mine. His hands explore my body at the same time he allows mine to explore his. My chest aches, my stomach churns, and my legs become weak.
He’s giving me power in this moment…to kiss, touch, and claim.
Once satisfied this kiss will last as long as I need to remember, I pull back. But Mason’s not finished. Tilting his head the other way, he takes over.
The kiss goes from being mine to being his.
As does my heart.
“SO, HE’S WATCHING ME,” I confirm, my hands balled to fists at my side. I’m standing in my boss’s office, with Rob already seated in the chair at my left. “This isn’t news. We figured he’d be gunning in my direction. Just tell me what’s sittin’ on your desk.”
The large padded envelope is addressed to me. There’s no return address, but the script reads from someone who didn’t take much care. The address label is tattered and torn. The red pen marks bleed out at the sides of the label.
I wait with impatience as Riggs watches me carefully while opening the top. As he turns to dump it, newspaper clippings of all sorts and sizes slide out smoothly.
“We’ll have the fingerprints ran, and since Marcos is considered dangerous, they’ll speed this up in Luxson.”
I don’t respond.
Pictures of me in a newspaper black and white lay strewn about. All taken in varying stages of my career, even going as far back as my early years in California when I started as a beat cop.
Some pages are marked up. Some torn at their edges. Some have my face ripped out, clean through the flimsy paper. There’s more information about my professional life on this desk than those my own mother has saved.
“Luxson County has time?” I finally query, continuing to take all this in. “They’re busier than most.”
“Called in a favor,” Riggs informs. “This could be worse than we thought.”
He’s right. Thank fuck for Riggs’s contacts.
“Marcos is obsessed,” Rob asserts, as if the proof in front of us isn’t enough. “But that doesn’t mean he’s stupid.”
“He’s an escaped convict who lived his days inside doing his homework,” I flip. “But at least if he’s focused on me, he’s not focused on little girls.”
“That’s something,” Riggs gives.
