Page 13 of Scary In Love
Now and then, Mason breaks into a bit with one of the other staff, pushing and shoving and tussling until a third steps in to break up their ‘fight’, but it always ends in more brawling.
When one guy pulls a fake gun from behind his back, Mason quickly wrestles him into a headlock, and it turns out I was right. The sight of the two of them tussling and grunting turns me on far more than it should.
I’d let him put me in a headlock. With his thighs, ideally.
Jesus, I need to get laid.
By closing time, I’m not even sad about missing out on the haunt. I’ve had a front-row seat for a show most of tonight’s visitors would only see for as long as it takes to finish a drink.
When the last customer leaves, Mason asks Lulu to make sure the staff are okay, then escorts me to where his car is waiting at the back of the house.
It’s a mild night, but a fine mist hangs in the air. With no lights on this side of the building, I can’t see far. If we were still in the haunt, I’d be waiting for a wall of zombies to rush out of the darkness any second.
Mason is a lot quieter on the drive, which eats away at the confidence his company has been building all night. I felt so at home back there with him, but in the real world, I can’t help but wonder if itwas all an act. Perhaps what felt like flirting was just very thorough customer service. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve misread signs.
“You can just drop me off here,” I tell him when he turns onto my street. My house is barely a three-minute drive, and I’m wishing I walked.
He stops the van, gets out, and darts around to the passenger side. He opens my door with a warm smile and holds out his hand.
“I’d prefer to walk you to your door and make sure you get inside safely. If that’s okay with you?”
Oh, of course he’s a gentleman, too.
I’ve had a long time to check Mason out tonight, but I can’t put my finger on what’s so attractive about him. I don’t exactly have a type. When you live in a small town, and have a reputation like mine, beggars can’t be choosers. Not that I’m desperate enough to beg, it’s more that there isn’t much choice in the first place.
After a couple of hours of ice and elevation, my knee is fine, but I play along, taking his hand and letting him wrap his arm around my shoulders. He cups my elbow, his grip reassuringly strong. No surprise with hands the size of his.
Mason is tall and slim, with a cute, boyish face that matches his excitable energy, but sometimes an aura of dominance washes over him, and it completely disarms me. Did I dream that thing he said about dying if he didn’t get to eat pussy? I cannot figure this man out.
He follows my lead, and I walk far slower than necessary up the short driveway to my house. We’re almost at the door when I hear footsteps behind us, and two little furballs fly past our feet and up the front step.
“Hiya, sweetheart, was beginning to wonder if you were staying out all night.” Dad hurries past me to unlock the door. “Go on Dolly, get inside. Whitney, stop sniffingaround.”
Mason looks down at the Pomeranian spinning in circles at his feet, a confused look on his face. I step out of his hold, putting space between us while Dad eyes up his torn-up costume.
“What the fuck happened to you, lad? You get in a fight?”
“He’s one of the haunt actors at the Miller house,” I explain. “This is…”
I pause, remembering he’s not in character anymore. I’ve spent several hours quietly swooning over this man, but I don’t actually know anything about him.
“Sorry, I never asked your real name.”
“Mason is my real name,” he smiles.
“Mason?” Dad interrupts. “I thought your date’s name was Peter?”
“It was. It’s a long story.”
Dad crosses his arms and glares at me until I elaborate, playing down my injury and leaving out the part where Mason curled his fingers into the back of my knee. And especially the dirty talk part, even though his words have not stopped circling in the back of my mind.
Mason looks back and forth between us. It’s not the first time someone has misread our situation. My parents were twenty when I was born, and Dad still has all of his hair without a hint of grey.
“SoDad,” I emphasise. “This is Mason. Mason, this is my father, Terry.”
“Ah, your Dad,” he sighs, holding out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Laing, and happy to make sure she got home safe.”
“Well, thank you for that. Now, are you coming in, or shall I give you five minutes for canoodling?” he laughs, turning serious as he points a finger at Mason. “Five minutes and not a second longer, you understand me?”
