by Molloy, Ruby
I glare at him, determined not to display my agitation when he leans in closer and whispers, “But now I’ve got you.”
“You don’t have me, Mason.”
“Had you once already.” His words and eyes convey his contempt. “Think I could have you again.”
“Had me? You had me?” I scrutinize him from the top of his damp hair to the sole of his boots, my lips curling with scorn as I smack my palm against my forehead. “Stupid me! The hair and tattoos should have clued me in. I mean, when a guy spends all that time and effort prettifying himself, there’s got to be a reason. Yours is obviously intended to disguise your colossal ego!”
I expect anger, but if it’s there at all it’s buried beneath the streak of arrogance that runs deep as the marrow in his bones. His hand snags the back of my neck and he dips his head towards mine, chasing my mouth when I twist away. The moment his lips and tongue graze mine I yield to the need, and in that instant I’m not sure who I hate most, him or me. When the seconds tick by, and I don’t do a single thing to stop this from happening, I guess it’s me.
Holding me steady, he increases the pressure of his mouth. Heat blooms in my belly. His callous words and cocky behaviour are consigned to memory, to be examined at a later date when I’m not consumed by need. Right now I don’t give a damn about consequences. And regret is for the weak. All I know is I want him―to the point where I can’t not have him.
When he draws away, his eyes are glowing with a fusion of triumph and lust. It takes two blurry seconds for shame and anger to outweigh my desire. I want to slap him. I want the pleasure of watching my handprint stain his skin red. I guess he reads me because his hand tightens in warning against the back of my neck before dropping to his side. Just when I think we’re done, Mason crouches until his eyes are level with mine. I stare into his bitter chocolate eyes, wishing I could read his thoughts as easily as he deciphers mine. “Guess I proved my point,” he says.
He scoops up his keys and tosses them in the air before catching them. It’s a victory salute of sorts.
“Get your things,” he says. “We’re leaving.”
It’s the key toss that topples me over the edge. Normally I’m a drama-free kind of person. I’m certainly not feisty like Nora or strong-minded like Ella. And neither am I impulsive like Kayla. I’m sweet, calm Frankie Finnegan. At least I am until I catch Mason off-balance, my fingers gripping his hair, tugging his head down so that we can finish that kiss, because a kiss like that needs to be finished. My tongue sweeps into his mouth for one last taste before I push him away.
Sliding from the stool, my dress catches on the seat, exposing the backs of my thighs. I yank it back down, but creases and rumples prevent it from hanging at its full length. It’s a less than grand exit after my glory of a few seconds ago, but Mason doesn’t seem to notice. He’s watching me, staring at my mouth.
I retrieve my belongings and he leads the way out of his apartment, silent and brooding, a frown creasing the skin between his dark brows. I’m lost in my own thoughts too, dredging over the whole Sid and Mason fiasco that is my life.
Down in the underground car park he chooses the Audi R8 and I realise why when we hit the open road. He drives ten miles over the speed limit, zipping in and out of cars as though someone’s in hot pursuit. Thankfully traffic is relatively light and it’s not long before he’s pulling up outside my house. I fumble with the seatbelt and collect my things, ready to open my door, but Mason is already there. I kind of didn’t expect that. I thought it would be a case of him revving the engine, waiting for me to exit the car. He doesn’t make eye contact and I’m about to say goodbye, but he’s walking towards my garden, holding the gate open for me to pass through.
“There’s no need―” I say, but he’s quick to interrupt me.
“Yeah, there is. Last night you were worried about your mother heading this way. I’m just checking she’s not here.”
Mason being thoughtful is not a memory I need to hang onto. I want to remember him as the arrogant jerk I witnessed in his apartment this morning.
“She’s long gone, Mason.” I wave my hand to demonstrate there’s no-one lurking in my tiny, postage stamp sized garden. He looks unsure. His hands drift into his back pockets and he shifts his weight, and now he looks just plain awkward, so I do us both a favour and retrieve my keys from my bag.
“I had fun,” I tell him.
“Frankie ...”
My name is a warning, as if he’s afraid I’m about to steer our conversation in the wrong direction. And maybe he’s right to be afraid, because his warning doesn’t stop me from embarrassing myself. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I like you. I think you’re a good guy, at least you are when you’re not being a jackass. And I think you should call me, though judging by the way you’re looking at me right now I guess that’s not going to happen. And that’s a real shame because though Sid and I were together a long time, I think you could stomp all over that.”
His frown deepens and he shakes his head. “Listen, Frankie, I don’t get involved.”
I glance at my plastic shoes and swallow before lifting my gaze back to his. “Not ever?” I ask.
He shakes his head, slower this time, his dark eyes troubled. “Not ever.”
I nod, as if I understand, when really it’s far too painful for me to contemplate. I take a small step back and instead of humiliating myself further by begging, I give him what he wants. I twist my mouth into a tart grin and say, “Relax Mason. I get it. It was a hook-up, a one-night-stand.”
Standing on my tiptoes, I reach up to kiss him. It’s brief and bitter-sweet and I don’t wait around for his goodbye. I let myself into the house, its silence reminding me that Ella and Nora are in Paris. I head for the kitchen. It’s at the front of the house and I need to see Mason leave. I need to know this is the end.
Two steps in I pull up short. My mother is leaning against the worktop. There’s an almost empty bottle of vodka to her left, possibly a remnant from one of our house parties. She has a tumbler in her right hand and it’s half filled with vodka. Knowing my mother it’s most probably neat. I don’t hide my disapproval and in response she takes a long, taunting sip and afterwards wipes her mouth dry. It’s a sloppy gesture, one that tells me she’s drunk as a skunk.
I’m freaked that she’s standing in my kitchen, but more so by the change in her appearance since I saw her last. Her stomach is thick and bulging, her face puffy, reminding me of an undercooked sausage roll. Her legs are sheathed in pastel pink leggings and her torso is engulfed by a man’s rugby shirt, with thick black and green horizontal bands. It is not a good look.
We stare at each other, our mirrored expressions of loathing saying more than words ever could. I’m more than a little rattled at being in her company. I know how unpredictable she can be.
“That your fella?” she asks eventually. Her tone is snide and I know exactly where this is heading.
“No.” I’m waiting for what’s coming next and it doesn’t take her long.
She takes another swallow of vodka, her spiteful eyes shimmering with contempt above the glass. “Didn’t think so. A good-looking fella like that, driving an expensive car, he could have anyone. Why would he settle for a skinny little runt like you?”
It’s a new insult from her, but I’ve heard a thousand like it over the years. What disappoints me is that she still has the ability to get under my skin. I straighten my spine and try to divert the conversation elsewhere. “How did you get in?”
She doesn’t answer. Probably because she’s smashed a window or a panel in the back door. “No,” she continues, as if I hadn’t spoken. “I bet he’s got a stream of girls waiting to give him what he wants. Bet he didn’t ask to see you again either. From where I was standing he looked like he couldn’t get away fast enough.” The fact that she’s right makes it hurt all the more. She reads my expression and her eyes pour scorn on me. “Didn’t think so,” she says.
“I don’t n
eed to listen to this.” I drop my coat and bag on the table. “You need to go. Now.”
She straightens from her slovenly pose and smacks her glass down, bracing her hands on the counter. “You think a stick insect like you is going to tell me what to do? I don’t think so, missy! Sit yourself down and listen to what I have to say ‘coz I’m not going anywhere and neither are you! It took me an hour to get here last night. Cost me fifty for the cab fare too. I think that warrants a little time and payment on your part, don’t you?”
Money. That’s the only reason she’s here, same as when she turned up drunk at my sixteenth birthday party, asking for money, the money Ivy had given as a present, shaming me in front of my friends. Like I would just hand my money over when I hadn’t seen her in years..
“I owe you nothing! Ivy raised me, gave me everything I needed, not you! Never you! Or has the alcohol destroyed your brain cells? Maybe I should remind you of my sixteenth birthday party, how you turned up drunk and attacked me in front of my friends.”
It’s been almost five years but the hatred and fear returns as if it was yesterday. I open my bag and search for my phone, and for the second time in twenty-four hours I’m calling the Police. I’m two digits in when my hair is pulled back sharply. I’m off-balance when her fist strikes my temple. It’s a solid blow and it takes my senses away. I fall to the floor, my head hitting the tiles, her blurry form standing over me as she searches my purse. It’s empty and I brace for what’s coming next, cowering when she yells with rage. I don’t see her foot speeding towards my jaw, but I feel it right down to my toes. The pain is intense, a thousand different colours zigzagging across my vision.
I roll to my stomach, crawling on all fours towards the door. Her foot connects with my wrist and I hear the crack just before pain ricochets up my arm. That’s when I start screaming. The sound is shrill, loud enough to penetrate the walls to Laura’s house. Maybe this thought permeates my mother’s drink-sodden mind. She curses and lurches from the room. I’m still screaming, but now it’s mixed in with sobs of self-pity and pain.
♣ FOUR ♣
Not Getting Involved
Mason
Jack is slouched in the chair opposite mine, his legs splayed, his forearms following the curve of the chair. His posture and grip on the leather tell me he’s only just hanging onto his temper. There’s no mistaking that Jack is one scary looking guy. His black hair is cropped close to his scalp and his sharp green eyes have the ability to stare down most men. He’s six feet two – two inches taller than me – and if I hadn’t known him since we were kids I might be on my guard. Then again, maybe not. Since prison, nothing much bothers me anymore.
“You’re a fucking dick!” he says.
I already know this. I don’t need Jack’s confirmation. The fact that I’ve just recounted what happened between me and Frankie tells me just how much she’s messing with my mind. “You think I don’t know that?”
He continues as if I haven’t spoken. “You don’t fuck with the good ones.”
“I know―”
“She’s vulnerable. Seen her watching you.”
My head jerks up. “What?”
“At Torment. Seen her looking your way, eyes following you to the bar and back. Seen plenty of girls do that so I didn’t think it worth mentioning.”
“Fuck!”
“Should have known better, Mace.”
“Jesus, you make it sound like I took advantage of her. She was into it just as much as I was.”
“Are you fucking stupid? You forgotten the part where she dumped her boyfriend for you?!”
“Ex-boyfriend!”
“Bet you didn’t even tell her up front that you never get involved.”
“Christ, what the fuck do you care?!”
“You’re done with her?”
His question unbalances me. “What?”
“Frankie―you done with her?”
“Why are you asking?”
He shrugs. “She’s hot. I was thinking I might see if I stand a chance.”
“The fuck?” I’m guessing my expression is pretty threatening judging by Jack’s sudden stillness.
He lifts a hand in a gesture meant to pacify. “It was just a thought, Mace. Like I said, I’ve seen her around and she’s sweet. I’m thinking, if you’re not going to see her again, I might ask her out.”
“Are you fucking with me?” I can’t tell if he’s serious or playing me.
“No, man, straight up. I like her.”
“Stay away from her, Jack, you hear? You go within ten feet of her and I’ll beat the shit out of you.”
He looks offended and way too innocent. “Mace, come on! It’s not like you’re interested―”
“I said, stay the fuck away from her!”
He leans back in his chair, his expression riding between stunned and smug. “I’ll be damned! She got to you. Been a long time coming, Mace. Wasn’t sure you had it in you after Tamsin, but it’s good to see.”
“Quit talking.”
“I’m just saying ...”
I stare him down and he says something else, but I don’t catch the words. I’m lost inside my head, trying to figure out how Frankie snuck through my defences, because only then will I know how to keep her out. It’s not as if she’s beautiful. She’s too skinny, her face all angles, her limbs too bony, and her tits ... Shit, I’m getting a semi just thinking about them. Never thought small would be my thing, but with her ... Damn!
“So,” Jack says, leaning forward. “She sweet in bed? That why you’re into her?”
It’s the first time he’s asked me about a girl I’ve had sex with and I know he’s deliberately trying to rile me. “Fuck off, Jack.”
He laughs. He thinks he knows more about girls and life because he’s got two years’ experience on me. Me getting locked up at eighteen, hormones raging against the enforced abstinence, that was psycho. And while I got to spend time at Her Majesty’s pleasure, Jack was spreading it about like butter on toast and now he thinks he’s an expert when it comes to women.
I shoot him a look of disgust and go fetch another beer from the fridge. I need to burn off the anger. I shouldn’t let him get to me, but it’s not only Jack. I’ve let Frankie get to me too. I’m having flashbacks of her lying beneath me, of me sinking into her. I pace the kitchen, trying to erase those soft grey eyes from my mind. When I return to the living room I pretend I’m engrossed in the game, but I don’t reconnect until Arsenal fluke a goal in the last ten minutes. The score is now one all and not even Frankie can hold my interest as Arsenal battle it out to eventually win, two-one.
Jack and I are still on a high when Tag drops by with snacks and a bottle of coke. Any other guy would have a six pack of beers, but Tag doesn’t touch alcohol. He’s ex-army, like Jack, and he’s tall and built too, but he’s quieter than Jack, more serious.
Unlike Jack, Tag doesn’t play the field. He’s got a woman called Dizzy. I’ve never met her, don’t even know what she looks like, or if Dizzy is her real name. The only reason I know she exists is because I’ve seen his phone light up with her name on the screen. Secretive guy, Tag.
He and Jack play Call of Duty while I go back to fixating on Frankie. I keep flashing back to this morning, remembering how her grey eyes gazed up at me, pure and needy, and how her fingers combed through my hair, offering me exactly what I needed. And now I’m jacked up because I want more. I want it so bad I can’t concentrate on anything other than the need to see her again.
“Mace!”
My head shoots up when Jack shouts my name, his tone and expression telling me it’s not the first time he’s tried to gain my attention.
“You gonna answer that?” He nods to where my phone is ringing and I reach over to snatch it up. My stomach falls when I see it’s Nora calling. I know she’s about to give me grief over Frankie.
“Nora, long time no hear. You had enough of Carred already?”
“Shut up Mason. This isn’t a social call.
I’ve just brought Frankie home from the hospital. Thought you might want to know, seeing as my neighbour just told me she saw you with her last night and again this morning!”
I’m still reeling from her news when she yells down the phone, “What the fuck, Mason?!”
“Is she okay?”
“Like you care! Jesus, how could you―”
“Answer me, Dammit! Is she okay?!”
“She’s not great, but she’s okay. Her mum broke in and attacked her. She’s got some serious bruising and a broken wrist―”
Her sentence is cut short and I can hear a tussle breaking out in the background. I realise what’s happening when her boyfriend growls down the phone. “You piece of shit, Zannuto. I see you again, I’m gonna smash your fucking face in. ”
“Fuck off and put Nora back on the phone.”
“Carr, give me my phone back!”
There’s more tussling but Nora eventually gets her way and her breathy voice asks, “Again, Zannuto, what were you thinking?! Frankie’s not the kind of girl you mess around with!”
“Can I speak with her?”
“No you bloody well can’t! She’s sleeping.”
“I’m coming over.” I start searching for my keys while I’m talking, lifting up cushions and pizza boxes. The guys have lost interest in their game staring at me as if I’m losing it.
“The hell you are, Mason! I told you, she’s sleeping.”
“You’re lying.”
“How ... I am not!”
“Yeah, you are. You wouldn’t be yelling down the phone if she was sleeping.”
“What, you think you’re Sherlock Holmes now? Do not come over! You think Carred is going to let you in the house? Stay away, Mason.”
“Tell Frankie I’m on my way.”
Tag lifts up his hand. My keys are swinging from his index finger. When I try to snatch them, he draws them back and they disappear inside his fist.
“I’ll drive,” he says. “You’ve been on the beers.”
He’s on his feet, striding towards the door. Jack throws down his game controller and follows on his heels. “Don’t know what the fuck’s going down, but count me in.”
