Page 84 of Dirty Ink

Mason did.

I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt, there in that department store. Mason whipped the kitchen towel (the ugliest one they had) around and said, loudly, crazily, perfectly, “This is your mother talking, isn’t it?”

I forced back my smile despite how good it felt, despite how fucking good it felt, and stalked forward to jab my finger at Mason’s chest.

“Don’t you dare bring my mother into this,” I shouted. “You can’t blame everything on her, you know?!”

Mason threw up his hands into the air.

“Oh, so I just happened to be the only one who got food poisoning at Thanksgiving, huh?” he hollered, his voice echoing up and down the aisle, all the way to those horrible, perfect fluorescent lights. “Thirty people all crammed into your family’s house and I’m somehow the only one!”

I gripped my hair like I was going crazy even though I was really kind of having the time of my life.

I growled and then shouted back, “It’s not my mother’s fault that you have such a weak constitution.”

Mason scoffed and crossed his hands over his chest.

“Is that what we’re calling taste now? ‘A weak constitution.’ Well, I’m sorry, dear, but I wouldn’t serve your mother’s food to my dog!”

“We don’t even have a dog!” I shrieked.

“And who decided that?” Mason bellowed. “Oh, that’s right, that’s another thing we ‘agreed’ to, isn’t it? Funny, I don’t really remember that conversation.”

People were poking their heads into either end of the aisle. Half were concerned. Half amused. I’m pretty sure I even saw a phone or two. I figured I might as well give them a show. I was a performer, wasn’t I? I grabbed some kitchen towels at random from the rack and threw them at Mason, who ducked behind raised arms.

“Well go on then,” I cried, forcing up tears. “Go find the love I obviously can’t give you in the flea-ridden arms of some dog. Go on, honey. If I’m so terrible!”

Retreating, Mason picked up some of the towels and hurled them back, a hint of a grin on his own face.

Between throws he said, “At least a dog isn’t withholding if I don’t pick the stupid kitchen towel he wants.”

I screamed and then shrieked, “We had sex last month! What more do you want?”

Mason hurled a towel at me and shouted like a madman, “Fine! Have it your way. We’ll take the ugliest one here if that makes you happy.”

I gripped the towel to my chest and smiled, a giggle barely held back.

“Now, see, darling, was that really so hard?”

Mason stared across at me, panting, chest rising and falling a little too quickly. All I did was raise an eyebrow and he advanced on me. He placed his arm over my shoulder and I practically tripped, he guided us forward so quickly.

“I’m sorry, dear,” he said as the crowd at the end of the aisle parted for us, a sea of agape mouths and wide eyes.

“No, I’m sorry,” I insisted.

“We really shouldn’t fight,” Mason said distractedly.

His eyes were glancing at the doors that lined the back of the department stores. He hurried us past the bathrooms, the breakroom, the returns section. Behind us the entertained shoppers, no longer entertained, were going to back to their as-scheduled day.

“No, no, I hate fighting,” I agreed.

I nearly yelped when Mason suddenly pushed me into the dressing room. I stumbled back on the bench as he fumbled with the lock of the door.

“Baby,” I said as I spread my legs and let the kitchen towel fall to the floor, “I really think you need to look at that sex addiction pamphlet I brought home.”

Mason’s eyes flashed darkly as he advanced on me, fingers at the button of his jeans.

“Shut up. Right now, I have other uses for that mouth.”

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