Insecure

By Ainslie Paton

The worst thing a man can do is not be with the woman he loves.

She could have him sacked quicker than licking her lips. He could ruin her reputation with an email.

Jacinta was the CEO in waiting. Mace was the geek from IT. She had an office suite on the top floor. He worked in cubicle hell.

She had power, influence, her life mapped out. He had big dreams, and an appetite for risk.

They had one hot night written all over them, except the city conspired to turn that night into a weekend of unexpected passion and deep connection.

Will love be enough when Jacinta's star falls and Mace's dream takes flight, or will ambition, expectation and insecurity pull them apart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Mar 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780857992321

Ainslie Paton

Ainslie Paton always wanted to write stories to make people smile, but the need to eat, accumulate books, and have bedclthes to read under was ever present. She sold out, and worked as a flack, a suit, and a creative, ghosting for business leaders, rebel rousers, and politicians, and making words happen for companies, governments, causes, conditions, high-profile CEOs, low-profile celebs, and the occasional misguided royal. She still does that. She also writes for love.

Book preview

1:   City on Fire

I. Want. You.

She said those three loaded words in a dirty low whisper that made a shiver flicker up the back of his neck. She’d waited till Nolan was distracted and lent in quickly, uncomfortably close so her breath brushed his check, so he wouldn’t misunderstand.

Then she walked away. The heels, the legs, the black suit and the no-nonsense hairstyle that should’ve made her look sexless, forbidding. She was so freaking gorgeous she couldn’t hide it in all that stiff expensive tailoring. She glanced over her shoulder once to check he’d follow.

He laughed, louder than was sensible, and earned a sharp look from Nolan.

She didn’t want him for his ability to code a program or provide IT support. This was a bad idea, but the city was burning, so if the girl was on fire, he had a duty to put her out.

He followed her across the empty hotel conference room that should’ve had hundreds of happy shareholders in it, Nolan’s eyeballs stuck to his back. She made sure no one could interrupt or overhear them. She wasn’t in a socialising mood.

Look Mason, you either want this or you don’t. She spoke softly in that you will obey me voice, looked him dead in the eye, daring him to misinterpret.

He was hooked. He’d been snagged by her from the moment she’d stood at the front of that meeting room back at the office, explained the game plan and called him on not paying attention in front of nineteen other people. She didn’t care if she’d embarrassed him. He didn’t care enough to be embarrassed. But if he didn’t find his tongue now he’d lose his chance with her. And it wasn’t the most disciplined organ. It sat thick in his mouth and refused to move, or said inappropriate and ill-timed things that irritated people.

Mace, he said.

She frowned. What?

There it was, irritation—and he’d only said one word. No one calls me Mason except Nolan, and he’s an idiot. Which she was smart enough to know.

Get too cute and I’ll start thinking this is a stupid idea.

No point not saying it. It’s a monumentally stupid idea.

She let out a sigh, noisy with attitude. That’s all you had to say. She stepped around him to leave.

If he wanted her, he’d have to suck up the tough bitch programming. I’ve got nothing else to do.

She stopped. She was so straight-backed, so crisp in her movements, there was little left over for loveliness. She was military, her own parade. He was cannon fodder. If he did this, he’d get to see her without the armour, without the authority that kept her separate, like another species of woman, one without warmth or softness. He’d get to see her stripped of all that made her a corporate machine, the heiress apparent.

That alone was worth the snark.

She turned back, fixed him with a hard stare. Changed your mind?

He shrugged. Why not?

Not good enough.

He tried again. Used his words. Maybe the world will end tomorrow. Yesterday that comment would’ve earned him too cute points and he’d be going home alone. After what happened, the explosion, fire still raging outside, the cause unknown, police and emergency service workers using the hotel foyer as a briefing area, he’d scored a break.

Why me? Jacinta Wentworth could choose anyone she wanted, but it was risky choosing someone she worked with, even if two office towers and fifteen layers of authority separated them.

She raked his face with eyes so stunningly certain, so sure of what she wanted, he didn’t need her answer, but he got it. Because you’re seriously hot.

He laughed, too loud again, those words didn’t seem right coming from her mouth, and across the conference room Nolan scowled at him, a thousand censures radiating from under his monobrow. Mace was fraternising way above his pay grade and for that there’d be a slap on the wrist.

She stepped closer. Because it’s been a long campaign, an awful day, we failed and I’m pissed off. She gestured towards the street outside. We don’t know what’s going on out there, an accident, a terrorist attack. She shook her head at the horror of the idea. And maybe an asteroid will smack down, cause a tsunami and the world will end tomorrow. If that’s the case, I’d like to go out with a bang. You look like you know how to handle that. One hand went to her hip and he couldn’t stop his eyes going there too. Good enough?

He nearly laughed at her phrasing, but she was fierce with it, so he checked it in time. Almost.

What do you want—a contract? She’d lowered her voice and upped her sarcasm.

I want to hear you say this is no strings, we go our separate ways afterwards and we—

Can work together without it being weird. She eye-rolled her impatience.

He grinned. It was said she was always wound tight. He could see her awful day, the failure of the shareholder meeting, the collapse of the takeover bid and the wrath of the CEO, had her pulled taut like a muscle about to snap. It’ll be weird.

She slapped a hand on her thigh and looked down at the carpet. This is over.

You have no sense of humour.

Her chin jerked up. And you have no sense of self-preservation.

That wasn’t news. He wouldn’t be in this conversation if it was. He leant towards her, a little too close to be collegial, definitely in her space. And that’s exactly why you hit on me.

She didn’t step back. She wasn’t the type to. That’s what they said about her. But this was a step somewhere deeply unexpected. You can trust me to be cool, and I won’t trust you at all.

He frowned, Then—

That’s the whole point. She closed that leftover politeness between their bodies, coming so close her breath ghosted his throat. I don’t know you. I don’t trust you. I’m in the mood to tear things down. I want the danger.

I’m not dangerous. So many things, so many people were, like very large explosions that closed off city blocks, and cops striding around in riot gear as if they expected hand to hand combat. Ninety-nine point five percent of the time Mace was the quiet guy; the one who hugged walls at parties, and left early. He so was perfectly safe, he was almost in a sweat thinking about what he was about to agree to.

To me you’re dangerous, she said.

He shook his head, he didn’t understand her game. The asteroid might be en route, but if it wasn’t, he still needed a job Monday. If they did this, the rules had to be clear. I don’t role play. I can’t be your rough trade.

She rocked back on her six inch stilettos. God, don’t be so literal. Isn’t it enough I want you?

No. It was, but shit she was cold, and he was out of his depth, drowning in the tsunami.

You’re built for sex. Look at you, the most unlikely geek in the server room. She made a vague hand gesture at him. You don’t get to look like you from testing software.

He swallowed a mouthful of seawater and coughed.

She laughed. Am I scaring you?

Fuck, yes. You’re Princess Severe and I’m...

She took a full step back, tugged her suit jacket down as though he’d ruffled it. Princess Severe.

Shit. Why didn’t he remind her she was his boss’ boss and then some? Instead he’d gone one princess fantasy grade too far; one snappy comeback above an appropriate risk factor. He sighed, the conversation—the longest he’d ever had with her that wasn’t about this shareholder meeting and takeover gone bad—was closed.

He’d put her fire out all right, just not the way he’d anticipated.

I drive a silver Merc SL. It’s in the car park, level two. I’m leaving in forty minutes.

What? No way. He was in. He got to watch her walk away again. He had to keep his act straight; to look like she’d given him a dressing down, but the next time he saw her, he’d be sitting beside her in her roadster, wondering how the hell this was going to play out. He shook his head. It was too wild. Too much like something that’d happen to someone else. But as a random cataclysmic event preparedness strategy, it beat anything else he could dream up.

He went back to the temporary desk and annoyed Nolan some more by avoiding his explain yourself glances and sticking close to Gina, Karen and Trish while he finished packing up. They wanted him to go for an explosion survivors’ drink. It’d give him a decent cover. He could leave with them and slip away at the last moment. He was zipping his own laptop bag when Nolan approached.

What was that about with Jacinta?

He tried a dodge. You know how she gets.

She gets that way with me, not you. Why was she talking to you?

She got that way with anyone she wanted to. Wasn’t happy with the way I set up the shareholder vote registration.

The keypads?

No, the, ah. Crap, this is what he needed a cover story for. The pre-vote polling. The whole pre-meeting polling was his idea. Nolan was only going to want to own it if it was successful.

Yes, well that was perhaps a little too innovative.

Nolan hitched his pants. He wore a suit like it was a sack of cement. He managed to look dusty, and the pockets of his coat stuck out at odd angles. He didn’t wear the IT team’s usual jeans and shirt look any more sartorially, but he looked less awkward, less like he was his own father.

But what was her problem with it? She signed off on it.

Mace scratched his head. Nolan was a buzz kill at the best of times. He could probably blow him off, but that’d take more effort than humouring him. He knew he could do it by simply calling Jacinta a control freak—or a bitch. It’s what he’d have done fifteen minutes ago if she hadn’t looked him in the eye and told him she wanted totally out of the blue no strings sex that’d lit him up like hot neon. Now that felt wrong. Not that it’d ever been right to slander her, but now there was some kind of honour; the rough deference to a person he was about to one night stand with because she’d had a bad day, it was vaguely possible the world might end, and he was in the right place at the right time.

She read me the riot act over the permission sign-off.

Nolan jerked his head and added a sprinkle of dandruff to his shoulders. Didn’t you have legal clear that?

She wasn’t satisfied I disclosed all the detail. Nolan had no way of knowing if this was true but it sounded like the kind of cowboy stunt Mace would pull. It had the merit of being entirely bogus should he decide to check up.

Mason, you can’t muck about with legal. They don’t like surprises. Nolan scrubbed his face, his hair was natural electric shock and his five o’clock shadow was contributing to his just slept in look. How many times have I stressed that? Good planning equals no emergencies.

Mace rubbed his jaw. He’d snatched a shower and shave after a quick gym session at lunchtime before he’d had to swap into his suit and be at the meeting venue. He’d love to switch the suit for his jeans again but he had less than twenty minutes to ditch Nolan, finish the pack-down and make it to the car park, or he might as well go home and work on Ipseity. He didn’t feel like working tonight. He felt like shaking the severe out of the Princess to see if she was just as tense when she was naked and underneath him.

He wondered if she drank. God, he hoped so. He could do with a drink. Or two. It wasn’t only that weeks of work had gone to waste, it was why they had.

The shadow shock of the explosion still rang in his ears. He was having trouble processing it. It was like a scene out of a B-grade action flick: an enormous blast they’d felt in their feet, an unearthly quiet, and then the screaming and the sirens.

They said it was an underground gas main. Five killed, seven unaccounted for, scores hurt. According to the early news reports, the fire would wipe out a block of prime real estate before they got it under control. Half the city was cordoned off. It’d taken two hours for the cops to give the hotel the all clear to allow guests to move in and out. Two hours too late for the meeting to take place, too late to meet the takeover deal deadline. They were lucky they weren’t in the blast zone. It could’ve been so much worse. It could’ve been—yeah, best not to think about it. He needed to call Buster, and Jesus, he needed a drink.

The flashing red and blue lights of the emergency services team were still reflected in the hotel’s glass walls. The sirens had stopped but you could smell the smoke. It’d happened right in their change pocket, too close to grasp.

Are you listening to me, Mason?

It was an evolutionary miracle Nolan existed.

Let it go. She was upset about the meeting. He didn’t know how much of Jacinta’s career was riding on the success of the takeover, but judging from the way the chairman and the rest of the board reacted, and the way Malcolm tore into her in public, Mace figured it was enough to make you feel like doing something stupid.

Something monumentally stupid—with him.

Nolan flapped an arm. Do you think it’s safe out there? I mean, there’s no way the cops would let us leave if it wasn’t. Jeez, I still can’t believe how close we were.

Mace snapped the lid shut on the last packing case. The useful thing about Nolan was he excelled at answering his own questions.

Come for a drink, Mason.

Let me stow this gear. He’d stow the gear for courier pick-up Monday, but he wouldn’t see Nolan again till he had to, and by the time he did, he’d have earned firefighter status of a whole new kind.

Or need a new job.

2:   Girl on Fire

Jacinta leant on the hood of the roadster. She didn’t look up from her phone screen till Mace was in front of her. Without a word she pointed the fob at the car and the doors unlocked.

He lifted both hands; he needed the boot opened for somewhere to put his laptop and bag. She had the car started before he got in the passenger seat. It was a sweet ride, worth a hundred times what he had in the bank. And for that you got two seats, and not enough leg room for someone who scraped up against six two.

At the car park entrance, he got another look at the street. A kind of organised anarchy bathed in an orange glow, uniforms everywhere, police tape and barricades, foam, those flashing lights casting carnival colours. A cop in riot gear stopped them for no discernible reason then waved them on.

Beyond the blast zone, the streets were deserted; though it was early, the usual Friday night crowds had disappeared as the smoke clouds rolled in. He took his tie off, pocketed it and opened his collar. She pressed a button on the dash and the car roof folded down, it took less than twenty seconds and they were part of the eerie glow of the night. He might’ve been in the Batmobile. She drove it like it was a heap of shit, throwing it around corners, gunning it too fast. He’d have asked her where the fire was except that was idiotic.

She was headed towards the harbour. More people about this end of the city, but still the usual Friday crowds were thinned out. Eerie. The explosion, of course, and then he remembered the marathon tomorrow. That made another police barricade in front of them more about procedure than panic. This street, this end of the city would be locked down for the fun run, residents only in and out.

She pulled over and the purr of the engine was the sound of privilege. The cop eyed the roadster. He hated it; hated them for being in it, while he stood in the street and got a sore back taking rollcall, missing the real action at the other end of the city. You could see it in the lift at the edge of his lips, disapproval. He held his hand out for Jacinta’s licence.

You live here, Ms Wentworth? He jerked his head to indicate the building in front of them. A converted warehouse, swanky, like the car, like her.

Yes.

Will you be leaving again?

Will it be a problem if I do?

He didn’t respond. Made some note on his tablet. Officious bastard.

Officer, is there a problem?

He ignored her, lifted his chin to Mace. And you are?

She jumped in. My evening’s entertainment.

Shit.

The cop snickered. Fucking snickered, like Mace was a rent boy, well thanks for that. Was she worth it? He could be out of the car and gone in seconds. Screw his duffel bag. He shifted, fingers to the door latch, but he wasn’t going anywhere without his laptop.

Her hand went to his thigh. I’m so sorry. She dropped her head as though she might be.

The cop had someone looking under the car with mirrors on long poles. The breeze off the foreshore was cool, funky with brine and the foggy, oily smell of the ferry; better than the smoke. It stirred the fine hairs that had come out of her bun. He surprised himself by putting his hand to the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and sighed. She’d a crap day. The failure was all on her despite the circumstance. No one was going to excuse that. Millions were lost today on her watch. He wasn’t going anywhere yet.

The cop tapped the windshield and waved them on. She turned into the next driveway, swiped an access card for a security door. She parked in a wide bay and left the roof down. They got out.

I plan on getting drunk. I assume you’ll join me. There’s a bar we can walk to around the corner.

That suited him and a few drinks would hopefully take the starch out of her. He followed her up a flight of fire escape stairs and out onto the street. She undid her jacket and took it off. Underneath was a dress, not a skirt. Fitted like a sheath; utterly demure and fucking lethal, the way it outlined her body. If he wasn’t already thirsty, the sight of her would’ve curled his tongue.

She walked slightly ahead of him and had to turn back to be heard. It’s so hot. The runners are going to feel it tomorrow if it doesn’t cool down.

It was a normal conversational sentence. It required a normal conversational response. It’s just that Mace didn’t do normal conversation. The stuff they’d said earlier, that was his quota of wit for the year. He hoped she knew that about him already, but maybe not. She was looking at him expectantly. If he was Dillon, he’d have had something useful to say to fill the silence, some plausible race stat he’d made up, some quip about the weather that might not make sense but would lubricate the situation. But he was an IT geek, he didn’t do clever banter, he didn’t do social. As a rule, he didn’t do conversation either. Mostly that didn’t appear to matter and when alcohol was involved people were happy enough to talk at you.

He all purposed it. Yeah.

She laughed in his face.

He’d never heard her laugh before, never seen what it did to her. Opened her up like a treasure chest, all the wealth of her glittered in her eyes, across her cheeks, off her lips. Those riches could make any man lose the power of speech. He grinned at her.

You’re dumb but cute, Mace.

He found some words and strung them in a line. They were an echo from their conversation in the hotel, nothing original about them. Do you usually seduce with compliments?

She grabbed him by the shirt front, pulled their bodies together and kissed him. That shocked a grunt out of him. He might be dumb, but he wasn’t stupid. He palmed the back of her head and returned the kiss, his other hand wrapping around her, holding her length hard against him. She let go of his shirt and circled his neck. She tasted of coffee and breath mint and a night of rare, strange appeal.

Someone catcalled and he let go of her.

She leaned against him. I liked that.

It was out there. I liked it too.

She laughed. That’s useful.

She took his hand and led him down the street to the bar, crowded, thankfully loud. The kind of place you had to shout to be heard or shut up. His kind of place because he could pull the strong silent type shit and get away with it. He found them a corner. They drank shots. He had to admire that. She was going to get drunk quickly. So was he if he tried to keep up. He was out of practice.

The place was full of talk about the explosion. It was as good a reason as any to let Jacinta press against him, run her hands over him. It was the best kind of talk and not hard to pay attention. Now she tasted of liquorice and Jagermeister and her body had lost its steel-edged stiffening. He pulled her out of there before either of them found it too difficult to get motivated.

Outside it had cooled down and she wobbled on her heels and laughed at herself. He caught her arm and righted her. How drunk are you?

Enough.

Enough to want me to take you home and stay, or just take you home?

I can’t make you want to stay.

Yeah. She. Could. Like this, loose, relaxed, laughing at herself, her hair falling out of its twist; she could make him do just about anything. They went back in through the fire stairs and he retrieved his bags from the car. She took her shoes off, suddenly so much shorter, younger. He might’ve picked her up so she didn’t ruin her stockings, but he was loaded up, and drunk enough dropping her was a real possibility.

They kissed in the elevator, a little sloppy, a lot of tongue. She giggled, actually giggled and dropped her keys twice at her front door. Swank, so much swank in just the corridor, the brass railings and distressed concrete, the old polished marble and tile, and glass walls clean as air, floating in space.

When he finally got inside it sobered him up some. Fuck. Serious money was laid down on this place. There was the harbour spread out, watching them, huge open plan room, ceiling way up there, red pipes and metal beams.

Something wrong? she said.

Nope.

I live alone.

Good to know. That eliminated awkwardness in the morning, awkwardness now, because this would make him feel out of place if he wasn’t juiced. That was some kitchen, all smooth surfaces, the inner workings hidden behind glossy fascias. Beyond it a dining room, a table you could seat a football team at. The TV was a kind of wall of its own and the furniture leather, lustrous, designer chic and retro fabulous. There was a chair hanging from the ceiling. There was a piano with its lid open.

It wasn’t unusual that the homes of women he slept with were nicer than Buster’s bungalow, but they’d never been this. This was a magazine layout—lifestyles of the rich and famous.

He put his bags down, took his coat off and laughed.

You’re so easily amused.

You own this place?

The company does. She gave a wobbly curtsy. I’m here by the good graces of the great Malcolm Wentworth.

The CEO. Her father. Daddy’s girl.

She tossed her shoes, bag and coat on a chair that was some kind of freaked out exploded Honey I Blew up the Kid size. Only when he feels like it.

Selective parenthood.

He’s not my natural father.

She wandered into the space and he followed. He might need breadcrumbs, string, to find the way out again. That wasn’t common knowledge and so much about her was.

He’s my ugly stepfather.

Beautiful daughter.

I don’t do this often, but when I do it’s always a hotel.

She wasn’t too drunk to make things clear. He wasn’t too drunk to wonder why she’d brought him here. We do this and then I leave.

Perfect.

It was perfect, just the sex; clean, pure then done. Worry about any weirdness Monday. He wondered briefly how this was going to work. Who was doing the seducing? He didn’t have to wonder long.

She walked into the lounge room. You’re so fine, so not like the geek you are.

He trailed her, watching her narrow hips shift. You’re exactly like the princess you are. But she wasn’t anything like he’d expected.

She laughed. Want to watch while the princess gets dirty?

Like nothing else. There was music now. She made it happen by clapping her hands, smooth jazz, rich sound. And she danced. Jesus, how she moved, all hip and shoulder, all slow shake and low grind. He found his way to a leather sofa and collapsed into it to watch his private show. She took her hair down, shaking pins everywhere, cascading mahogany softness; waves of it, around her shoulders. She stole the beat and made it thrum through her body and pulse in his.

I hate my stepfather.

She moved like a tabletop dancer, like sex shot through with rum and set alight. Like she’d forgotten he was there.

He hates me too. Are you listening?

Yeah. But more to her body than her words. Her body was a blockbuster he’d only seen the previews of.

You shouldn’t. I’ll say things I don’t mean.

Okay.

Okay what?

Whatever you want.

You’re so easy.

You didn’t pick me to be hard.

Her brows shot up. She went to her knees on the floor laughing, arms wrapped around her middle. He should’ve kept his mouth shut, but it was funny. He hauled her up and kissed the shrieks out of her. He’d kiss the butter soft of her, the spice of her all night if she’d let him.

You’re lovely, Mace.

You’re drunk.

I am drunk, but not blind. She deadpanned, I’m hysterical! She draped herself on him and he held her upright, this completely other person to the one he’d agreed to come home with, this viscerally real, surprising woman. How’d you get to look like this?

Magic.

No. Something you do. No pizza and coke.

I work out. Punch a bag, run.

Why?

My brain works better if I work my body.

She raked up his chest with her short square nails. Nice body.

He grunted. Her hands on him made him thirsty, but not for more to drink, to drink her.

Dance with me.

He grinned. You can’t stand up.

So hold me. No one ever holds me.

He lifted her—she weighed nothing—and spun her around. She braced her elbows on his chest. It wasn’t dancing by any stretch of the definition; it was stumbling, swaying, hands roving, grasping, and long, deep eye contact that made him forget he was wearing clothes.

Take me to bed, Mace.

Got any more instructions?

Her expression changed. She shook her head, pushed away, struggled out of his arms. He let her go.

You can leave.

He wasn’t going anywhere. Why doesn’t anyone hold you?

She swayed, her weight shifting hip to hip, her eyes on her feet. I don’t want them to. They only want to hold the money. I said you should go.

I want to hold you. Had he not proven that?

Her head shot up and she pointed at him. You’re like everyone else, you only want the money.

He frowned at her. I couldn’t give a fuck for your money. His voice was two octaves too threatening. He backed it off. I’ll make my own.

She didn’t shift. Big dreamer.

He should’ve known she was hard to intimidate and he’d sound like an idiot. He reached for her, but she stepped away.

Don’t hit me.

Her words did. He dropped his arms and stepped back. I...

Play nice.

Was this some kind of kink code? Not his scene. If that’s what she wanted, he was out of here.

You can do anything, but don’t hit me.

He watched her eyes. She could negotiate her way out of bad weather, was this a game? She blinked, her guard open, her jaw clenched and chin dropped. This was real.

Fuck, Jacinta, who hit you?

No one.

Someone.

Someone. Not now. A long time.

He sat. Gave her space. I promise I won’t hurt you.

I trust you.

He looked up at her. A fierceness in her eyes. He’d never knowingly hurt a woman in his life and he wasn’t going to start now.

Hold me.

How could he not. Yeah.

Kiss me.

He didn’t hate the instructions.

Stay till morning.

He never did that, but okay, one time, how bad could it be?

She turned her back, watched him over her shoulder with one wary eye. He stood again, two strides his hands were on her. The jazz was still there, in his head, in his hands as he unzipped her, as he peeled her out of the dress. Her skin was cool, and smooth like the petals of the tulips Buster loved so much. What would Buster make of her, this girl on fire for what they could do together?

She stepped out of the dress and took his hand; thigh-highs, midnight blue satin underwear, silky, satiny expensive. She led him through the kitchen, handed him a bottle of Perrier and two fluted glasses. Then he followed her down a corridor; doors, one she flung open: a bathroom, sunken tub, the world could look in the glass walls and watch you soak in it. Maybe it was treated glass. Maybe she didn’t care.

Her bedroom. Part of the ceiling was glass. Clouds and stars. The bed was enormous. She ran and jumped on it. Standing, peeling off her stockings and flinging them at him, then bouncing like a little kid. Gorgeous. No longer severe but still a princess in this palace of steel and glass and class. His for the night.

He toed his shoes off, ditched his socks. Didn’t your mother tell you not to jump on the bed?

My mother died and left me with Malcolm.

Snap. That was something they shared, being left behind by dead mothers.

She stopped bouncing. Is your mother proud of you?

That stopped him, cut through the alcohol buzz. He blinked at Jacinta in surprise. Would Mum have been proud of him? She’d rarely noticed him, except as an audience for her paranoia.

Is she dead? No fake sentiment. She might’ve been asking if it was raining.

He nodded. I have Buster. For now at least, though the disease had more of her than he did. She didn’t like to talk on the phone anymore, got too nervous about being heard, got too breathless, and her hands shook too much to text. He’d forgotten to ring her and it was too late now.

He poured two glasses of water, guzzled his and repoured. Handed Jacinta a glass. She took a sip, watching him. Who’s Buster?

My grandmother.

"Grandma.