Loving Mason (Imperfect Love Book 2)

by Molloy, Ruby

  The moment is snatched away when Carred approaches and passes Mason a beer. It’s a peace offering of sorts and I’m pleased he’s making the effort, even if his timing is off. Jack and Tag are talking with Cooper. Of the two, Jack seems the more outgoing, with Tag joining in, but not so much. Concerned they’re sucking up to Cooper, which I know he hates, I relax a little when he throws back his head and laughs at something Jack has said. I catch Kayla scowling his way. I guess, as hot as he is, she’s not impressed.

  We alternate between the dance floor and the VIP area, the champagne sweetening our enjoyment. None of the guys have danced, but seeing as they’re a rock bank, Electro House probably isn’t their thing. I’m on the dance floor when I notice that the guy who was talking with Mason earlier has returned. I watch them repeat the same pattern as before; Mason talking, the guy nodding. This time, instead of heading to the exit, suit-guy approaches one of the bouncers and the role is reversed. Suit-guy is the one doing the talking while the other guy nods and listens.

  My imagination gets a little over-active and I’m back to where I was before I knew Mason, back to thinking he might be a drug dealer. I leave the girls behind and return to the VIP area. Mason is still talking with Carred, and Cooper has joined their conversation. I squeeze in beside Mason, the alcohol making me forget his need for boundaries. My hand touches his thigh. It’s not high up and it’s not on the inside, but still, it’s definitely thigh area. His muscles tense beneath my palm, although outwardly there’s no trace of reaction. I snatch back my hand as a tall, slim woman dressed in a black suit approaches Mason. She looks like she’s a member of MI5 and I kid myself there’s a weapon concealed beneath her jacket.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mason, but there’s a problem on One. Chris thought you might want to come and take a look?”

  I think maybe I misheard, but that thought is fleeting because Mason is up out of his seat and the suited woman is following on his heels.

  This is the Club where Mason works? Tiger’s? Kayla returns and sits beside me, instantly picking up on my mood. “Okay, what’s happening?” she drawls, blinking repeatedly to clear her alcohol-fog.

  “Mason works here.”

  She swishes her long hair behind her back and says, “You said what now?”

  “I think Mason works here. At Tiger’s.”

  “N-o-o. Here? At Tiger’s?” She laughs as if the idea is preposterous. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because he’s just been told there’s trouble on One and Chris thinks he might want to check it out.”

  “What?”

  Ignoring Kayla’s confusion, I cross over to where Jack is conversing with Tag, selfishly interrupting their conversation. “Hey, Jack, how you doing?” He opens his mouth to respond, but I’m straight in there, asking my next question. “Does Mason work here?”

  His expression is closed, his very own version of Ivy’s poker face.

  “You should probably speak to Mason about that,” he says, exchanging glances with Tag.

  Okay, what the hell does that mean? I laugh, but it’s a husk of a laugh, bone-dry and brittle. “What, you can’t tell me if he works here or not?” I scoff.

  Tag looks uncomfortable and I think he’s about to step in, but Jack gets there first. “Speak to Mason, Frankie.” There’s no doubt it’s an order. I retreat awkwardly and for a second I think I’m going to fall. Jack reaches out a hand, but I step out of range, steadying myself.

  “You know what? I would speak to Mason, Jack, only he’s disappeared with a woman in a suit!”

  Mason works here, I know it. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be downstairs checking out whatever the hell is happening on One. And Jack and Tag wouldn’t be acting like there’s some huge secret.

  Yeah, Mason’s definitely working. On my birthday!

  I realise Jack and Tag are watching me with concern.

  “I’ll speak to Mason,” I say, flippantly. “He probably told me and I forgot or something.” I snatch up a glass from the table, downing the champagne in one and pasting a smile on my face as though I’m not falling to pieces inside. When I reach the girls, Kayla pulls me into the centre and I dance like it’s 1999 and Prince is still alive. The lights are flashing and pulsing, lending everyone a purple aura, but the euphoric music is no longer euphoric. It’s meaningless and repetitive and my arms don’t want to reach for the sky anymore.

  Needing something a little less upbeat, something that echoes my black mood, I slip away from the girls, out into the subdued foyer and up the stairs to level three. I heard from Nora that’s where the rock music is played. She’d know of course, seeing as she came here with Mason!

  I swing open the doors. Yep, Nora was right about the rock music. It slams into my chest like a second heartbeat, soothing the ache behind my ribs, smacking me in the face with its anger. Making my way to the bar, I wait in line, and order a large G and T when it’s my turn. I’m more than a little wasted, but I figure I can sleep it off tomorrow. I think I may not want to leave my bed for a while, anyhow. Circumventing the dance floor, I find a seat in a darkened corner and sip at my drink, paying no heed to the tears that sneak down my cheeks and pool at my jaw.

  Rock tracks come and go, the more frenetic songs transforming the floor into a moshpit that would make any festival proud. I think it might be time for me to go back and rejoin the others, but I can’t face Mason. Or Nora. Or Ella. I can’t face any of them. So instead I wallow in self-pity and imagine what it might be like if Mason wasn’t Mason. I mean, what if he was Mason, but he didn’t behave like Mason? What if there was no time limit on our relationship? What if I meant something to him? How would it feel to have him wrap his arms around me and hold me close, his breath hot against my neck, for no other reason than he needed to have me close? How would that feel?

  Lifting my gaze, I realise someone’s watching me, standing in front of my table, looking down on me with sympathy and something else. Maybe affection? No, not possible, because the someone watching me is Mason. Behind him is his suited-lady and he’s saying something to her, something that has her nodding and disappearing.

  He sits beside me, only he’s sitting sideways so that he’s facing me. He takes my hand, curling his large fingers around mine and pulling it against his thigh. It feels strange and I wish I wasn’t too drunk to process the fact that this is Mason, the guy who doesn’t do physical contact without sex being involved.

  He leans in and says, “You missed it.”

  His beard grazes my face and it’s all I can do to stop myself from turning my cheek into its scratchy softness. “Huh?”

  “Your present. You missed it.”

  “You got me a present?” I gaze up at him, puzzled. Mason doesn’t do gifts. Not ones that last, anyhow. His gifts are transient―like him.

  He pulls out his phone and holds it up so I can see the screen. There’s a video lined-up and he presses play. I see sparklers. I see silver and gold mini-explosions firing off in all directions. Beneath, there’s a cake that’s delicate and beautiful, with intricate icing and dainty white flowers. The sight makes my tears fall harder.

  The video zooms out and I recognise the man who’s holding the cake. It’s Bryson, the hottest DJ and music producer this side of the Atlantic. Someone takes the cake from him and passes him a mic. Mason moves the phone towards my ear and I hear Bryson address the crowd, wishing me a happy twenty-first birthday and telling everyone that as a gift to me he’s about to play a two hour set. The club goes wild. Mason lowers the phone and I see Nora, Kayla and Ella jumping up and down behind Bryson and the guys are bumping fists.

  The video ends and Mason tucks his phone into his back pocket.

  “That was for me?” I ask.

  He nods, his eyes dipping down to my damp cheeks and jaw. His hand comes up, wiping away the moisture with his thumb. “That was for you,” he says.

  I swallow, mortified. “I missed it.”

  “Yeah,” he says, his hand falling away. “Took a
while to plan everything out. Only thing I didn’t plan for was you disappearing on me.”

  “I figured out you work here. I thought you were killing two birds with one stone.”

  He frowns.

  “You know, working and celebrating my birthday without having to take time off.”

  “Chris, the guy who was meant to sub for me tonight, was a no-show. His daughter’s in hospital, which is why I had to help out. Again, that wasn’t the plan, but shit happens.”

  “Oh. Is she okay?”

  Mason laughs and his head dips down to mine. “That’s all you have to say? After pulling a disappearing act and me having to use the club’s CCTV to track you down? Yeah, she’s gonna be fine, but they’re keeping her in overnight.”

  I nod, relieved, even though I don’t know Chris, or his daughter. “That’s good,” I say, unable to look away from his warm brown eyes. I’ve never seen him like this before, all soft and mellow, his hard edges rounded like a sea-worn pebble.

  He leans down to kiss me and I’m caught up in his flame, but that’s not his intention. His kiss is warm and soothing, a salve to my shredded ego. “I thought you’d gone,” he says.

  I’m drunk, so my senses are running on empty, but I can hear it in his voice, that sense of loss or hurt he experienced when he thought I’d left. I know he doesn’t want this. I know it’s not part of his plan, to fall, but I think that’s what’s happening. Same as I’m falling for him. “You should have told me you work here.”

  His gaze wavers, has me wondering what other secrets he’s hiding. I know they’re there. I can see them lurking in his dark brown eyes.

  “Yeah,” he agrees. No excuses, no justification.

  “What exac-ed-ly do you do here?” My tongue is thick and unresponsive but Mason seems to find it funny.

  “I manage things.”

  “You manage thing? As in you’re the Manager?”

  He nods, a smile lurking in his eyes.

  “You’re twenty-four years old and you’re the Manager of Tiger’s? What the hell, Mason?”

  “I work hard,” is all he says.

  I want to know more but he’s standing, pulling me after him, holding me steady when I think I’m going to topple.

  “Christ, you’re shit-faced,” he says.

  He’s obviously not happy about this and, drunk as I am, I find this incredibly funny. Mason ignores my laughter and guides me through the clubbers until we’re away from the rock music and into the relative peace of the foyer. As usual, he takes the stairs and we’re descending back to level two. Our friends are waiting in the VIP area. Kayla, Nora and Ella embrace me in drunken hugs.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Ella demands. “You missed your birthday present, and let me tell you, DJ Bryson is hot as hell. Thank god Cooper joined the search party, otherwise he’d have seen me lusting after Bryson’s arse.”

  “Sorry. I got tired of the music. Thought I’d try out the rock music on level three.”

  Nora stares, taking in my tear-stained face and reddened eyes. “You’ve been crying,” she says.

  “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you miss out on seeing Bryson’s fine arse,” Ella intervenes.

  “No, there’s more to it―” Nora says, but Kayla closes her down.

  “Right, one more dance and then we’re out of here.”

  From there on in, anarchy reigns. The music doesn’t stop and we don’t want to leave. The guys come looking for us on the dance floor and when we refuse to go they wrap their arms around our waists and carry us out to the foyer. Kayla is carried by Jack and she looks royally pissed, shoving him away when he releases her. He doesn’t seem to mind. There’s a drunk grin spread across his face and for once he doesn’t look tough, he looks like a teddy bear.

  I’m all set to follow the girls into the limo when Mason grabs my hand and pulls me away. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Uh, home?”

  He shakes his head. “Uh-uh. You’re staying at mine tonight.”

  “Mason, I’m don’t think―”

  “Come back with me.” His hands link at the base of my spine, holding me captive. “I want you in my bed tonight.”

  “Mason, I’m drunk and I’m tired. I don’t think I’m up for sex tonight.”

  “Did I say anything about sex?” he asks, offended. “Just come back to mine.” He squats in front of the limo’s open door and says, “Frankie’s staying with me tonight.”

  There’s a chorus of goodbyes before Mason closes the door and draws me towards a black Mercedes that’s lurking at the kerb. Holding the door open, he follows me into the back. “Home please, Mark,” he says to the driver.

  “Sure thing.”

  Closing my eyes, the alcohol draws me into a slumber that lasts until we pull up beneath Mason’s apartment block. My head has fallen against his upper arm, and my right arm is hugging his middle. I’m too comfy to move and Mason has to help me from the car, no easy feat when I’m drunk and malleable, my legs almost folding beneath me when he releases me.

  “Whoa!” He pulls me into his side, his hand tight at my waist. Unless I want my arm trapped between our bodies, there’s no other option but to curve my arm round his back.

  “You smell nice,” I say.

  “Thanks, good of you to notice,” he says, guiding us towards the stairs.

  “Um, Mason, you do realise there is no way in hell I’m going to be able to walk up those stairs. Least, not without falling all the way back down again.”

  He frowns, glancing from me to the stairs and back again. “Fuck!”

  “We can take the lift though, right?”

  He seems to be giving great consideration to the lift-slash-stair option, eventually cursing several times before punching the button for the lifts. It pings almost immediately and the doors open. Mason flinches as if the gates of hell just opened.

  “Listen, Mason, if you don’t want to do this you can take the stairs and we’ll meet at the top.” I give him a bright smile but it doesn’t diminish his uneasiness.

  “I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this.” We step into the lift and Mason presses the button for his floor. His body is tense, the pressure of his hand on my hip almost painful. The lift comes to a stop on the ground floor and three couples enter. Once inside, they turn to face the doors, standing in silence as dictated by lift etiquette.

  We begin to rise again and I can feel that Mason’s hand is clenching and unclenching on my hip. His body begins to tremble and his uneven breathing grows louder within the confines of the lift. One of the women glances over her shoulder, her washed out blue eyes lingering on Mason as if he’s a freak show. I twist towards him, aligning my body against his and wrapping my hand around his neck. He’s stiff and unresponsive, his trembling increasing with each lift stop. Finally, it’s just me and Mason. The lift comes to a standstill once more and the doors open to his floor, but he doesn’t move.

  “Mason?”

  His name is the catalyst and suddenly he’s bundling us out of the lift and into the corridor, sliding down the wall, legs bent, arms resting on his knees, face hidden from view. I sink down beside him, listening as he fights whatever it is that has him within its grasp.

  When he eventually raises his head, he holds out his hand before him, examining its shaking form, turning it this way and that as if it’s unfamiliar.

  “Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question, but I don’t know what else to say.

  He tips his head back until it hits the wall, staring at the blank wall opposite. “I fucking hate lifts,” he says on a burst of semi-laughter.

  I turn my gaze to his profile. His skin is pale, and there’s an unhealthy sheen to his skin. “Is it claustrophobia?” I ask.

  He closes his eyes and swallows and I’ve a feeling he’s tamping down unwanted thoughts, locking them away. “Something like that,” he answers, rising to his feet and pulling me up after him.

  It takes a couple of attempts for his
shaking fingers to manipulate the key in the lock. Once inside, I follow him to his bedroom.

  “Use my bathroom,” he says, already moving back out into the hall. “I’ll use the spare.”

  I do as he says, showering and brushing my teeth, though it’s not my reflection I see in the mirror. It’s Mason. Falling apart.

  Climbing into bed, I hear his shower shut off before Mason walks in, naked, his hair and beard dark with water droplets, tendrils falling into his eyes. He climbs in beside me, turns off the bedside lights and gathers me in until my back is against his front and his hand is splayed across my belly. We lie in silence, his regular breathing stirring my curls. Sleep beckons, but I resist its call, opening my eyes wide, staring through the dark.

  “Go to sleep,” Mason says, his breath warm against my temple.

  I slip my fingers between his.

  Now I can sleep.

  ♥ TWELVE ♥

  Coffee

  Frankie

  The smell of coffee filters down the hall. Mason is always the first to rise. I haven’t seen him this morning, but already I know something is off. Ten minutes ago I heard the TV come on but there’s no mug of coffee on my bedside table. That’s what Mason does. He makes two mugs of coffee, his strong, mine strong and sweet, and he leaves mine on my bedside table. He’s done this since he first discovered I’m not a morning person and once he delivers my coffee he returns to the living room and switches on the TV. Always. But not today.

  I take it slow in the bathroom, spending extra time on my teeth and hair even though the apartment is cold this morning. Staring through the bedroom window, preparing for whatever’s coming my way, I can see there’s ice on the ledge and the cars on the street have frosty white roofs. Dressing, I don’t have a choice but to wear my clothes from last night because that’s all I have. I don’t leave clothes or belongings at Mason’s. It’s an unspoken rule. I’ve known this since I accidently left a can of antiperspirant in his bathroom and he ran down all eleven flights just so he could give it back.