I was just eight when she first started bringing men into our home, sleeping with them for money. She never hid it from me, never apologised or wiped my tears after a night spent hiding in my room, trying to block out the noises.
I puff out a breath, scrubbing a hand down my face and not wanting to remember. “How much this time?”
I shouldn’t give it to her. It only gets spent on cigarettes, drugs and alcohol. But I know once I do, I won’t hear from her for a while. It’s bittersweet, really. How you can long to be held by someone just as fiercely as you fight to keep them at bay; how you can crave a person who has never given you a reason to love them.
And I love her, despite it all.
“Five hundred. I need to cover the electric. I’m two months behind.” She tries to justify it, but I’ve heard it a thousand times before.
I think about my savings account—or the bank of Nina to my mum. I just want her gone; it’s been a long week. “I’ll transfer it now. Please stop calling me constantly, Mum. Text me, and I will call when I am free. I teach all day.”
“Thank you,” she tells me, her voice lacking all sincerity before she quickly hangs up. And as always after speaking to her I’m left feeling disappointed. What I would give to be able to speak to my mum, open up about my crappy night and have her tell me I’m being silly and it’s just a boy.
I log into my banking app and transfer the money before she starts hounding me as to where it is.
Throwing my phone down on the coffee table, I round the kitchen island to get a much-needed glass of wine. I’m just about to pour it when I spot an envelope on the worktop.
Those damn girls don’t listen.
I pick it up and contemplate opening it. Thoughts of Mason as he lay sprawled out on his bed flash through my mind. The feel of his hands as they roamed my torso. The way his scent engulfed me as he buried his face into my neck.
I tear open the envelope, not being able to ignore the nagging feeling in my gut.
Nina, I’m so sorry about last night.
Call me. Joey
Joey?
Pain splinters through me. I toss the card into the bin and ram my hand down on top of the flowers, crushing them the best I can. The disappointment I feel at the realisation that Mason hasn’t bothered to contact me is more than I care to admit, which is stupid. Why would he contact me? It was one night—who am I kidding? It wasn’t even that. It was a couple hours of drunken stupidity on my part.
I ditch the wine glass and take the bottle back to the sofa instead, feeling foolish to think he would care.
* * *
Mase
I pacemy living area for the one hundredth time today, trying to work out what went wrong this morning and how I can fix it. I completely screwed things up with her, but I wish she’d given me a chance to explain.
She thought I was serious about the Elliot paying her thing. I wasn’t, and I shouldn’t fucking care this much.
Whydo I care this much?
Whydid I let her leave?
I run my hands through my hair as the elevator doors ping. Elliot strolls into my penthouse without a care in the world. “Where have you been all day, dickhead? I called you earlier.”
“Mase.” He smiles, walking to me and clasping my back. “It was a late one. I was sleeping when you called. You ready?” His eyes drop down my body, taking in my T-shirt and sweats. “Charlie will be here in a minute.”
“I’m not coming out. I’ve been calling you. Do you have Nina’s number? The woman from the bar. She was here last night and—”
“The Pixie? Pixie was here?” he interrupts me in shock.
“She’s not called fucking Pixie,” I say, pissed off that he’s carrying this on.
He breaks out into a stupid, wide grin. “Look at you. You have yourself all worked up over this chick. This is totally like your Pixie,” he teases.
My fists clench at my sides as I fight the urge to punch my best friend in the face.
