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  Moved

  Move Me - Part One

  Katrina Liss

  Copyright

  Copyright © Katrina Liss 2016.

  MOVED

  Move Me Series (Part One)

  Katrina M. Liss Novels

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is sold subject to conditions that it cannot by way of trade be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent, in any form or cover, other than which it is published.

  Disclaimer : This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on real figures, are purely the work of the author’s imagination.

  Created with Vellum

  Acknowledgements

  Love and thanks to my family and friends, for believing in me and encouraging me to write my little heart out.

  Contents

  Series by Katrina Liss

  Mason

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Conclusion of Move Me

  Series by Katrina Liss

  About the Author

  Katrina Liss Web Links

  Series by Katrina Liss

  Dr SEX - THERAPY - FIRST IN SERIES FREE

  Samantha has another agenda when she attends a sex therapy workshop. But it’s not till she gets involved with the program and the host, Ryan Brantwell (DR SEX), that she understands there’s something she needs far more than sex… 3 PART SERIES ALSO AVAILABLE SEPARATELY.

  THERAPY

  RIDERS - ROAD TO RUIN - FIRST IN SERIES FREE

  Be swept away by Joshua and Tiffany into a world of emotional romantic suspense. A beautiful series full of motorcyles, horses and steamy encounters. This series is available as a special offer box set (4 novellas - also available individually)

  ROAD TO RUIN

  For the full list of series, standalone novels and short stories visit the K.M. Liss (or Katrina Liss) author page access to which is available through any of Katrina’s book listings. (Simply click on the author name)

  FREE GIFT FOR READERS

  Exclusive novella only for subscribers of the Kat Liss ROMANCE JUNKIE Newsletter

  You will be redirected to book distributor StoryOrigin to download the book.

  Mason

  She has lived with me and worked alongside me in my dance crew for nine months.

  We're the best of pals. It's strictly platonic, but we're close.

  Secretly I admit there's a lot more than friends going on in my head at times. The fact she’s off the scale gorgeous… well… that makes her even harder to resist.

  Looking at her makes my day. Dancing with her makes my world complete.

  I love that she knows me so well, and that I don’t need to hide a thing from her.

  But although I have some serious feelings for Kaydee, I'm no good for her. I can't give her what she wants.

  She wants commitment, marriage, kids –– all that shit.

  Everything I don’t.

  I've seen what it does to a man, to be betrayed by love when it all goes pear-shaped. A whole life can crash into ruin in a heartbeat, and I ain't going there.

  I keep my love life very superficial, because I don't want to be screwed up like that.

  And the last thing I want is for Kay to get hurt. Not after all she’s been through with guys.

  We've been honest from the start. I think we both understand we need different things from life.

  So I'm protecting her, guarding her at a close distance, making sure whoever she gets involved with is a good guy, a keeper, and not someone like me.

  1

  I emerge from the experience in a pained and traumatised state.

  Where the hell’s he gone?

  As I step outside the piercing salon I spot Mason in the side alley leaning against the wall. He’s in a world of his own, eyes closed, sucking his cheeks in, taking a long draw on a cigarette.

  Really?

  I'm so pissed at him for walking out, just when I needed him the most, mere seconds before the crucial point of entry.

  “Surely you could have waited five more minutes, Mase?”

  “Nope. I was beyond desperate.” He blows out a long stream of smoke.

  “I thought you'd given up smoking?”

  He hadn't smoked for three whole days, not to my knowledge.

  “So did I. But apparently, I'm not quite ready to.”

  I grab his arm and drag him off.

  I'm pretty damned annoyed.

  We begin the short walk back to our flat, around the corner.

  “That hurt so bad,” I complain.

  “No? Could your body be trying to tell you something, d'you think? Like how unnatural it is to stick a needle through your nose?”

  I huff out a sigh. “I guess so, but I really wanted it done.”

  “Well, it is done, and guess what, Kay? Pain's included as part of the deal.”

  I shoot him a look. He's so mean and sarcastic at times. I want a comforting hug, not a lecture.

  I try to put my harrowing piercing ordeal behind me.

  Best forgotten. And fast.

  “What d'you think, anyway?”

  Stupid question really.

  He turns his head and looks at it for a second. Then he grimaces.

  I'm guessing he hates it, like usual.

  I huff out another longer sigh. Mason doesn't 'do' stuff like this, and doesn't understand it. Tattoos and piercings, that is.

  Not that I've got that many.

  Three tattoos, that's all.

  So far.

  A wonderful black rose on my shoulder, which I love to pieces. And a meaningful sentence about life on my hip bone, in a beautiful scrolled font. It took me ages to decide on it, and I had it written in Latin to accentuate its beauty.

  'Aut Viam Inve’niam Aut Faciam '

  Which means, 'I'll either find a way, or make one.'

  The other one is on my backside. Faith, Strength and Trust. That was done when I was going through a really tough patch at home; my mum and dad getting divorced, struggling with my drama course at college and a painful and sudden end to a two year relationship with my boyfriend. I had the words tattooed in the perfect spot, invisible to the world because I was tucked away in the tattoo closet back then.

  I plan on adding to these, as and when I reach a stage in my life where another crisis occurs, or, with a bit of luck, something wonderful happens instead.

  My piercings are sparse. To my mind anyway. The usual earlobes, two on each, one tragus, and now my brand new nose stud, which I am incredibly happy with. Although at the moment it feels very strange and foreign. I press it with my finger, not thinking how sore it really is and it smarts like hell. The pain radiates around my nose and cheek, and it almost feels like I’ve punched myself.

  “Ooowahhh... ”

  I whimper, like a baby, and press the side of my hand in my mouth biting my finger, although how the hell that’s going to stop my nose stinging, I have no idea.

  “Jesus!” My eyes have started to water.

  Mason laughs, and to my over sensitive ears it sounds somewhat demonic. Very unsympathetic anyway.

  I don’t know why I bother really because he's always unsympathetic when I drag him along to my latest session of self abuse and mutilation. The idea was, that he should provide a modicum of moral support, and hold my shaky hand, because I'm not so brave on the pain front. Especially where needles and sharp things are concerned. I’ve a bit of a phobia in that respect.

  There's only one other thing that scares me more.

  Spiders.
>
  I am absolutely terrified of the creepy little bastards. They make me break out in a cold sweat.

  Anyway, at present I feel let down… totally unsupported. Abandoned to my fears and pain. But perhaps that’s his ploy. To play on my inner insecurities to the point I won’t want to go again?

  The stinging in my nose starts to ease off and I run my finger over the stud very carefully and softly and smile cautiously with inner joy at my sparkling acquisition.

  I elbow Mason in the arm.

  “What?” he barks, giving me evils.

  I give him a quick flutter of my eyelashes, and what I hope to be an extremely sexy pout, angling my nose just so. I try to win him round; just the once.

  But he laughs at me. “What the hell was that?”

  “It was my new sexy diamond look. Did it work for you?”

  He stops and drops his cigarette stub on the floor, grinding it into the paving slab with his boot.

  God, I really wish he'd have the strength to quit this unhealthy and disgusting habit. I can't stand the smell of it on his breath when we’re face to face on the dance floor.

  “Well…?” I prompt.

  I finally get his attention, after he kicks the stub away, into the gutter.

  Litter bug.

  “C’mon… that kinda thing’s not gonna work on me, is it? I don't even notice you're a woman most of the time.”

  “Oh, really? Thanks a bunch, buster,” I grind out under my breath, unimpressed, yanking my arm out of his and storming off in a huff.

  I can't believe he just said that.

  He catches me up and links his arm back through mine. “For fuck's sake... don't sulk. You know what I mean... You're my best girl bud, my dance partner…” he offers sincerely.

  “I know we're pals and partners Mase, but I never, ever, forget you're a man,” I point out, reasonably.

  “Of course you don't, I mean… who would?” he replies, tongue in cheek.

  I thump him and then laugh, and so does he.

  It's all a big joke to Mason. He doesn't take much seriously. Apart from the crew and dance.

  Mason's a funny type of guy. In between being sarcastic and mean, he fits a lot of funniness in.

  The funny side of his nature is why I continue to share his flat with him after nine months of way too much togetherness. We really do spend far too much time together.

  Actually, I'm being unfair. Although he has fallen short in certain areas of his character development, he's a nice enough person at heart and not that bad to be around. He's honest and has his thoughtful moments. What's more, he's a great cook. For a guy he's unusually clean and tidy around the place as well. That's a very big plus, because I know a lot of guys aren't. All these things count, I suppose.

  The rent he charges me is pretty cheap too. Actually, that's the real reason I live with him, I remind myself. Yeah, that and his cooking. My stomach rumbles at the thought of food.

  “Anyway... what's for dinner tonight?” I ask hungrily, my mouth watering. I am constantly amazed at the variety of things he can dream up with pasta, tomatoes, cheese and another X, Y or Z ingredient.

  “I'm going out with Summer.”

  I frown. “I thought you'd been there, done that, so stupid she was annoying, or so you told me. And five dates was four too many or something sweet like that?”

  “Yeah, well, I thought I'd hang in there for a few more days. While there's no one else on the horizon. And yeah, she is kinda dumb, but she’s still hot. And she likes Chinese food, and going to the movies. So, she'll do, I suppose.”

  “She'll do, I suppose?” I repeat, in a mocking tone of voice. “Look, I may be totally out of order here, but her big tits, movies, and a quick Chinese aren't a great basis to continue a relationship, are they?”

  “It's good enough for me and far more than I usually base it on.”

  He has a valid point there, because prettiness, hair colour and chest size are usually all he bases it on. Other considerations such as personality and sense of humour seem to be irrelevant.

  But perhaps he's finally reached a turning point in his life, venturing out there, beyond his maximum five dates. This seems to be his magic number, and the point at which his interest is extinguished.

  It’s pretty amazing that’s he's going for a sexed up sixth with Summer.

  Mason's constant procession of so called 'girlfriend' material, typically all lookalike Barbie fuck-dolls, with big tits, is not only immature and superficial, but more than a little deviant to my mind. But then again, what do I know about the needs and desires of men? Not that much really. But I'd like to learn a little more.

  “You know something? I just don't get it.” I'm going to push my point.

  “What don't you get?”

  “Your Barbie fettish. It must get boring, surely? Do you even know who it is you’re with most of the time because they all look the same? Don't you think you should get yourself a real girlfriend? Someone you can relate to, and connect with. Not someone who you see purely as a sex doll? It doesn't have to be serious or long term, just someone you like to talk to and to be with.”

  He gives me a quick dirty look, out of the corner of his eye.

  “People are wired up differently. You know I'm not like you. You're just a hopeless romantic.”

  “Less of the hopeless, if you don't mind,” I snap.

  “On second thoughts, you're not just a hopeless romantic, you're plain hopeless. A hopelessly hopeless romantic.”

  He's such an annoying wit-mouth at times. Sharper than a razor. Not that he uses one of those very often.

  “Awwww, and I love you too, Mase. You really make me feel good about myself. Now I'm not only sexless, I'm doubly hopeless as well. Thanks a fucking lot!” Then I mutter, “ass-hole,” under my breath.

  “You're welcome, any time, Babycakes.”

  “Double ass-hole,” I slap his ass hard and laugh at him, an annoyed kind of laugh.

  But I lighten up as I look at his face.

  He has the cheekiest grin ever plastered on it.

  Sometimes I just love him, whatever he says. Insults, warts and all. In a best-girl-bud kind of way, of course.

  2

  We arrive outside our main door and he lets us in, and then he bounds up the stairs to the third floor, two at a time, like a rocket on speed. I chase after him knowing it's a pointless exercise and I've already lost the race. I arrive in the flat a little puffed and annoyed again.

  Shit. It's the old bathroom ritual again.

  Since the electric shower gave up the ghost last week, and based on the fact we can't afford to get it repaired, we've both been fighting over the first bath. Obviously no one wants second bath, do they? It's either bath one with leftover scum, or bath two with lukewarm water, if you're lucky. The tiny hot water tank takes about two hours to warm up again after it's been drained. God knows how old the boiler is. Probably pre world war two, based on the ancient clanking sounds it makes, when it summons the enthusiasm to fire itself up.

  In any case the two choices available to me on the bathing front don't float my yellow plastic duck.

  “Oh for God's sake.” I complain loudly, as he disappears in the bathroom with a Loaded magazine and clicks the lock shut.

  “I'll be real quick, pinkie promise,” comes the reply, and I hear the water start running into the tub. He's whistling a a little tune happily. The sound aggravates me. He's really getting at me today. It's probably post traumatic stress, after the nose butchering.

  Mason told me he hates baths. He's a shower boy through and through. But since our shower committed suicide, he seems to be spending a helluva long time soaking his ass for a bath hater. I've renamed him Bath Boy, temporarily.

  I'm not keen on them either. I wish I could dry wash, because I can't stand being wet. Unfortunately I don't like feeling grimy even more, so it's grin and bear it. A quick three minutes scrubbing up is all I can be bothered with, unless I'm washing my hair, and then it's a long an
d painful four. Baths are pure torture for me. All that soaking and swooshing hair under the water to rinse. I'm especially tortured by second hand or cool ones.

  I walk into the kitchen, open the fridge, and pour myself a large glass of tomato juice, slurping it down in a couple of quick glugs. I return the carton to the fridge. There's not much in the way of food in our fridge. It’s the day before shopping day and all the good stuff’s gone. I grab a handful of ham and eat that, plus the last Baby-Bel, mini Edam cheese. I grab a couple of dry crackers from the cupboard next to the fridge. I peel the red wax off the cheese and stand there, looking out of the window, consuming it quickly and crunching the dry crackers in between my cheesy bites. Finally, I open the medicine cupboard and swallow a neurofen painkiller with a glass of water. That’ll ease the ache in my face. It’s not too bad, but feels a little bit swollen. The ibuprofen will help with that.

  It's a lovely early August evening. We're having a heat wave at the moment. I can see the little girls next door jumping on the trampoline in their garden; their pony tails whipping up and down and their little white Maltese terrier running around yapping at them.

  Cute kids, cute dog... maybe... one day...

  Still hungry, I grab a carrot and munch that down as well. This is my dinner, I expect. I can't be bothered to cook for myself. Ever. I'm not a great cook.