Loving Mason (Imperfect Love Book 2)

by Molloy, Ruby

  So here I am, in my less than fresh dress, and my black high heels, angry and upset because at some point this morning I will have to face the walk of shame.

  And because something’s up with Mason. I’m sure this has something to do with last night. I’m just not sure where I fit into this.

  Entering the living room, I see I’m right about the TV and coffee. Mason is in his brown chair, his feet up on the table. He’s wearing jeans. Just jeans. His feet are bare, his chest too, and I know he’s cold because his nipples are distended.

  “Hey,” I say when he doesn’t glance up from the TV.

  His only greeting is a chin lift, his concentration still being on the TV. It’s rude and whatever else he is, Mason is not rude. Not to me.

  I settle on the arm of the sofa opposite, watching him watching TV. After a while, when he doesn’t speak or glance my way, I find the courage to talk. Not that I’m afraid of Mason. But I am afraid of what he might say.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask, gathering the hem of my dress between my fingers. His gaze shifts my way, descending to my legs, currently exposed courtesy of my little black dress. His jaw flexes and he switches his gaze back to my face.

  “No. Why?”

  He gives me three seconds and when I don’t respond his gaze returns to the TV.

  “You, uh ... Last night―”

  “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Okay. I just thought―”

  “Don’t Frankie, okay? Just fucking don’t.”

  I nod, though I know this is wrong.

  Mason continues to watch TV while I perch, motionless, willing him to say something.

  Anything.

  When nothing is forthcoming I reluctantly rise to my feet. Mason pretends he’s unaware that I’m standing there, hovering, but there’s a new rigidity to his body that gives him away. I go collect my purse from the bedroom and head down the corridor to the front door. I can’t see Mason from here, but I know he’s exactly as I left him.

  If I say goodbye, will he answer?

  And if he does, will this be the end?

  I swallow against the lump in my throat and reach for the handle, holding it tight, the way I want to hold onto Mason. And even though I’m telling myself to twist it, to get out of here, I can’t. My purse falls to the floor and I’m striding back to the living room, picking up the remote and turning off the TV. I’m breathing fast, pacing with nervous energy, while Mason is sitting like a damn catatonic, staring at the blank screen.

  “Is this because of what happened in the lift?” I ask.

  I can see his jaw working, his muscles tightening, but he remains silent.

  “Is that why you can barely look at me? Because I witnessed your mini-freak out?”

  “Shut up, Frankie,” he warns.

  “Mason, you had a panic attack, so what! You think I think less of you because you’re scared of lifts?”

  He’s out of his chair in a flash, walking towards me, propelling me backwards, his hands hitting the wall on either side of my head. He’s breathing hard, his eyes fierce with anger. “You think you know me?” he rages, forcing his body into mine. “Head’s up, Frankie. Just because you’ve had my dick inside you, doesn’t mean you know me.”

  I know that’s not him. I know it but, still, he said it. I push hard. Harder than I thought was possible. Mason stumbles back, and I’m out of there, picking up my purse and flying out of his apartment. I hit the button for the lift, but it’s not fast enough. I can feel the sobs rising in my throat, desperate for release. Hitting both palms against the stairwell door, I race down the stairs, my hand sliding the length of the banister, ready to grip hard should I stumble. Four flights down, I hear the sound of bare feet on the stairs above.

  “Frankie!” His roar follows me down the stairs, a monster at my back, and even though my heart is beating way too fast I pick up speed, screaming in frustration when I realise he’s gaining on me. The further we descend, the colder it becomes. Clouds of condensation burst from my lungs, dampening my face as I chase through them. He’s edging closer, I can hear him. I glance over my shoulder, losing track of the steps and the rhythm of my descent. My weight tilts forward, my grip on the banister swinging me outwards and round, and I fall from the bottom step to the concrete below. I’m not hurt. Okay, I’m a little hurt. I have a friction burn on my palm and my head smacked against the concrete when I fell, but I’m breathing and the pain’s not sickening. I lie there watching smoke signals rise from my mouth as Mason appears at the top of the steps. He stops dead, his eyes blazing, his skin turning a nasty shade of pale. Jumping down the final steps, he kneels, straddling my hips as he leans over me.

  “Tell me you’re okay.” His eyes are travelling over my head, searching the concrete below, no doubt looking for a pool of blood. “Frankie?”

  “I’m okay,” I say, though I’m not sure this is true.

  He lifts my curls, his movements gentle, as if my hair is spun from sugar.

  “Mason, I’m okay!”

  “Fuck!” He rears back on his knees, looking wild and half crazy, his bare chest heaving. “I didn’t mean it.” His voice rumbles around the stairwell, heavy as the cold air that surrounds us. “I didn’t mean a single, goddamn word. I don’t know where that shit came from.”

  The chilled concrete seeps through my dress and I shiver. His hands run down my arms and goose bumps rise in their wake. “Shit, your cold. Can you stand?”

  I nod and Mason helps me to my feet, his fingers tracing the back of my skull. His fingers momentarily still and when he brings his hand down between us I see blood glistening on his fingertips.

  “Turn around,” he orders quietly.

  I do as he says, biting my lip. “Is it bad?”

  “Shit, give me a sec, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Mason, I’m fine.”

  I feel him lift more tendrils. My nerve endings tingle. “It’s a small cut. You’re okay.”

  I’m not certain I believe him. “Are you sure?”

  “Promise.”

  Turning slowly, I gaze up into brown eyes that are drowning in self-reproach. “I did this,” he says.

  “Mason, it’s not your fault.”

  “If I hadn’t said those shitty things, if I hadn’t chased after you ...”

  “Did you want to hurt me?”

  He shakes his head. “Fuck, no!”

  “Then it’s not your fault.”

  He shakes his head again, the frown still thick across his forehead. “I need to clean your cut. There could be dirt or grit in there.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll see to it when I get home.”

  “There’s no way you’re going home, Frankie. You just took a tumble and cut your fucking head open. You could have a concussion for all you know.”

  “Mason, I’m fine to drive.”

  “Drive? What the fuck! No way are you driving home.” He’s leading me out of the stairwell, towards the steel lifts I know he can’t tolerate.

  “Mason,” I say slowly. “What are you doing?” His thumb presses the button, summoning the lift. “Mason, we are not getting into the lift! Oh my God, what are you doing?!”

  He tugs me inside the steel shell, holding me back as I fight to get to the panel. “Mason, no!” He selects his floor and the doors close, locking us in. “Why would you do this to yourself?!”

  He doesn’t respond, his eyes not leaving mine as he battles his demons. His breathing grows shallow and beads of perspiration break out across his forehead. There are no passengers, it’s just us, and it’s a relatively swift ride to the top. Relief has me feeling weak when we arrive at his floor and the doors release us. His apartment door is wide open and he leaves it that way as he guides me into the guest bathroom off the hall. Opening a first aid box that’s almost overflowing with supplies, Mason sets it on the counter and rifles through its contents, discarding unwanted items into its lid.

  I lean against the sink watching as he tears open
an alcohol wipe, cursing when he almost drops the wipe. “Hold still,” he says, moving behind me. I lower my head a little, raising my eyes so I can see his reflection in the mirror as he tends to my cut. His mouth is clamped tight and when I wince he winces too, as if he’s feeling my pain.

  “Sorry,” he says, eyes meeting mine in the mirror. He drops the bloodied wipe in the sink and unscrews a tube of salve, gently smearing it along the cut. This too stings, and I bite my lip, scolding myself for being such a wimp.

  “All done,” he says, packing away the first aid box and placing it back in the cupboard.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, not when I’m the one who caused you to fall!”

  I shake my head but he’s already moving out of the room, his hand clasping mine, pulling me along behind him. “Sit,” he says, and I do, because I think he might pick me up and lower me onto the sofa if I don’t follow his instructions.

  “You want something to drink?”

  I think back to the empty bedside cabinet, to the smell of coffee on waking. “Coffee,” I say.

  He nods and I watch him wander out, the muscles in his back flexing as he moves. He returns with my coffee in one hand and a blanket in the other. It’s covered in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. “Josh’s?” I ask and he nods, draping it over me.

  “Heating’s out in the building. They’re working on it, but it might take a while.” He holds out my coffee and when it’s in my hands he stands above me, watching. “You want some toast or something with that coffee?”

  “Uh, do you have any biscuits?” I ask.

  “For breakfast?”

  “Yeah.”

  He watches me for several seconds, long enough for me to see the wildness has gone from his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He comes back with half a pack of Jammie Dodgers. “Here,” he says, handing them to me. “You’re in luck. Josh likes biscuits too, though he’s not allowed them for breakfast.”

  It takes me a while to appreciate that he’s teasing. Ridiculously, I find myself blushing. Mason’s eyes skim over my hot cheeks before he settles his arse on the sofa beside me. “You don’t feel sick or anything, do you?”

  I’m about to shake my head when I realise that’s probably not a good idea since my cut is currently resting against the sofa. “Uh, no. I’m fine.”

  He holds out the remote, gesturing towards the TV. “Seeing as I was a total dick, I think it’s only fair you get to choose.”

  I’m halfway to picking a trite TV show that will bore the hell out of him when I realise he has access to every channel available, plus movies. In the end I choose 22 Jump Street, on the basis that some light relief would be a good thing right now and Channing Tatum is not to be sniffed at; actually, on second thoughts ...

  Curling my legs up beneath me, I lift the blanket over my shoulders and lean into Mason, my legs resting against his thigh. I figure he can suffer me getting up close and personal after this morning’s fiasco. He doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, his body seems to relax. I’m totally unprepared, however, when he slides his arm between my back and the sofa, and he pulls me in. As if we’ve done this before. As if this is natural.

  I glance from his hand to his face, staring at him until he frowns and looks at me. “What?” he asks, oblivious.

  “Uh, you have your arm around me.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, you don’t do the whole touching thing,” I say.

  “I don’t?”

  “No.”

  He considers this for a moment as if this is news to him. “Well, I do now,” he says, fixing his attention back to the film.

  I could dwell on what this means. I could turn it inside out looking for multiple interpretations of this simple act. Or I could simply watch the film and enjoy.

  The film – or rather Channing Tatum – wins, hands down.

  *****

  Sometime later, the film is finished and Mason has most of my weight. I’m tucked up against his body, drowsy and supremely relaxed. When I try to sit up, he pulls me back in and says, “Stay where you are. I need to explain about last night.”

  I curl back in and wait for him to continue, unsure where this is going.

  “When I was five and my sister, Carolyn, was fifteen, my mum had Bella. Dad was in China, setting up a business deal. The plan had been to get back three weeks before Bella’s birth, but she came early. Everything was fine. Mum was used to dad being away for weeks at a time, plus gran lived round the corner and she was more or less a permanent fixture at our house.

  “The day after Bella was born, me, Carolyn and gran went to the hospital to bring mum home. Gran was bringing the car to the entrance, while mum got everything ready. We were in the lift ...”

  Mason halts. I can feel his chest expand and contract as he draws in a large breath and releases it slowly. “We were in the lift, going from third to ground when mum had a seizure. She fell to the floor and Bella went with her. Mum starting fitting and Bella started screaming – fuck, did she scream – and there was nothing I could do except pick up Bella and watch Carolyn try and take care of mum. When we reached the ground floor the doors opened and people were standing there, staring like we were a fucking freak show. The doctors rushed in, but mum was turning blue ...”

  “Oh my god, Mason ...”

  “She was making this god-awful choking noise and Bella was screaming and, fuck Frankie, it was ...”

  I don’t have to be there to know how it must have been. A small boy, watching that unfold; he must have been traumatised.

  “It was a brain haemorrhage. There was nothing they could do.”

  I shiver and draw closer to Mason, tucking my hand around his waist.

  “Mason, I don’t know what to say ...”

  “I didn’t speak for weeks afterwards and I wouldn’t go near Bella for months. But then she started walking and following me around the house and generally being a pain in the arse. You ever get to meet Bella you’ll see there’s no ignoring her.”

  I smile at the wistful note in his voice. “Where does she live?”

  “Italy. Dad moved back there when I went to prison. He couldn’t handle seeing me locked up. He’d come visit me once a month, but it pretty much destroyed him. He’s a good guy, but we don’t see each other as much as we’d like. His business takes up his time and I’m busy with the club.”

  “The club,” I say quietly. “Tell me how you became Manager at the age of twenty-four.”

  “Yeah, about that,” he says. “I wasn’t exactly one hundred percent honest. You were drunk and I didn’t want to freak you out so I may have misled you.”

  I know how this is going to go. Sid liked to exaggerate too. He’d tell me he was in line for a promotion and when it failed to materialise he’d accuse me of misunderstanding.

  “I’m not the Manager. I own Tiger’s.”

  I stare, waiting for him to laugh and when he doesn’t, realisation slowly creeps in. “You own Tiger’s?!” I say, repeating it again, more slowly this time. “You own Tigers? Jesus, Mason, that’s insane. How do you get to own a club?”

  “Through hard work and perseverance,” he says with a smirk.

  “Right. Yeah!”

  “It’s true. I’m offended you don’t believe me.”

  “Oh my God. You did something illegal, didn’t you?!”

  Mason’s outright laughing now and when I jump up he grabs the back of my dress and tugs me back to the sofa. “Hey, calm down. I promise it was nothing illegal, okay?”

  “What then?”

  He inhales deeply, his eyes serious now, a muscle jumping in his temple. “I need you to listen. No snap judgements, just hear me out, okay?”

  I nod and twist to face him, crossing my legs and tugging at my dress to preserve my modesty.

  “Jeez, do you have to sit like that?” His hand reaches out to touch my thigh, edging higher before I’m able to swat it away.

  “Tell me!” I
prompt.

  “Fine, but afterwards I’m going to fuck you on the sofa.”

  I know he says this to shock me and I should be accustomed to his behaviour, but I’m not. I’m torn between shock and arousal. Sid was a ‘once every few days, only when the lights are out’ kind of guy. Mason’s not that. He’s the opposite. He’s an ‘at any given opportunity’ kind of guy.

  He snaps his fingers and brings me back to the moment. “Pay attention, Frankie. We’ll get to the sex part soon as I’m finished here.”

  I pull a face and stick out my tongue.

  “Real mature, Finnegan. Now listen. When I was two years old I learned to read. By four I was stealing books from Carolyn’s school bag and reading Shakespeare and Dickens. By eight I’d learned how to code.”

  “Code?”

  “As in software. By fourteen I’d already released several apps onto the market. I made my first million by fifteen. Three years later I sold the company for fifty five million.”

  “Your company?” I’m bug-eyed and my mouth is hanging open. I’m having a hard time keeping up.

  “Yeah. I formed an app development company. Dad was the legal Director, but I was the formal owner.” He breaks off to lift a finger to my chin and close my mouth. “When I was in prison Jack acted as my representative and I invested in property. When I got out I sold my portfolio and bought a small chain of shitty nightclubs. I refitted and rebranded them. Once they were up and running I opened seven more across the UK. Last year I sold them for ...” seeing my shocked face he trails off before saying, “Yeah, you don’t need to know that. I’ve owned Tiger’s for nine months and it’s just begun to turn a profit. The refit was a killer, but now we’re on the up and things are looking good.”

  “Oh, my, frigging, God ...”

  “My IQ is one-six-three, three points higher than Einstein.”

  “Shit, Mason, that’s ... I don’t even know what that is, except it’s surreal.”

  I think I might be sick.