by Molloy, Ruby
She smiles and her eyes grow beady, the way they do when she’s hatching a plan. “You bought him anything?”
“What? No. Why would I?” I frown, trying to figure out where she’s heading with this.
She holds a bony finger up, and taps it against the crumpled skin of her mouth. “A book,” she says.
“What?”
“Buy him a book. Write a note inside the cover.”
“Ivy―”
“Doesn’t matter if he reads the book, but he’ll read your note.”
“Ivy, I’m not going to buy him a book.”
She clicks her tongue. “Girls got no sense these days. In my day we knew how to hook a fella.”
“I don’t want to hook Mason!”
“Rubbish!”
I roll my eyes and take a sip of my drink, a mixture of coke and bargain-basement vodka. I’m staying the night, so I don’t have to worry about driving home. Ivy rises from her chair and begins packing away the chips. I’m surprised. It’s almost 9 o’clock, but she’d play all night if she could.
“Film’s about to start on TV. Got that Ryan Gosling fella in it.”
I laugh. Ivy might be approaching eighty but she still has an eye for a good-looking guy. I try not to dwell on how wrong that is and help her tidy. I’m drying a highball glass when my phone rings. Ivy winks and scuttles into the living room while I pick up. “Hey, Mason.”
“Where are you?”
“Out.”
“Yeah, I get that. I’m standing outside your door, the lights are off, and some guy in a pick-up is staring at me from across the street.”
“Brown hair and a beard?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s Keith, one of Carred’s security guys.”
“Good to know. Where are you?”
“Ivy’s. She thrashed me at poker and we’re about to watch a Ryan Gosling movie.”
“Damn! I was hoping to see you tonight.”
“Sorry. Maybe you could ring ahead next time?”
If I was able to see him I might be able to make out what he’s thinking. As it is, there’s only silence and that’s as helpful as a lighter without gas.
“You around tomorrow?” he asks.
I can hear the frustration in his voice, but it doesn’t prevent me from stoking it further. “Depends.”
“On what exactly?”
“On what time you were thinking.”
“Seven.”
“I’m going out with Kayla at eight, but yeah, I’ll be home at seven.”
“Seven it is.”
He ends the call without saying goodbye and I’m not entirely sure why I’m standing alone in the kitchen, grinning like an idiot, but I go with the flow.
Ryan Gosling doesn’t disappoint. Ivy and I sit in silent admiration for ninety minutes, and it’s not all about his acting skills. As Ivy says, that’s one fine specimen of a man.
*****
Kayla looks through my stash of make-up while I brush on a coat of mascara. When I’m finished, I stand back, examining my reflection in the long mirror I got from the second hand shop on the corner. I’m wearing jeans, black boots and a black halterneck. It’s the best I can do. Kayla, who doesn’t comprehend the concept of dressing down, is wearing black heels and a tight black dress. As ever, she looks sexy and classy. I’m not in her class, but I’m happy with the image staring back at me. My bruises are gone and the halterneck makes my bony shoulders and arms look kind of sexy. My ankle boots have heels, giving me a boost in the height department, and though my cast doesn’t exactly add to my outfit, there’s little I can do about it. Kayla puckers up and gives me a whistle and I swing round to face her, grinning.
Torment is off the agenda tonight. It’s Saturday and I’m guessing that’s where Mason will be heading to later. I still haven’t forgotten his comment about not getting involved. I don’t know for sure, but I guess he’s still seeing other girls and I don’t need to see him coming onto them.
Kayla and I are in the kitchen, drinking vodka and Coke, when Mason shows. He looks good, as in he looks really good. He’s wearing jeans and a grey jacket with a black shirt beneath. His tattoos are a striking contrast to his sharp clothes. He hasn’t shaved the last few times I’ve seen him and I realise the effect is now less stubble, more beard. Hot doesn’t come close to describing him, and the gulf between us suddenly seems magnified. I know I’m not in his league. Or the one below. I’m two divisions lower, where the amateurs reside.
Ignoring my abrupt melancholy, I show him into the kitchen, where Kayla is waiting. She gives him a stunning smile and reaches up to kiss his cheek. Yeah, Kayla is definitely in Mason’s league. They look good together. They look like a couple.
I pick up my glass and take a long sip, wondering what Mason and I have been playing at these past weeks. Him visiting, bringing me gifts, protesting that he doesn’t want to get involved. Me letting him set the rules. I need to get a grip. I need to move on.
He enters my personal space, his gaze travelling up and down my body. It’s over in a flash and his expression is blank, but there’s heat in his eyes. His hand comes to rest on my hip and he leans in until his mouth is against my ear. It’s the first time he’s touched me in weeks. I feel the bristle of his beard, the warmth of his mouth, and I tremble, rubbing my face against his, the way a kitten bows its back against the hand that strokes it.
“Hot,” he says. The word is low and loaded with heat.
Not fair!
When he draws away I know from Kayla’s smirk that my reaction is plain to see. Flushing, I take a quick sip of my drink. The first few drops flow down the wrong tube and I cough repeatedly until my face is no longer pink, it’s purple. Tears begin to stream down my face and Kayla is torn between concern and laughter, while Mason simply slaps me on the back a couple of times. Wiping away the slipstream of tears, I choke out a strangled laugh. Not only am I not in his league, I’m a nerd of the highest order.
“Okay now?” he asks and I nod, embarrassed.
“I’m going to refresh my lipstick,” Kayla says, shooting me a disparaging glance, one I’d be peeved about if there wasn’t a whole bunch of affection mixed in with it too.
Mason waits until she’s gone before walking me backwards until the curve of my spine meets the rolled edge of the worktop. His palms stroke my shoulders and upper arms, creating tingles that zip down to my toes. The feelings I’ve submerged are once again rising to the surface. I want the freedom to touch him, to ease his shirt free of his jeans and run my fingers over the smooth skin of his abs. What I don’t want is the hurt that comes with liking a guy like Mason, a guy who’s unable to commit to anything other than a one night stand.
I try to draw back when his mouth descends against mine, but I’m too slow and once I get the taste of him it’s the only thing that matters. Maybe he thinks the same way too, because he lifts me up onto the counter and cups my behind, pulling me against him. My fingers curl around his nape, biting into his skin, keeping him close. Tongue stroking mine, mouth heavy and harsh, he cups the back of my head, holding me still.
Long minutes later he draws back, his fingers dipping into my hair, his thumbs lightly pressing into the flesh beneath my cheekbones. “Gotta go. Have a couple of things I need to take care of before I start work. I’ll drop by in the week.”
That’s it?! After coming to see me, and kissing me like he’s half-crazed with wanting me, that’s all he has to offer? A measly, ‘I’ll drop by in the week’!?
I may not be in his league, but I do have my pride, and I, Frankie Amelia Finnegan, will not be his ... his ... God, I don’t even know what I am to him, but whatever it is, I’m not that! I will not meekly wait on him to call. And for what purpose? Weeks of nothing but conversation and the occasional gift?
No way!
He’s already walking out of the kitchen when I call after him, “Don’t!”
He stalls and turns, a crease slipping between his brows. “What?”
&n
bsp; Words tumble from my lips and each short, spiky sentence is akin to cold water on a hot pan. “Don’t call, or text. Or anything.”
Mason’s eyes heat and he retraces his steps, his movements slow and contained. “Say that again.”
A few seconds is all I can take of his wild brown eyes before I shift my gaze to the metallic kitchen clock, watching the seconds fall away. “We should stop things now, before one of us gets hurt. And when I say one of us, I mean me. I’ll be the one who gets hurt, so if it’s all the same to you, it ends here, tonight.” The air in my lungs warms and I exhale noisily, lifting my gaze to eyes that appear dark as sodden earth.
“You think I’ll hurt you?”
“I know it!”
His gaze flickers over my face, scanning for clues, and me being an open book, I know he’s found what he’s looking for when his gaze softens and his mouth relaxes into a perfect, kissable smile . “How?”
I stiffen, hating that he doesn’t get how serious I am. “We’re in different leagues.”
“We are?”
“Yeah. I mean, you and Kayla, you two definitely play in the same league. Same as Nora and Carred. But you and me, we don’t match.”
“Match?” He looks confused. And amused. Yeah, there’s definite amusement there.
“Match!” I repeat, my voice stronger this time. “I know you’re playing with me, Mason, treating me like a ... like a friend. Texting and visiting, bringing me gifts. Not touching me.”
“That’s what this is about? Lack of sex?”
Now I’m the one frowning, trying to keep up with the conversation. “What? No!”
“Coz if that’s the problem, I’m happy to oblige.” He pushes his hips against my stomach, the bulge in his jeans lending credence to his statement. “When’s your cast coming off?”
“What?”
“Your cast. When’s it coming off?”
“Oh, uh, Wednesday, but I―”
“I’ll be over Wednesday night.”
“Wait, no, that’s not what I meant!” I grab the sleeve of his jacket when he begins walking away.
He turns, mock-innocence softening his face. “It’s not? What then?” He tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, his thumbs still visible, the tattoos on his wrists incongruent against the wool of his jacket.
“It’s over, Mason. Whatever game you’ve been playing, it’s finished.”
He’s on the move again, leaving. “I don’t have time for this. We’ll talk Wednesday.”
I follow him down the hall the way a puppy chases the heels of an unwelcome guest. “Do not come over Wednesday! Or Thursday! Or any day with a Y in it!”
He spins and I don’t have time to step back before his hand is in my hair and his mouth is on mine. His actions are rough but the kiss itself is sweet and tender. When he pulls away, his eyes are warm, and frustrated, and when he says, “We match,” his voice is rough with conviction.
I watch him close the door behind him, transfixed.
He thinks we match!
HE THINKS WE MATCH!
“Boy, he didn’t hang around long, did he? You okay? You look a little shell shocked.”
“Yeah, I’m good.” I’m not. I’m better than good. I’m swathed in a warm blanket of fuzzy bliss because Mason Zannuto thinks we match. I know it’s shallow, and it’s not in keeping with the whole girl power ethos that Ivy and I subscribe to, but it feels good. It feels fricking amazing!
Kayla does a double-take of my soppy expression. Linking her arm through my good one she leads us back into the kitchen. “Come on, Fiona, Shrek will be back soon.”
*****
Four hours later, I’m home and in bed. Or rather I’m lying on top of my covers because it’s too much effort to figure out how to crawl beneath them. My room is spinning and I think I may vomit at some point, but really, on the scale of things, everything is fine.
So what if I can’t get my boots off?
So what if this damned halterneck is rubbing me raw?
Mason Zannuto thinks we match and everything is fine.
♥ SIX ♥
Claws
Frankie
The dining hall is heaving and most of the rectangular tables are occupied, though ours is half empty. Nora is texting Carred, her thumbs tapping over the keyboard like a pro, and Ella is picking at her salad as though there might be slugs clinging to the underside of its leaves. Josephine, owner of the world’s worst fake tan, is sitting opposite, though thankfully the full length of the table sits between us. She’s with her look-alike friends, their make-up thick and heavy as ever. It’s obvious they’re talking about me, the way their heads are bunched together, all three of them firing malicious glances in my direction.
“What’s their problem?” Ella asks, staring them down until they heed her warning and look away.
“God knows. Do I have anything on my face?”
“No.”
“My hair a mess?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Then I guess she’s just being a crazy bitch!” With Josephine it could be anything. Once, she accused a girl of being her stalker because she came to class with a bag identical to hers. The girl is delusional. But that’s not my problem and, besides, I have no interest in her or her cloned friends. Today is Tuesday, which means tomorrow is Wednesday and Wednesday is a double-whammy; my cast comes off and I get to see Mason. And maybe I’ll get to touch him. Touching would be good!
“Frankie Finnegan, stop your dirty thoughts right now!”
Nora whips her head up at Ella’s loud taunt and several others turn our way. I grin unashamedly, my lips just able to form a seal around the straw of my drink because that grin wants to stay right where it is.
“You thinking about Mason again?” Nora asks.
Denial is pointless. “Uh, maybe. He’s coming over tomorrow night. Which reminds me, will you guys be home?”
“Why? You want some alone time?” Nora asks, eyes knowing, lips smirking. “Are you and Mason planning on getting it on?” She and Ella burst out laughing and I catch Josephine’s spiteful gaze, its emerald ball of fury aimed at me. Jealousy! That girl wants Mason for herself, there’s no doubting it, the way her eyes are blazing a laser-trail right to my door.
Ella and Nora are oblivious, their attention solely on me. “I was planning on staying over at Cooper’s,” Ella says, “but now I think I’ll stay in just for the hell of it! What do you think Nor? Might be fun to watch Frankie and Mason battling their lust-starved passions.”
We giggle like imbeciles at Ella’s absurd description and I’ve almost forgotten Josephine’s presence until she and her cronies scrape back their chairs. They pass close, way closer than necessary, and I prepare, though I don’t know what for.
When it comes, it’s a verbal attack rather than physical one, and it’s poisonous in the extreme. “What’s it like, Finnegan, knowing Mason picked Nora first?” She scans my clothes derisively. “Then again, you should be used to second hand.” She and her crew of bitches snigger, glancing over their shoulders at me as they exit the canteen.
“Bitch!” Ella yells, but it’s pointless. The damage is done. Josephine’s vicious comment has resurrected old fears, dissolving every ounce of progress I’ve gained about the Mason and Nora situation.
“Don’t listen to her!” Nora advises, and I nod, smiling, trying to act as though I’m the same person I was two seconds ago.
But the damage is done and I’m stupid Frankie Finnegan once again.
*****
It’s midnight.
I’m sat inside Myrtle, my crappy but reliable car, eating from a bag of fries that are halfway to cold. I bought the damn things an hour ago, but I can’t seem to get to the bottom of the carton. I guess crying and eating don’t combine.
It’s Wednesday.
I left my house at seven. Five minutes later I texted Mason saying I didn’t want to see him again.
I figure I’ll head home in ten.
It’s
doubtful Mason would have showed, but I’m not taking any chances.
The last five hours haven’t been wasted. In between sipping warm Pepsi and chewing on lank fries, I’ve been recollecting the nicknames from my childhood. It wasn’t exactly difficult. It’s not like I had to dredge them up from the far recesses of my mind or anything. Those kind of names tend to stick with you. Thinny Finnegan was one, though it was pronounced ‘Finny Finnegan’. Sticky Finnegan another, and of course, the one that followed me from lower to upper school, Skint Frankie Finnegan.
College was meant to be my escape, my fresh start―from mum and the bullies. Seems to me there’s no such thing as escape. You’re branded from birth, the stigma permanently visible and just because my friends don’t mention it, doesn’t mean they can’t see it.
I did us both a favour, me and Mason. I let him off the hook. Saved him from a wealth of humiliation and, in doing so, I saved myself from a world of hurt. And, yeah, I’m hurting now, but soon it will be mashed in with all the other hurts that seem destined to come my way.
Munching on my last fry, I smear my greasy fingers on the cheap napkin that’s more plastic than paper. Through the wash of rain on my windscreen I spot a bin a few spaces down and dispose of my trash.
Score!
I take the long way home, driving like an eighty year old who has all the time in the world. There’s no traffic at my rear, no blaring horns when I take my own sweet time pulling away from the lights. Later, close to home, I act like a TV Detective, scouting out my road, checking for Mason’s car before pulling up tight to the kerb.
Locking my car, I wave at Keith, Carred’s security guard. He’s watching the house from his dark SUV, the light from his phone transforming his craggy face into a scary as hell mask-face. Walking carefully because the cracks in our garden path are not only ugly, they’re a goddamn hazard, I wince when I feel the crush of a snail underfoot. “Sorry! Sorry, little fella!”
Skirting around the dark blobs of his buddies, as if they’re miniature land mines, I search for my key, cursing under my breath. Seriously, why do they have to look alike? Couldn’t they make them different colours, or shapes, or something?
