Past…
THE ROOM IS SPINNING IN small, dark circles.
The bright lights and blaring music echo from down the hall, coming across filtered and uneven. Other assorted noises from partygoers break through, adding to the scattered chaos in my mind.
I don’t know anyone here except Grace, Connie, and Thomas. And none of my friends are anywhere to be found.
Thomas Dyer, who knew I would be here tonight with his friends, had met us at the door. He stopped just long enough to say hi before leading us to where the alcohol table was set up. Once we were settled with our drinks, he took off to wherever with his friends. I haven’t seen him since.
When Thomas extended this invitation, Grace was ecstatic and insisted we at least make an appearance. She said the college football team’s surprising win was reason to celebrate.
I was hesitant. I’m not like other girls my age.
Other than partaking in the occasional cigarette or beer, I have limited experience with both alcohol and parties. And I’ve never done either so far away from home. With my dad now traveling extensively with his job, I’ve been granted more unsupervised free time. He’d be disappointed, knowing this is how I chose to spend it.
I think I may be sick.
Extending my arm, I miss the wall. The palm of my hand lands on a warm, muscular shoulder.
“Easy there, gorgeous,” an unfamiliar male voice coos, covering my mouth with his breath. I wince, doing my best not to be sick at the abhorrent stench of beer and smoke.
When my eyes come to focus, a blond man is smiling down on me the same as the Big Bad Wolf did when he startled Little Red Riding Hood.
Keeping calm, I casually inquire, “Hey there, so do you know Grace Aldean or Connie…”
Oh my God. Why can’t I remember Connie’s last name?
The fact I’m drawing a blank is sad in itself. But being that I’ve known her since grade school, also lends to how blitzed I’ve let myself get.
I’m an idiot.
A pair of rough hands grope my ass, jarring my body forward. A loud shriek of surprise breaks from my lips. Another man I haven’t met, and can’t clearly see, rests his chin on my shoulder from behind. His arms slither around my waist, bracing his muscled chest against my back.
Trapped in a small, dark hallway alone with two college-aged men, who I can only assume are as drunk as I am, I start to panic.
“I’m looking for my boyfriend,” I tell the first lie that comes to mind. “His name is Thomas.”
Thomas isn’t my boyfriend, per se. He’s the guy my dad insisted I go out with for my first official you-don’t-have-to-sneak-out-anymore date. Our fathers work together, and for the last three years my dad has yammered on about how great of a husband Thomas Dyer will make some lucky woman.
I’m just barely eighteen.
Marriage has never crossed my mind, other than maybe when I was a kid.
All little girls dream of their romanticized weddings. The flowers. The colors. The wedding party. The cake. We have so much to do in way of planning our ideal wedding to our perfect prince, it’s no wonder we’re stressed in finding him as a young adult.
Thomas, even being good-looking, smart, and so far a successful accounting major, wouldn’t be who I’d ever choose for myself.
Not at all.
The man I choose to spend my life with will be tough and rugged. He’s going to speak his mind, never letting anyone hurt me with words or fists.
My husband is going to take what he wants from me, at the same time giving back exactly what I need from him, too.
He’s going to be tall with wide shoulders and have a comfortable lap for me to fall asleep in. He’s also going to love both country music and classic rock.
Understandably, my husband looks a lot more like Mason Cole than Thomas Dyer.
I haven’t stopped fantasizing about Mason since I saw him. I still daydream about how his tattooed hands would feel like against my fevered skin. How he looked at me as I was laying beside him sunbathing that summer. Nothing has been forgotten.
It’s Mason who I think about when I’m alone at night, in my dark room, and I feel…
“I didn’t know you were Thomas’ girl,” the dark-haired man excuses. “Dyer’s out front.”
Relieved the use of Thomas’ name has somewhat set me free from their drunkenness and mine, I take a few quick stumbling steps down the hall.
The lights in the main room are dimmer than they were when I’d been in earlier. A few partygoers are dancing in the center. Some couples grind their bodies together to the beat of the music. The floor is littered with empty bottles, scattered and crushed red Solo cups, and whatever other unrecognizable trash there is to find.
Connie is on the couch, making out with a guy wearing our high school letterman’s jacket. Carl? Cody? Colby? Shit, I can’t remember his first name.
With his ass to the couch, her back to the crowd, she straddles his lap. Her hands roam through his thick dark hair while his meander over her back and ass.
Grace is still nowhere to be found.
As I round the kitchen, more couples stand together around the small metal table, the kitchen counters, and some are seated in chairs. A few are making out, obviously not paying any mind to their audience.
Some of the guys are toasting to tonight’s unforeseen win. Others are giving each high fives before clinking oversized shot glasses and downing the liquid in one purposeful drink.
It isn’t until I turn my focus to the back door that the air in my lungs makes its hasty escape.
Holy shit.
He’s changed. He’s bigger than I remember. His chest is broad, straining under the tight material of his dark blue Henley. His long sleeves are pushed up to the elbow, revealing even more color he must’ve had added to his arms since I’ve last seen him. His jeans are worn—a hole at the knee attesting to their age. The same silver chain he’s always had, hangs from a belt loop to his back pocket.
Mason Cole.
It’s absolutely not fair my dream husband is here to see me in this state. Not only that, he’s here with a blonde woman, who’s not only hanging on his arm, but smacking her lips as she smirks out into the rowdy crowd.
The woman in question is wearing a hot pink tank top and a pair of short white shorts. Her legs are long, slender, tanned, and toned. Her makeup is done to perfection, bringing unfair focus to her big, beautiful dark eyes.
Mason has his arm tightly wrapped around her waist, all but claiming for all others to see. The tips of his fingers dig into her slender waist at the side. He’s looking down at her like I’ve always daydreamed he’d look at me.
With affection. Desire. Admiration. Understanding.
I hate her.
Luckily, Mason hasn’t seen me yet, which lends hope for a quick, unseen escape.
When he whispers in the woman’s ear, a smile spreads across her pink painted lips. She nods, then walks herself out of his hold toward the makeshift bar across the room. Men give her room to flaunt her way through them. Women look to her with admiration, as though studying to learn her every move.
If I were ever in Mason’s arms, as she had been, nothing and no one would tear me from them.
Calling up sober, I decide my only option to get out of this house is the front door. I can’t wait for my friends. I can’t take time to find Thomas and tell him I’m leaving.
I’ve got to go. Where? No clue.
The same time I turn around to make my break, all my plans are foiled.
Poof.
Gone.
Out.
Damn it.
“Katherine?” Thomas calls looking down, concern etched across his face.
Thomas is tall. His six foot frame towers over my five five one. His hair is perfectly combed; the color of it blond and the cut is cropped high and tight. His eyes are light blue and his skin is fair.
I’m positive he’s a really good catch—for someone else.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he impatiently prompts, wrapping his arm around my waist to pull me closer.
His cheeks are red, his eyebrows furrowed. He’s pissed, but I’m not sure why. He left me once seeing I had a drink. He chose his friends over me and scurried off as soon as he could. He left me to wander my way to a room upstairs.
I’m being a bitch. I should stop drinking. And smoking.
“I was upstairs,” I tell him calmly. “I lost the girls and couldn’t find you.”
“Jesus Christ, Kat. This is not the kind of party a girl like you just goes and gets ‘lost’ in.”
I didn’t do this intentionally, but instead of arguing, I keep quiet. But really, a girl like me?
Pulling on my upper arm, Thomas moves us out of the way toward a wall near the kitchen. He positions me in front of him. Our chests are touching, our legs tangling together. I feel nothing being this close to him. Only dizziness from the alcohol and surprise at his reaction.
Searching my eyes, Thomas ponders for a second then states, “You’re blitzed.”
“I’m fine,” I reply.
“You’re not fine, Kat,” he returns angrily.
“I am,” I argue.
Exhausted, he clips, “Christ, I need to get you home.”
“I’ll take her,” Mason’s deep, resonating voice interrupts, sending a series of flutters up my spine. “Seems you’re not paying much attention to her, anyway,” he includes, then states again, “I’ll see her home.”
“Right,” Thomas returns, staring blankly over my shoulder at Mason.
I understand his response. Up close, especially when he’s annoyed, Mason can appear a menace.
And how weird this is one of the things I’ve come to love about him.
Right now, though, I’m struggling to muster the courage to turn around. Mason can’t see me like this. He’ll look right through my guise of sobriety and no doubt call me out in front of everyone. That’s who he is. Mason sees everything. Mason understands everything.
Well, everything except how much I want to be the girl he’s with tonight.
Thomas doesn’t seem to have an issue with another guy willing to stake his claim. He’s not jealous or annoyed that some huge man, twice his size and more handsome than he’ll ever be, just voiced his intention to take me away from him. There isn’t an instinctual or possessive reaction from Thomas toward Mason at all.
I was right. Thomas Dyer is definitely not the marrying kind.
“Who are you?” Thomas finally questions as the music momentarily stops.
“Cole,” Mason clips harshly.
“Cole?”
“Yes, Cole—”
I crane my neck to catch a glimpse at Thomas’ face as it gleams with excitement.
“You went to Logan High,” Thomas excites. “You were on the varsity wrestling team.”
My gut aches to turn around and ask Mason about a high school wrestling career I never knew he had. But truth is, I don’t know much about him, other than he seems to appear wherever I am. And at the least expected and unfortunate times.
“I did. And now you know who I am,” Mason irritatingly flips back. “So if we’re done with the introductions, like I said, I’ll take Katie home so you can hang here with your friends.”
Thomas drops his chin, his eyes blinking slowly.
Incredulously, he questions, “Mason-fucking-Cole calls you Katie?”
“Katie, Katherine, Kat. Whatever the fuck,” Mason bluntly clarifies.
“Kat’s mine,” Thomas counters quickly. “She’s with me tonight, I mean.”
“Lovely for you,” Mason returns, his tone feigning care. “By the looks of her, she has no business being yours anymore tonight. So now, we’ll call her mine.”
My eyes widen and my belly warms then suddenly flips. I sway in place.
Mine, Thomas had said and I winced.
Mine, Mason had said and I shivered.
“She’s fuckin’ drunk, brother,” Mason scolds.
“And high,” I include on a sigh, as I finally turn around to face Mason.
I’m still standing in Thomas’ arms. His hand splayed across my waist; my back to his chest where he’s holding me to balance.
Judging by the ticking of his jaw and his rigid stance, I’ve pissed Mason off by my, what he must deem, outlandish behavior.
Whatever.
“You been smokin’?” Mason seethes, searching my face, then shifting his glare over my shoulder to Thomas. “You let her smoke?”
“I didn’t,” Thomas denies.
Mason leans in, his face inches from Thomas. “Then what the fuck?”
When I say nothing for myself, Thomas shakes me in his hold, looks down and prods, “Kat? Someone here give you something?”
“A group of guys from the football team out back had some…you know…stuff…” I trail off, hating to finish. “They offered, so I—”
“You got all your shit?” Mason growls, stepping toward me.
Thomas releases my waist and quickly steps back.
Chicken! Chicken! Chicken!
Mason’s glare is malevolent. He eyes me in place, inexplicably marking me, making it so I can’t look away. They’re as beautiful angry as they are bossy and sweet. All of which I know him to be.
“Katie,” Mason clips, then voices gently, “Stay with me, baby. Do you have the shit you came with?”
Baby. My husband-to-be calls me Baby.
This is fabulous!
At this revelation, I giggle. I must have done so too loudly, because Mason and Thomas are staring at each other as if I’ve grown three heads.
Get it together. You got this, Katherine Margret Morris.
Taking mental inventory and doing it quickly, I advise, “Yes. I didn’t bring—”
“We’re gone,” Mason informs, grabbing my small, clammy hand and settling it in his large, warm one. Before we start to make our way, he glares back at Thomas. “You see that Katie’s friends get a safe ride home. You fuck that up, you’ll answer for it.”
Thomas’ eyes widen and his face pales. He swallows hard, but luckily comes to common sense and nods his acknowledgment.
As Mason all but drags me toward the door, I turn to find Thomas already melting away in the crowd. He’s no longer paying attention to where I’m headed. Neither is the blonde woman I saw Mason walk in with earlier. The two are together. She’s handing Thomas a drink and he’s looking down on her, giving her his warm bright smile. The smile that should’ve been meant for me. His goddamn date!
The jerk.
Looking back to the same woman, now touching Thomas’ arm, I realize how badly I want to be a blonde.
I want to walk into a room and have all the men turn their heads when I enter. I want Mason’s attention. And not his attention via broody and controlling savior, either. I want him to touch me, whisper in my ear, and watch me walk away. I want it all.
I’m going to ask Mason to marry me, I think.
Maybe he’ll let me carry his babies, naming them each when they arrive. The girl will love the color pink. The boy will be strong and protective.
Then again, maybe I’ve lost my goddamn mind.
Jesus Christ. What in the world am I thinking?
“Did you bring your Harley?” I query, looking out into the array of cars that swamp the street in front of the frat house. Rows and rows of them are parked on either side of the dark road we’re slowly trailing down. The air is still, warm but not humid. I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle, but with Mason, I really want to.
He’s in no mood to chitchat. I get a sense of his agitation when he barks, “Wanna tell me why the fuck you’re at a college party, when you’re too fuckin’ young to be?”
He remembers I’m not of legal drinking age. He must have forgotten to answer my question about his Harley, though.
“Is that a yes you brought your bike or a no you forgot it at home?”
Mason, ignoring my question again, pulls my arm as he continues his lecture. “Or why the hell you’re alone somewhere you have no business being? Again.”
“I wasn’t alone,” I snap, pulling my arm back and stopping us from going any further. We’re standing in the middle of an isolated street, the lights shining down from above. “I was with my friends.”
“Same friends you’ve been with all night?”
His manner is accusing, but I don’t understand why.
“Yes.”
“Then where are they? And why the fuck did that jackass have his hands on you?”
“Jackass?” I parrot, looking around to see if someone else is headed toward us.
“That fat fuck who looks at you like you’re his little sister, but didn’t protect you like a big brother should.”
Oh, Thomas.
“Thomas isn’t fat,” I defend. However, in comparison to Mason, he may have a softer stomach but I wouldn’t know.
“Katie,” Mason calls, exasperated. “Why was he touching you?”
“He’s a friend of a friend,” I explain, rather than going into detail about our fathers’ plan of putting us together forever.
“Liar,” he name-calls in reproach.
His correct assumption of my reply pisses me off, which should be hard to do in my state of intoxication. I cross my arms over my chest and kick my leg out to the side—girl code for extremely pissed off.
“Something else to say?” he clips.
“You think you’re so cool,” I draw out slowly for effect.
Sighing, he asks, “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”
“You.” I point, leaning forward and flailing my arms through the air. “Coming around again to save the day.”
“Wouldn’t have to if you’d fuckin’ behave.”
Behave?
I was nervous when I saw him enter through the back door.
I was agitated at him finding me in my drunken state.
I was annoyed the way he ridiculed me for smoking.
But now? Now—I’m super mad.
“You’re ridiculous,” I huff.
“Katie, let’s go.”
“And you’re controlling.”
“Now,” he growls, pointing to his truck.
“I’m not a liar,” I bite, relaxing as his eyes gentle. “I was having fun.”
Giving in, he grabs my hand and pulls me along but says nothing more.
Once we reach his truck, he guides me to the passenger side. His eyes peruse my face. He shakes his smiling head before putting his hand to the handle. That one single dimple I remember so well looks delicious.
“I’d like to lick your face,” I awkwardly confess.
Oh, my God. Seriously!
“I mean, your dimple,” I add.
Right. Damage control.
“I meant to say I love your smile.”
Mason’s body stills. His head turns slightly, but all of his glare is on me. “What the fuck?”
“I meant to say that I love your smile,” I reiterate. “You don’t smile much but when you do, I love that dimple.” I lean in and touch it with my finger so he knows exactly what I’m talking about. Of course he does, but on the off chance Mason is as intoxicated as I am, he should know I’m not a random face-licking lunatic.
As he positions us, face-to-face, chest to chest, a kaleidoscope of butterflies wreak havoc in my stomach, swarming up my chest. Not unlike a predator finding its prey, Mason bends his neck to get closer. His large arm slowly slides its way across my waist, bringing my body into his full frontal.
This is what I should’ve felt with Thomas. This is what I never will because only Mason could ever have this effect.
With his mouth inches from mine, I taste his breath as he advises, “It’d be good if you didn’t talk about where you’d like to put your tongue.”
Shit.
“Because if we’re doing that, you bein’ drunk or not, I’d be open to sharing where I’d like to put mine.”
Oh, my God.
Ignoring or not noticing my shock, he pushes, “And unfortunately for me, my guess is you’d taste good drunk or sober.”
My hands grasp his shoulders and my back bends back slightly to gain distance. He’s in my space, never being so close. Through his shirt and jeans, the body I’ve longed to touch is overwhelming. I feel dwarfed in his presence. He could crush me, hurt me beyond repair. Emotionally and physically.
“That’s an awkward thing to say to a girl,” I finally get out, breathless.
Laughing, his body shaking against mine, he returns, “Fuck, you’re cute when you’re tryin’ to be badass.”
Again. Seriously!
“No bike, huh?” I stress, bringing us full circle.
Setting me free, Mason takes two steps away and orders, “Get in the goddamn truck so I can take you home.”
Standing too long in one spot, I start to sway. The loss of him is too much. My daydreams are nothing in comparison to being with Mason in real life.
“Fuck me, you’re gonna be sick,” he figures, mistaking the butterflies in my belly for drunkenness.
Shaking my head, I rest my hand on his stomach where his muscles contract on contact. Mason lays his hand gently on the back of my neck and using his fingers, starts to gently rub. My eyes close. Even as fuzzy as the world around us seems, his touch keeps it grounded.
“Does your dad know you’re out tonight?”
“Nope,” I return then exhale.
“He home worried sick about where you went?”
“Nope,” I answer, collecting composure. “He’ll be back Sunday.”
Mason doesn’t ask where my mom is. He already knows. I explained at the lake that my mom left us when I was young, running off with the town mailman, and living it up happily in Maine, the last I heard.
That same day he told me where he’d gotten the fat lip I remembered. He hadn’t been in a fight. Well, he had, but it wasn’t one he started. His drunken dad found his target and his aim was Mason.
“Your dad’s out of town. And you’re alone like this tonight?” he asks.
At his disposition, I look up. Mason’s eyes are moving back and forth between my face and chest. Seems in my drunken haze, I’d forgotten I wasn’t wearing my own clothes but my more promiscuous friend, Grace’s, instead.
The tank top, with built-in shelf bra, she handed me to wear under the flannel shirt is all I have left after some random woman at the party spilled beer all over it. Thomas hadn’t even noticed. Mason has, though. And I’ll be damned if I hope he’s thinking what I’m thinking.
“Wasn’t asking after your dad ‘cause I wanted to take you home to an empty house to fuck you, Katie,” he states, shaking his head and smirking.
Foiled.
“Then what are you asking?” I reply, hope still threading my voice.
Opening the door and giving me wide space, he points inside and orders, “Get in.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting in his truck outside my house. We’re listening to his kind of music. I hadn’t pegged him for a country music fan, but by all means, if George Straight talks to him and calms the anger he still has regarding where I was tonight, I’ll mindfully thank him for it.
Aside from tolerating Mason’s continuous stewing, I haven’t wanted to get out. The brick porch leading into my house is dark. No one’s home. If I were brave, I’d ask Mason if he wanted to come inside for a drink. My father wouldn’t miss anything we have stocked. He doesn’t drink any of it anyway.
“Give me your phone,” Mason orders without explanation.
Hell no.
I spent the ride home not listening to Mason ramble on about my poor decision of going to the party in the first place. Instead, I’d been texting Grace and Connie about where I am. To include where I was earlier—holding his hand. Being held in his arms. I may have even quoted him a time or two. If he sees those texts, he’ll never look at me the same way again. He may even run away.
Gripping my cell tightly, I ask, “Why do you need my phone?”
Mason doesn’t answer. Reaching over the center console, he rips it from my grasp. I watch the phone light dance across his shadowed face as he fumbles through the programs and types in his information. After, I hear the phone in his pocket ping.
He sent himself a text.
“Now you have my number. I also have yours.”
“Clever boy,” I nudge.
Talking over my comment, he continues, “If you do anything as stupid as you did tonight, you call.”
“I don’t premeditate my stupid decisions, Mason. They just happen.”
“Fuck knows that’s right,” he comments, mainly to himself.
“I’ll call. How’s that?”
“And you’ll promise not to do anything stupid for the next month or so?”
I take offense. “And again, I wasn’t being stupid. I was acting my age.”
“Seriously?” he snarls.
“Seriously. There were a lot worse things I could’ve been doing tonight, rather than sitting alone outside at a party and drinking. Besides, why were you even there? You don’t seem the frat party type.”
“Mallory’s little brother was there.”
Mallory.
My heart breaks hearing my dream husband recite another woman’s name. Her name from his lips hurts more than it should.
“Is Mallory your girlfriend?”
“We’re friends,” he enlightens. My relief is short-lived as he finishes. “With great fucking benefits.”
“You’re crass,” I accuse. “And you have a trashy mouth.”
“I don’t,” he tells me, wiping his top lip with his thumb. If he’s trying to hide that stupid grin, he’s doing a terrible job.
“So, this Mallory. She’s your type?”
“If I had one, yes.”
“What type is she?”
“Quiet,” he scolds. “She’s quiet.”
“Is this you being funny?” I question.
“Maybe,” he gives back.
“You try, but you aren’t a very funny person.”
“I can die happy knowing you’ve figured that out for me.”
Stalling for time alone, I ask, “How come we never hang out on purpose?”
“’Cause you’re a kid,” he replies. “And I’m busy.”
“I’m not a kid. I’m eighteen. And you aren’t busy now.”
“I just finished being busy by takin’ your ass home after that idiot treated you the way he did.”
Not nice.
“Thomas likes to hang with his friends.”
“Thomas is an idiot,” he hisses again. “He should’ve fuckin’ clued in that there was no good reason for you to be at that party.”
“He’s not a bad guy.”
Looking out to the road in front of my house, Mason says with sincerity, “You should stay away from him, Katie. He’s not good for you.”
“Well, thank you, Daddy.”
At my snide name-call, Mason’s head whips in my direction. There are no words to describe his expression.
Not saying more, he turns to the front window and his eyes narrow. He utters something under his breath as he opens his door and hops out of the truck.
“Sit still,” he orders, slamming his door.
When he opens my side, I contemplate kicking and screaming because I don’t want him to go. I don’t know the next opportunity I’ll have alone with him, and I’m not ready for our quiet time to end.
“How old are you now?” I ask to stall.
“Out,” he tells me, pointing to the side of where he stands.
With his truck so high off the ground, I’ll need his help. Well, all right. Technically, I don’t need help but I want his hands on me again.
When I make no move, he reaches over my body, making his way to unbuckle the belt. My heart slams against my chest with anticipation. Again, his face is inches from mine.
He was drinking beer, but his breath smells sweet. Alcohol and my husband-to-be’s scent is a heady combination.
Sensing what I’m thinking, I hear him hiss a quick and quiet, “Fuck”.
My hand covers his at the buckle and he stops moving, so I say, “I’ll do it.”
Stepping back, he nods.
Once I’m turned to face him, Mason lifts his hands in the air signaling for my arms to come out.
An unwanted picture of Mason and that blonde, Mallory, invades. And doing something I’ve never had the guts to do before, I accept his invitation but do one better.
After he’s gotten a firm hold around my waist, I wrap my legs around his hips and wait. So I don’t fall, his hands move to my back and ass, bracing me to him.
My face draws closer to his, our breaths mixing together.
“Baby, what’re you—”
Baby. Again he called me Baby.
That was all I needed to hear.
The little girl who stared out her window for eight weeks one summer, dreaming of kissing her knight in shining armor, goes for exactly that.
The younger teen lying on the beach as the man of her dreams looked down, as if seeing her for the very first time, wants this.
The drunken woman who spotted him across the room tonight deserves her chance.
His lips part first. I push my tongue inside, tasting his. The kiss is rough, inviting, and intoxicating. A mixture of chaos and excitement. Neither of which I’ve ever felt.
Mason moves his hand to rest at the back of my neck. He grabs my hair, fisting it tightly, and I fear he’ll let me go. But he doesn’t.
His other hand releases my ass so I drop to my feet. My back slams against the truck as Mason’s body blankets mine. Music still plays inside—quietly—but there. Murky darkness surrounds, yet everything between us is so clear.
His hips grind against mine. His hands explore my body at the same time he allows mine to explore his. My chest aches, my stomach churns, and my legs become weak.
He’s giving me power in this moment…to kiss, touch, and claim.
Once satisfied this kiss will last as long as I need to remember, I pull back. But Mason’s not finished. Tilting his head the other way, he takes over.
The kiss goes from being mine to being his.
As does my heart.