Keep Happy

by A. C. Bextor

  “More reason then,” Thomas utters. “Maybe he should be teaching them how to work.”

  “Dad!” Averie grouses.

  “Jesus,” Connie hisses under her breath. “Your husband,” she adds, shaking her head.

  Shutting off the television, I set about getting on with the evening. “Dinner’s almost ready. Take your books and backpacks to your rooms. Wash up and come right back down.”

  “Yes, my sweet, sweet babies,” Connie urges, now moving to the dining room table. “I have to go, but I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

  “You’re not staying for dinner?” Averie questions, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Mom’s pot pie is her best.”

  “Not tonight,” Connie returns. “But you enjoy.”

  “All right, Aunt Connie. But I’m sorry for you,” Averie concedes, wrapping her arms around my friend and squeezing her tight. Connie’s scowl is trained on Thomas as he wanders off into the next room.

  My husband and Connie don’t speak. Thomas knows how Connie feels about him, and she doesn’t care what he thinks about her. And knowing Connie’s sole reason to stop by was to gossip, he’s all the happier to be as far as he can get.

  “Go on, girls,” I urge. “Or dinner will be cold.”

  Amelia side hugs Connie but does so with duty, not affection. She’s still pissed about Averie’s insistence for a new phone.

  Averie grabs her things and does as I’ve asked. Once both the girls are out of sight, my focus turns to Connie.

  Leaning against my counter and folding a random dish towel, I assume, “You came here to tell me you’ve met someone.”

  Connie’s eyes dance as she claps her hands in front of her face to confirm. “I did!”

  I knew it.

  “His name is Charles Murdock,” she goes on. “He’s a lawyer in Belton County.”

  “And where did you meet this lawyer from Belton County?” I query.

  Connie falters briefly, then says, “The gym.”

  “The gym?” I press in disbelief. “Seriously?”

  “Shut up,” she clips. “I go to the gym.”

  “You do not go to the gym,” I deny.

  “I do now. Sam’s Gym on Broadway just installed tanning beds.”

  Laughing, I agree, “Then of course you go to the gym.”

  “So tomorrow night, I’m meeting him for drinks.”

  “Drinks?” I challenge. “How about dinner?”

  Connie’s nose scrunches and she waves her hand in front of her face.

  “Dinner takes too long. And I have to talk about myself.”

  “Yeah, honey,” I return. “That’s how dates usually work.”

  Raising her eyebrows, she shakes her head. “You haven’t seen Charles, Kat. He looks delicious in gym clothes. I can hardly imagine what he’ll look like dressed for drinks.”

  “Right,” I goad. “And?”

  “And I really can’t wait to find out what he looks like without any clothes at all.”

  “Connie.” I smile. “You’re crazy.”

  Leaning forward to close the gap between us, she says, “Four months dry, my friend. Four months without having the deliciously heavy weight of a man on top of me.”

  I understand what she’s saying. I do.

  Earlier this week, after coming home from the bar where I saw Mason up close, I wanted what Connie described. Seeing him again, I’d been reminded of how Mason’s touch would drive me wild.

  So, good idea or not, I knew exactly what I was doing.

  I’d marched to our bedroom where Thomas had been sleeping. I stripped my clothes, not bothering with my usual night routine. I drew down the covers and touched my husband in ways I thought he was sure to wake. His chest, his shoulders, his neck. His lips, his ear, his cock.

  As I suspected, Thomas woke. But he didn’t wake up with sex on his mind. He woke startled and confused. Then he brushed me away, grabbing my hands and giving them back. He told me he was tired and had an early morning.

  I didn’t bother taking care of myself. Not only was I embarrassed. My feelings were hurt.

  Thomas hasn’t said a word about what happened since. He either doesn’t remember or doesn’t care to discuss.

  “Shave your legs,” I tell her, giving in to her plan of seeing Charles without clothes. “And wear something he’ll want to rip off you.”

  “Red dress with no back?” she suggests.

  “Black dress with very low front,” I up one better.

  Connie smiles her movie star smile and agrees, “Done!”

  As she makes her way to the back door, which also leads to the driveway, I insist, “Call me soon and tell me if he wears date clothes as well as gym clothes.”

  Connie laughs. “I’ll call you and tell you how he wears his birthday suit. How’s that?”

  “That works too. Talk to you soon.”

  “Love you,” she tells me, opening the door and walking through it.

  As it closes, I stare at the spot she left then turn my gaze to the television. The now blank screen highlights my reflection.

  For the life of me, I can’t focus on it. My mind is still lost to the previous program.

  Mason looks good after all these years.

  He looks beautiful.

  He looks content.

  He looks almost happy.

  Past…

  “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR SICK, menace friend?” I ask, swiping the sand from the top of my shorts.

  They’re my favorite pair. They match my pink bikini top. And my yellow flip-flop shoes.

  Unlike most of the girls running around the beach with their chests hanging out, I prefer to stay somewhat covered and not only from the sun.

  “What’re you goin’ on about now?” Mason questions.

  “You didn’t bring the idiot to the beach with you today?”

  “What idiot?”

  “Your idiot. The nasty blond guy who calls me his Buttercup.” I shiver, wrinkling my nose for dramatics. “Which, by the way, is totally gross and creepy.”

  I hadn’t expected to ever see Mason Cole again, after the night I’d been stood up by the first boy I snuck out of my house to meet.

  Once we made it to my house, after Mason lectured with every mile traveled, I found my dad waiting on the couch in our living room. The cordless phone was clutched in his hand and when he saw for himself I was unharmed, his terrified expression morphed to absolute fury.

  I did my best to calm him, telling him I was home and safe. Before I left, I only vaguely explained where I was going and what I was doing. After he doled out a forty-five-minute lecture on the dangers of being out alone after dark, I was reasonably grounded for a month, though he also added that I was a teenager and he understood my need to rebel.

  The next afternoon a well-known, high-tech, security company came to install a new system on the house. My dad refused to give me the code that worked the keypad after eight thirty every evening.

  Four years have passed since I met Mason and that friend of his in the corner store, the dreadful day I started my period. Two years after, I saw them both again. Now, all this time later, Mason’s alone. I’m curious as to why.

  “I don’t know him anymore,” he explains quietly.

  Surprised, but not disappointed, I prompt, “You don’t know him anymore?”

  “I don’t want to know him anymore,” he corrects. “Let’s say that.”

  Odd, but good.

  When Mason caught me lying on the sand at the edge of the lake with my friends, he smiled from across the way. He hadn’t noticed when I clocked him hours earlier. Fact is, I’d been watching him with infatuation most of the afternoon.

  He’d been hanging out with a couple of guys and a few girls. The guys were tossing a ball around, laughing and doing what they do. The girls were rabid for Mason’s attention, fawning all over themselves and each other to get it.

  Once Mason caught sight of me, though, he said nothing more to anyone. He walked away from hi
s small group and made his way to mine.

  As my own friends took in a good look at him, their eyes widened. They were jealous.

  Grace and Connie were already fluent in all things Mason, because I’d rattled on about him for hours after each encounter. Luckily, as girl code dictates, they kept their mouths shut and didn’t leak the details of my rattlings.

  Once Mason made his way over, he said hello to Connie and Grace in passing. He studied my reaction before asking them to leave us so we could talk. He went as far as giving them money and referring them to a concession stand down the way.

  Connie almost refused. Her mouth gaped open and her gaze darted frantically between Mason and me a few times, before she finally snapped herself out of the trance.

  Grace, my more presumptuous friend, gave me an expression that shouted ‘Aces’, along with a two thumbs-up gesture. Then, she all but dragged Connie away.

  It’s been close to an hour and I haven’t seen either of them since.

  A few of Mason’s female friends still look put out. As we sit on the beach near the water together, I’m getting frowned at, scowled upon, and likely name-called. I don’t care. I have his attention, and for the first time since meeting him, I want it in a much different way.

  “Well, I can’t say I really knew the idiot, but I didn’t have to know him to sense he wasn’t a good person. Glad you saw the error of your ways and decided not to know him anymore.”

  “I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t see the error in my ways with you, too,” he replies, looking down and over to me. The penetration in his glare sends a sliver of shock excitement at my back. “You should put some fuckin’ clothes on.”

  Laughing, I point to the sun but keep my sunglass-covered eyes on him. “We’re on a beach, Mason.”

  “Yeah?”

  Pointing to my bare midriff, which he’s still focused on, I push, “Hello? I’m actually trying to get a tan.”

  Smiling, Mason lifts his knees and rests his elbows on top of them. He turns his gaze to stare out at the lake. Several kids around us keep busy while building sandcastles. Their parents chat, watching from their lawn chairs. The sounds of motorboats and waves are faintly heard in the distance.

  The sun is brilliant and bright this afternoon, and Mason squints his eyes.

  I take note of how much different he looks than the last time I saw him.

  He has a few new tattoos along his arms, and a lot of new, defined muscles. He’s wearing a black tee shirt and worn-out, faded jeans. His black boots, covered in sand, are scuffed and worn as well.

  He’s every bit the brute I remember him being. But with age comes maturity, I suppose, so maybe he does a better job of hiding that part of himself from others. Or maybe I’m captivated by him in a way I haven’t been before, and I’m taking the opportunity to notice.

  “How old are you?” I question, curious. “I mean, I know you’re older, but are you old?”

  “Smart-ass,” he mumbles, turning in my direction. “I’m twenty-four.”

  “Definitely old.”

  “Experienced, you mean,” he replies. “How old are you?”

  “Almost seventeen.”

  “Almost?”

  “Tomorrow is my birthday. That’s what we’re here to celebrate.”

  “August nineteenth,” he recognizes, as if cementing the date to memory. With sincerity, he whispers between us, “Well, happy birthday, Katie Mae.”

  How could I have forgotten the name he called me?

  “So where did your thugs run off to?” he offhandedly prods.

  “My thugs?”

  “Yeah, the thugs who were loitering around you and your girls earlier.”

  Shit.

  He’d seen them. He didn’t just notice me and my girlfriends—he noticed all of us.

  Figures.

  My friends have boyfriends. I don’t. Today was supposed to be a girls’ day. Nothing but sand, sun, gossip, and tan. This plan went to wayside when Grace pulled up in her convertible Mustang with the twins, Jason and James Jensen, in tow.

  “They went out to get us beer,” I casually slip in the lie. “We’re all getting drunk and partying it up later for my big day tomorrow.”

  “You didn’t just tell me that,” he growls, his hard scowl ever in place. “Boys and beer can’t be trusted. Especially boys your age.”

  Lying back on my towel, I look to the sky while reveling in the reaction I was hoping I’d get.

  One thing I remember about Mason is not only is he blatantly bossy, but also stupidly protective. He’d only just really met me and he was concerned for my well-being. Both times.

  “Boys my age,” I repeat. “All boys you mean.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees, slowly turning his head and doing another scan of my body. This time, the gaze is slower and with a much different intent. I feel his eyes traveling over every inch of my bare skin, visually touching my flesh without consent.

  I’m nothing special to look at, but I have been told I’m a catch. Mostly by my girlfriends, of course. But those votes still count. They’ve always been jealous because I have bigger boobs, whiter teeth, an olive-like complexion, and quick wit.

  My long, dark brown hair is thick, making my honey brown eyes and ebony lashes complementary. I hate my small nose and the freckles that cover it in the summer. I don’t love my ass—I wish it were smaller. But, this is what I was born with, so I make due.

  Wondering out loud, I ask, “Do you still ride a motorcycle?”

  Taking his eyes from the study of my midriff, he brings them to mine where he answers, “I do. Why?”

  “Did you bring it with you today?”

  “No.”

  “Bummer.”

  “You have a shit way for asking for a ride,” he comments.

  “Wasn’t asking,” I note, sliding my sunglasses up farther on my nose and feigning disinterest. “Why do you have one, anyway?”

  Leaning back with his legs stretched out in front of him and resting his weight on his hands, he answers while keeping his focus trained ahead. “My dad always had one. Guess I picked that up from him.”

  “Is your dad hot?”

  Grinning with surprise, he turns his thoughtful gaze to my feigning innocence one. His head is blocking the sun, so I get an unobstructed view of each and every beautiful feature of his face.

  I’d forgotten how good-looking he was. Or maybe it was that those times before I was too young to notice. I’m noticing now, and all I can imagine is how soft I bet his lips are.

  I’m wondering how warm and hard his muscles are beneath his shirt. How his thick, dark hair would feel running between my fingers. And what his skin might smell like wet.

  Regrettably tearing my thoughts away, he prompts, “You think I’m hot?”

  Shaking my head, bravely holding his eyes with mine through my lenses, I return, “I never said you were hot.”

  “You did, too. And this is your way of sayin’ you like older men,” he jokes.

  “Nope. This is my way of saying I like boys old enough to buy me beer.”

  Giving up, Mason runs his hand through his hair and sits up again, resting his elbows to his knees. As he does, the strong contours of his back trigger a few uneven breaths. Whatever is beneath that shirt could get Mason his pick of any woman on this beach.

  Yet, here he is…choosing to spend his afternoon with me.

  “Jesus Christ. You’re still a pain in the ass. Now you’re just older, cuter, and more interesting to look at.”

  Cuter and more interesting to look at? I like this.

  “You haven’t changed much either, Mason Cole. But that’s what makes our weird friendship so much fun.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t you work?” I query, coming down from the high of his presence and realizing he’s at the beach at two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. “I mean, don’t you have a job?”

  “Seems every time I think to get one, I run into you and your brand of trouble
.”

  Partially right, I guess.

  “I have a job,” he answers honestly.

  “Where do you work?”

  “Ty’s Lumber.”

  Interesting and definitely explains his build.

  “And how come you’re here today?”

  Lifting his chin in the direction of his group, he explains, “Friend of mine’s little sister is sixteen. She thought she’d come here with her friends, without telling his mom where they were going.”

  “Oh,” I answer with a sigh. “You’re here to rescue a different girl.”

  “Something like that.”

  Mason stands, his entire body blocking my rays. He dusts off his jeans and stops only to catch me staring.

  Shit.

  “You be good,” he tells me.

  “I’ll be good.”

  “You stay the fuck outta trouble.”

  “I’ll stay out of trouble,” I give him with a grin.

  “Fucking hell,” he murmurs. “Gotta go. Keep happy, Katie Mae.”

  “You too, Mason Cole.”

  Shaking his head, he turns to walk away. Leaving mine in place, I enjoy his backside as I watch him go.

  “SIT DOWN, COLE,” MY CAPTAIN, Tyler Riggs, points to the chair across from his desk. “This’ll only take a few minutes.”

  I’ve been called to my boss’s office before. Usually, when I’ve stepped over the line while on duty. I don’t cross that line often, but when my job pushes my patience to no avail, I tend to blur the shit out of it.

  I was almost out the door when Janice, our unit secretary, summoned me back.

  “If this is about Mark Karnes,” I start, walking in the office and pulling out a chair. “I’ve got nothing to say except he’s dead. So fuck him.”

  Riggs keeps his office clean. By clean I mean, no pictures on the walls, hardly anything on his desk, and the floor is clear of files and random debris.

  Janice, our older and very sweet unit secretary, runs the department as much as she’s able. Riggs is smart, recognizing how honest and loyal she is, so he lets her.

  Captain isn’t around the office much, as he likes to be in the field with the few men who make up this department. When he’s not out as much as he likes, he becomes anxious. I understand this because I’m the same. I prefer being in uniform on the streets.