Loving Mason (Imperfect Love Book 2)
Page 7
I snag the front passenger seat before Jack gets to it, giving Tag directions while he buckles up and starts the engine.
“What’s going on?” he asks, speeding up the exit ramp. It’s dark and that’s fine by me because that’s pretty much how I’m feeling right now. “Frankie’s mum beat her up. Nora says she’s bruised and her wrist is broken.” I rub my chest with the ball of my palm, trying to ease the ache that’s spreading through my ribs. “You should probably know that Nora and I almost hooked up a while back. It came to nothing, but I got in a fight with her ex and they’re back together so he’s gonna be pissed when I show up.”
Tag stares me down when we stop at a red light. “Let me get this straight. You had sex with Nora, who’s friends with Frankie, the girl you had sex with this morning?”
“Hell, no! Nora and I ... nothing happened. But, yeah, they’re friends and they share the same house.”
“Fuck, Mase, that’s a fine line your walking.”
“You should also know that Nora’s boyfriend is Carred McGuire.”
There’s a pause as my statement sinks in. Tag and Jack swear simultaneously and Jack leans between the front seats, his arms braced along the backrests. “Carred McGuire, as in DMGD? Jesus, you dated his girlfriend and you never said a word?”
I grimace and my right leg starts bopping up and down. “How many times have I got to say it?! I didn’t date her and we didn’t have sex! Frankie’s aware but if you mention any of this in front of her you’ll be sipping through a straw for a month.”
Jack ignores my threat and says, “So we’re heading to Frankie’s because?”
I shoot him a vicious glance and he glares back, wide-eyed. “What? You said it was just a hook-up. Thought you weren’t going to see her again?”
“Fuck off, Jack.”
If I don’t understand why I need to see Frankie, how the hell am I supposed to explain to Jack?
“Are we expecting trouble, given the situation and the fact you told McGuire to fuck off?” Tag asks.
“Maybe,” I admit, before amending this to, “Probably. The guy’s a dick.”
“He is?” Tag asks.
Jack interrupts before I can justify my comment. “You and McGuire had a fight after you made a play for his girl? Pretty sure that entitles him to be a dick, Mase.”
“You want to join his fan club, Jack, feel free.” I turn the radio high, killing the conversation. Jack leans back in his seat and we ride in silence. It’s not until we arrive at Frankie’s house that conversation kicks back in. Tag parks my Lexus a few cars down from a spanking new black Range Rover. McGuire’s vehicle.
“Probably best if you stay in the car,” I warn, but Jack is already on the kerb and Tag’s door is open.
“Shit!” I step free of the car and lead the way. The garden gate is swinging wide and I’m not surprised by the sight of the welcome party that’s gathered on the front step. Nora’s trying to squeeze past McGuire, but he’s standing firm, blocking her. Kayla is behind and off to one side, watching.
McGuire is the first to speak. “You can fuck off back to the hole you crawled out of, Zannuto.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I’ve seen Frankie.”
Nora makes enough space to poke her head through a gap. “I told you not to come here, Mason. Go home!”
“How about we let Frankie decide? She know I’m here?”
“The whole street knows you’re here!” Frankie’s voice emanates from somewhere down the hall. “You can let him in, Carred.”
McGuire gives me the stare, the one that says I’d better not screw up. When he moves, giving me space to enter, I bump his shoulder, but my aggression falls to the side when I get my first glimpse of Frankie.
Framed in the kitchen doorway, her blonde curls partially obscuring her face, there’s no hiding the array of bruises that stain her skin. Her right arm is hanging heavy at her side, encased in a cast that runs from hand to elbow. She looks vulnerable and bone-fucking-weary.
Blood speeds to my head, throbbing as if my heart is beating inside my skull. I take it slow, edging closer, scared she’s going to back off before I can reach her. Her cheek is swollen, and this close I can see the film of moisture that’s balanced along her lower lids, threatening to spill over. She blinks it away and gives me a bitter sweet smile. “You didn’t need to come over,” she says.
“Couldn’t stay away,” I admit.
Her watery smile has my throat tightening. “Can we talk?”
She hesitates and I’m convinced she’s about to say no, but she drifts into the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the tiles. Following, I close the door, leaning against it while she takes a seat at the table, her hair once again falling over her face.
“What happened?”
She paints a graphic picture of the attack, her voice soft and slumberous, her language stark. She doesn’t embellish the events, but even so, I can see the attack as if it’s happening right before my eyes. There’s a thin red trail on one of the tiles and I can’t tear my eyes away. Frankie follows my gaze, a shiver rippling through her small frame when she sees the streak of blood. She makes to rise from her seat, but I’m already grabbing a fistful of kitchen towels and scrubbing at the mark. I screw up the used cloth and dump it in the trash before taking the chair next to hers.
“You okay?”
She laughs. It’s not a pleasant sound and my gut clenches in reaction.
“Not exactly the best weekend I ever had,” she admits.
“No, I guess not.” I can’t help wondering if she’s at least partly referring to what happened between us. “What’s happened to your mum? Have the Police charged her?”
She shakes her head.
“What the fuck?”
“By the time help arrived she was long gone. She could be anywhere. What’s that phrase, ‘of no fixed abode’?”
“So she could come back at anytime?”
“It’s unlikely, but yeah, she could.”
“You have someone you can stay with?”
“It’s fine, Mason. Carred’s already arranged security and the house is being watched, front and back. He wants me to have a bodyguard for when I leave the house, but I don’t want a stranger following me around all day.”
“The guy might be a dick, but he has a point there.” A furrow appears between her brows. It’s cute and I never thought cute was my thing, but coming from Frankie, it’s hot as hell.
“He’s not a dick, Mason, and as I explained to Carred, my mother came looking for money. From what I know of her, she probably searched the house before you dropped me off this morning and now that she knows I have nothing she won’t be back.”
The conversation fades to nothing and we sit in silence for a while. I don’t know why I’m here, or what my being here means, but I’m not ready to leave. I rub my thumb across the knuckles of my left hand, concentrating on the sensation when I say quietly, “I should have checked your house.”
“Is that why you’re here? You want me to reassure you, to tell you this isn’t your fault?” She doesn’t seem offended by this idea. She simply offers me a wonky smile. “You’re not to blame for my mother’s actions, Mason.”
“That’s not what I meant!” Angry that she’s twisting my words, I try to explain. “I was thinking how things would have been different if I’d checked ...” I trail off, the guilt she mentioned stifling my words. Hunching over, forearms to my knees, I address the floor. “Shit, you wouldn’t be sitting there with your arm in a cast and your face black and blue if I’d done the right thing.”
Her voice is firm when she says, “Mason, you’re not responsible for what happened. It’s nice of you to come see me, I appreciate the thought, but you’re under no obligation from a one night stand. You should go.”
I raise my head, searching her face. The longer I stare, the more her nervous energy ratchets up a notch. She does her best to contain it, biting her lip and flexing her good hand, but when that doesn’t wor
k I cup her fist, stilling its movement. “Nice?” My voice is harsh and too loud. “You think this is some kind of duty visit? You think I’m here to pay my dues?”
She shifts in her chair, looking small and vulnerable, her toes barely reaching the floor.
"You want to know why I’m here?” I continue. She opens her mouth, but I’m on a roll, and being the opposite of nice, I don’t give her the opportunity to speak. “I’m not here for you, Frankie. I’m here for me. I want you in my bed again. I want more of what we had this morning.”
Her eyes grow wide, her grey irises fully exposed and doll-like. Pink stains her cheeks and now she’s not just pretty, she’s full on beautiful, and I can’t look away.
“Not because you feel sorry for me?”
I laugh at her hopeful expression. “You think I’m the kind of guy who makes charity visits? I’m not a nice guy, Frankie. Shit, I didn’t even bring you a gift.”
“I don’t need a gift.”
“I should have brought flowers or something.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I don’t like presents.”
I don’t believe her. “Everyone likes presents.”
She shakes her head. “Not me.”
“Why?”
“Seems like there are many reasons a guy might want to buy a girl a gift, but none of them are good ones.”
“Yeah, well maybe you haven’t met the right guy.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t like receiving gifts from guys.”
I shake my head, smirking at her weirdness. My gaze drops to her unblemished cast and I’m asking a question before I’ve thought it through. “Mind if I sketch something?”
She looks surprised and suddenly it feels like I’ve crossed a line I vowed never to cross. She’s inching her way into my life and I’m allowing it to happen. Like Jack said, no-one’s meant anything to me since Tamsin.
“On my cast?”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds strained, and I know she feels the shift because she blinks.
“Okay,” she agrees.
Immediately, I try to back out, acting like I’m being thoughtful, when once again it’s all about me. “You sure? I mean you’re probably hurting. I could do it another time ...”
“No! Now is good.” Her words are rushed, as though she’s scared I’ll back away from my offer. She’s embarrassed by her enthusiasm and I can’t hide the mouth twitch or the fact that I’m mocking her. A nicer guy would pretend not to notice. I’m not that guy.
“You got a pen?”
She open one of the drawers and pulls one out. I swing my chair in a semi-circle, straddling it so that my chest is up against the backrest. I don’t even have to think about what I’m going to draw. Taking my time and allowing for the uneven surface of the cast, I make sure my lines are fluid and the shading isn’t too heavy. I watch as the sketch comes together, knowing how it should look because I have the exact same image tattooed on my inner wrist. It’s a 3-D drawing of a sailor’s compass, the needle pointing north. Two years after my release from prison I made an appointment with Bear, the best tattooist in town. I sketched the design, he improved it, and now I have a permanent reminder of my need to keep heading in the right direction. I don’t analyse the significance of drawing the compass on Frankie’s cast.
When I’m finished, I fight the need to sign my name, compromising by inscribing my initials. She leans forward to get a better view of my work and I realise I’m holding my breath, which is crazy. It’s just a stupid drawing and she’s just some girl I had sex with this morning.
She smiles, a genuine grin that simultaneously brightens her face and lightens the weight in my chest. I toss the pen on the table, acting like her pleasure means nothing to me.
“It’s beautiful,” she says.
I shrug, as if her praise is insignificant.
I’m glad I came. I’m glad I got to see her one more time. But this is the end, not the beginning. I can’t see her again. I can’t have her sneaking her way into my life, taking things I don’t want to give.
“Look after yourself, Frankie,” I say, hovering, on the brink of leaving yet unable to take that step. Confusion flickers in her eyes and I’m compelled to explain, to somehow justify my actions. “I uh ... I should have stayed away. You’re not for me, Frankie, and I sure as hell am not for you. I don’t get involved. I’m sorry you made that call to your ex and I hope you can fix that, if that’s what you want. I mean ... the thing is, I like you, but I can’t see you again.”
She gets to her feet, eyes stormy.
“You like me?! Sure you like me, Mason! You like me enough to kiss me, to invite me into your home and keep me safe from my mother. You like me enough to have sex with me and to come visit when I’ve been hurt, even knowing Carred would block you. Tell me, how does that translate to not being involved?!”
“I told you―”
“Sure you did. Shame you didn’t show me!”
I throw back my head and curse at the ceiling. “I don’t get involved!”
“Too late!”
It’s a bullet slamming into my chest.
I back up off my chair, shaking my head. “Sorry you see it that way, but that’s not true. We fucked, is all. I’ll fuck another girl next week and the week after that. It’s all the same to me.”
I glance at the closed door, moving towards it, but she’s up out of her chair, blocking my path. I’m ready for a physical or verbal assault, but she surprises me. “Are you going to make house calls on those girls? Or think about them once you’re done?”
“Frankie ...”
She leans in and says, “You like me!”
This time there’s no bitterness when she smiles, only pleasure. Sure, she looks tired and beaten, but now there’s an underlying calmness about her now and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve given her that. I know I’d be kissing her right now if the corner of her mouth wasn’t sore. I’d be forcing her back against the wall, tasting her mouth and giving her a taste of me.
Instead, I move her to one side. Stepping into the hall I pull up short at the sight of Jack pinned against the wall by Kayla. His green eyes are fierce, staring down at her as if he’s one step away from causing her physical harm. I know him well enough to know he wouldn’t lay a finger on her, but she doesn’t know this, and yet she’s giving him a tongue lashing that’s enough to make me wince. Tag, Carred and Nora are watching on with various expressions, ranging from hilarity on Tag and Carred’s part, to open mouthed shock on Nora’s.
I storm past them all and go wait by the car.
Jack is scowling when he reaches me, and Tag, who rarely smiles, has a grin on his face.
I let Jack take the front seat.
I don’t feel much like talking.
♥ FIVE ♥
We Don’t Match
Frankie
Mason’s idea of not seeing me is a little different to most guys’. Apparently texting is allowed, as are fleeting phone calls and the occasional visit, though these don’t last long. Unfortunately, he seems to regret the compulsion to see me as soon as he’s with me.
The kitchen is where we hang out on these visits. He’s too restless for sitting and it’s easier to stand and lean against the kitchen counter than to stand awkwardly in the living room. I make coffee, he drinks it, we chat, he leaves. That’s the established routine, though routine is probably the wrong word. Mason’s visits are sporadic. Once, maybe twice one week, none the next. No set pattern, no calling in advance to see if I’m home.
Nora and Carred aren’t here often, but when they are Nora takes Carred into the living room. No-one’s waved a white flag or anything, but they tolerate each other – from a distance – doing the whole guy thing with the stares and the macho posturing. Nora is friendly enough towards Mason, but she keeps their exchanges brief, on account of Carred. Ella finds the whole situation hilarious, watching these encounters with a smirk and a knowing expression, while her boyfriend, Cooper, seems ambivalent.
Being as his visits are short, I can’t say we know each other more than we did four weeks ago. At least, not in any way that counts. I know he works weird hours and he sees his sister and her family on the days he comes to see me.
I know he’s generous and thoughtful, bringing me gifts when he visits. Nothing expensive, nothing that could in any way, shape or form suggest I mean something to him. A small bunch of flowers one week, a box of chocolates the next. As Ivy pointed out last week, they’re gifts that don’t keep.
Right now, I’m in Ivy’s kitchen. She has a pile of snacks to the side and a pile of chips – the poker kind – in front of her. She’s munching on a Jaffa Cake, licking her lips and taking sips of ginger ale between stacking her chips.
“You seen that boy this week?”
She knows Mason’s twenty-four, and therefore no boy, but there’s no correcting her. As Ivy says, there ain’t no changing her ways.
“Not this week, no.”
“Last week?”
“Yep.”
“Raise you twenty,” she says, slapping a chip onto the pile.
“Cool.” I throw in my own chip, confident my three-of-a-kind is a winner. Turning over our cards, Ivy laughs raucously at my expression when her royal flush is revealed. Her scraggly arms come out to scoop up her chips and I roll back in my chair, annoyed and frustrated.
“Ivy, can’t you let me win just one time?”
“What would be the sense in that, girl? Can’t feel proud about winning if I hand you the game.”
She snaps up another Jaffa Cake and dips it in her ginger ale, letting the liquid seep in until the biscuit is sweet and soggy. “What did he bring you this time?” Her eyes shine bright, as if the gift is hers.
“A box of doughnuts, the luxury kind. Oh, and a magazine.”