Page 82 of Gin and Lava

NAOMI

Iflick on the lights of my small apartment and walk into the kitchen with Mason following me. He’s been a non-stop raunchy-sex-joke machine the whole ride from the restaurant, and I have to admit, it’s been a nice distraction.

Sam gets in my head in all the wrong ways. First, I get that fluttery feeling when I see him, and he make me feel special. He notices the Andromeda dress. He gives me those bedroom eyes I’ve been craving. And then, I’m trash again—for being with Mason, for not being good enough, for making a fool out of myself.

He wants me, and he doesn’t.

He likes the way I look, but not the girl that comes with it.

I’m worth picking a fight with Mason over, but easy to walk out on again.

Mason’s silent now, practically tiptoeing into my apartment and looking around uncomfortably. He scans my tiny life: my kitchen table full of bills, my designer living room with the pristine shag rug, artsy glass coffee table, and chandelier glittering above—those are glass teardrops, of course, not real crystal. My jewelry desk hides in a shadow in the corner of my living room. My latest jewelry pieces are strewn about, half-finished and drab in the lowlight.

“Take your shoes off, please,” I ask, slipping out of the designer heels Esme sent me, and moaning at how good it feels to not have my toes crammed to a point. Still, legs always look better in heels. It’s a necessary evil. Fashion is quite literally pain.

I walk onto my shag rug, barefoot, and moan again. This is why I bought the expensive thing, decadence and style wrapped into one perfect package.

I hear Mason take his nice shoes off and awkwardly tuck them by the door. It feels charged to have him in my space, and weirdly more intimate than fucking him in my truck. I think he can feel that too, because he lingers by the door like I might kick him out at any moment.

“There’s beer in the fridge,” I say, trying to ease the tension and pointing to the ice box. “Grab one if you want and make yourself at home. Use a coaster if you’re going to put the bottle on the coffee table, otherwise it’ll leave those rings that are impossible to get out.”

“Beer. Monster truck. Chandelier. Impossible rings,” Mason says each word like he’s cataloging the enigma that I am, still looking around like he might break something.

“My massage table is in the closet,” I explain. “I’ll go get it, then set it up by the window over there.” I point as I backpedal toward the bedroom. “The bathroom’s just down this hall, if you need it. Seriously, have a seat, relax. I’ll be right back.”

“Isn’t the massage supposed to relax me?” Mason asks.

I laugh awkwardly. “Yes, Mason. But you can still have a beer.”

“Beer before liquor, never sicker,” he sing-songs at me, venturing to take another step toward my living room.

“Then don’t have any liquor,” I toss back.

“But I definitely plan tolick her,” he says suggestively, and I smile, glad he’s making jokes again and not leering next to the door like he’s going to bail the same way Sam did.

Did Sam leave because of Mason? Or because of me? He only went to the restroom, right? Sam didn’t bail on the rest of the evening like we did? Heck, he and Shauri are probably gossiping about it right now.

“Have a glass of water,” I tell Mason. “Give me a second.”

I disappear down the hall and go into my bedroom. Carefully, I slip out of the Andromeda dress and place it back in the protective sheath it came in. Then, I throw on some black scrubs (which is my uniform at the spa) and dig my massage table out of the closet.

Sam always thought it was weird that I was a professional masseuse. He didn’t like the idea of my hands on other men’s naked bodies, much less that I got paid for it. I thought it was a jealousy thing: an instinctual caveman reaction like he needed to claim his woman and be overly protective. But he was always making side comments about how I’d give it up someday, thathe’dtake care of me. I hated that part.

Ireallyhated that part.

It was a fate that sounded too much like my mother: one boyfriend for six months, another the following six, always making promises. I hated her for believing them, because they always left her with nothing. They used her and her generosity. I told myself Sam was different. He was a fancy doctor. The kind I’d always dreamed of …

Still, I didn’t like that Sam wanted me to give up something I made good income from, something that made me self-sufficient. Even if I did have to touch other people’s bodies to get. Yeah, that sounds bad when I phrase it that way. That’s what Sam didn’t like; my profession makes me sound like a whore. And Sam always expected sweet and pure, the pretty princess on his arm. The woman I am in an Andromeda dress.

I could’ve told Sam about my jewelry. But I didn’t. Unlike the massage industry, jewelry is something he would probably be proud of: gems, gold, glamour. But maybe I was afraid he’d tear that down too. Maybe I wanted a secret that was all my own.

I swing a bag of spa supplies over my shoulder and lug my massage table up the hall by the attached handles. I scoot my glass coffee table to the far end of my living room and make some space by the window, peeking into the kitchen to see Mason sitting at the table near the fridge. No beer in his hand, just a glass of untouched water next to him.

“You can sit in here if you want,” I call out as I snap open the table and start to set it up, drawing the window shades closed.

“You’re not going to give me a massage in the galaxy dress?” Mason asks, pouting as he motions to the scrubs I’ve changed into. I pull a bottle of massage oil out of my supply bag and wave it at him.

“We are not getting this near myAndromeda,” I stress. “You know the designer’s name now,” I point out, calling him out. “No playing dumb.”

---