Chapter 22 Needy
Mason is dead quiet all the way back to the house. I try to point out the nature views as we roll down the hill, but he just tightens his grip on the steering wheel and goes faster and faster, whizzing past anything worth seeing to the point my stomach lurches uncomfortably.
He’s clearly upset, but I don’t know why. Did he really expect me to keep messing around with him even when we knew Oliver was waiting? Didn’t we agree to keep this thing between us on the down low, off Oliver’s radar?
Mason drops me off at a local grocery store like we agreed, still without a word. When I arrive at Oliver’s house, I drop my newly bought candy on the kitchen counter and head straight toward the upstairs bathroom.
“Lane?” Oliver calls from his room, and he appears in the hallway. “What took you so long?”
I can’t tell him the truth—I never can whenever Mason’s involved. “I got lost.”
“Oh. Didn’t you use Google Maps?”
I shrug, avoiding his gaze. I need to get better at lying if I don’t want this all to blow up in my face before summer’s over.
I need to get better at lying. Who says that? It just proves I’m in way over my head.
“How did the college stuff go?” I mutter, feeling more than a little salty.
He shrugs. “Mom wanted to know where I’m gonna live once I get to Boston. I found a place to rent off some random website, but it seems legit.”
“Oh. Good.” Nope. Bad. Why can’t he just cancel the whole thing? I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want to be left alone, but it seems like it’s going to happen regardless.
Besides, his college stuff is encroaching on our summer fun.
Before the phone call, we were supposed to do a fun raid I’ve been looking forward to for weeks, but when his mom called, Oliver dropped everything and talked to her for what felt like an hour, barely acknowledging me and pushing us way past the agreed-on time for the raid.
He didn’t just let me down; he let our online gaming friends down, too.
That’s why I went to Mason. I felt lonely. I felt disregarded. I suppose it’s good I went with him, so I got the STI test.
Oh, right, about that: I didn’t have time to process it much when he told me about his little fuckup. My gut reaction was to dismiss it and focus on how good it felt to have him take me without a barrier between us, but now that I think deeper on the issue, it doesn’t seem that simple anymore.
By fucking me without a condom, Mason could’ve passed on any number of infections without knowing. By rights, he should have gotten tested before we even started messing around, given his prison, um, habits. Is that too much to ask? I don’t think so.
Maybe I was in the wrong to ask him to take the condom off, but I didn’t know. He knew, though, and he did it anyway. At least he seemed sorry about it. That’s something.
The thoughts keep churning in my head as I take a much-needed shower, and for once, I’m not even close to getting a boner as I soap myself up.
Hooking up with Mason was fun at the start—illicit and forbidden in a way that was thrilling—but now it’s turning anxiety-inducing and annoying rather than fun.
Sometimes, I wish Oliver would just find out about us, so I could at least know how he’d react. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad… but then again, maybe he would hate me. I’m too much of a coward to risk it.
Mason keeps to the garage for the rest of the day.
That evening, Tess comes over with pizza that they eat in his room.
When I run into Mason in the hallway, he doesn’t even acknowledge me—not with a sultry glance, not with a sneaky kiss, not even by pushing me up against the wall and sucking a hickey onto my skin.
He just walks past me, his bulky shoulder brushing my skinny one.
Is this it? Is he done with me now? Did I really piss him off so much by refusing to fuck him in the car while we knew Oliver was looking for me?
If that’s why he’s pissed, he’s more of a territorial prick than I thought.
Maybe I should’ve listened to Oliver when he listed all of his brother’s red flags. Maybe I should’ve refused him.
I could’ve just kept on trying to jerk off in the shower; I would’ve succeeded eventually.
But no—instead, I ignored the sane part of my brain and slept with the one person I never should’ve slept with.
Now Oliver is more focused on the logistics of leaving me than hanging out with me.
Maybe he’s noticed how distant I’ve been and not as engaged in our conversations as I used to be.
I can’t blame him for distancing himself.
It’s what I deserve for being such a bad friend.
On top of that, it now seems like Mason isn’t even interested in sleeping with me anymore.
I’m all alone.
My eyes burn with unshed tears at the thought. I can’t be all alone.
That night, after Oliver is done with his college stuff, I lie awake in bed for a long time. Making sure Oliver is fast asleep, I trail my hand down to the hickeys and bite marks on my neck and throat and sigh as my dick responds to the dull, throbbing pain.
I need more. I need… I need someone to mark me all over. Mark me as theirs. And fuck… If I’m honest with myself, I don’t want just anyone to do it; I want him.
I could go to his room, I guess, but what if he refuses me? What if he’s locked the door or sends me away? I wouldn’t be able to handle a rejection like that.
It’s better to pretend I’m mad at him too—which I am, in a way. It’s better to refuse him than to be refused.
Besides, he’s predictable; he just wants to make me sweat a bit. Tomorrow, he’ll lean into my ear at breakfast and whisper, “Missed you last night, puppy,” and we’ll go back to the way we were… right?
A shudder runs down my spine at the thought and settles predictably between my legs. I palm myself there, letting out a quiet whimper of disappointment.
Fuck, I’m so fucking gone.
The next day, I’m in the kitchen trying to choose between cereal and toast for breakfast. Oliver is chowing down on his chocolate-flavored cereal, and he’s guzzling an energy drink to go with it.
“All that sugar’s gonna rot the teeth out of your head, little brother,” Mason says, walking into the kitchen all sweaty from a rigorous workout. As far as I can tell, he’s doing two sessions a day lately—one in the morning and one in the afternoon, along with laps in the pool.
It shows. He’s looking bulky and ripped as hell. His biceps flex as he yanks open the fridge and drinks milk directly from the jug.
“Oh, come on,” Oliver groans. “Haven’t I told you not to do that?”
“Do what?” Mason asks, unaffected, as he wipes his dripping mouth with the back of his hand.
A few drops of milk linger on his chin. I want to go right up to him and lick them off.
Even though he’s a passive-aggressive prick.
Even though he’s ignoring me. Maybe because he’s ignoring me.
What the fuck does he even want from me?
Does he want me to renounce my friendship with Oliver just to be with him?
What Mason and I have isn’t even like that. Serious, I mean. It’s started to feel a lot more serious in the last few days, though.
Ever since we started kissing, we’ve been different. Ever since he started exploring my mouth with as much enthusiasm as he explores the rest of my body. Ever since he started to moan into our kisses and whisper things like “Why does this feel so good?”
Ever since he said my name, and I asked him to call me puppy instead. Why did I do that?
I linger by the kitchen table while Mason makes a protein shake. He crams the mixer full of frozen berries, peanut butter, milk, and two big scoops of protein powder.
“I said,” Oliver says, louder this time. “Stop drinking milk directly from the jug, you heathen. It’s disgusting. You’re not the only one who lives here, you know.”
Just then, Mason hits the “on” button, and the mixer whirs to life, the sound loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood.
“What?” Mason calls over the sound. “Can’t hear you.”
“Oh, fuck you!” Oliver shouts, and he flings his spoon at Mason. It hits the back of his neck and bounces off the floor.
Mason flips the mixer off and turns around slowly. His expression is scarily calm, but a storm is brewing in those slate-gray eyes.
Oliver keeps scowling, though his lower lip trembles a bit, and his shoulders tense, like he’s ready to either fight or run away.
“I thought Logan taught you to pick your fights,” Mason says, voice laced with an undercurrent of anger.
Oliver’s scowl deepens. “You have no idea what he taught me.”
“No? But I know one thing: none of it mattered in the end, did it? He still left you.”
“He left you too!” Oliver yells. “He left all of us! Stop acting like you don’t care.”
They scowl at each other with burning eyes, and I feel utterly helpless and redundant, as if neither of them is even aware of my presence.
I gulp, not sure how to de-escalate the situation, but knowing I have to try. “Uh, guys…”
Oliver snaps his gaze to me. “Let’s go to my room, Lane.”
Mason turns around, body language stiff and furious as he flips the mixer back on.
When I moved into Oliver’s house for the summer, I didn’t sign up to be tempted by his scary older brother, and I certainly didn’t sign up to be the third wheel in a family drama that I still don’t understand.
When I follow Oliver upstairs, all I can think about is how Mason might be done with me.
That I might have to live here for the rest of the summer with this unspoken tension between us.
Or worse: what if he finds some other young guy to take to his room and take apart, like he’s taken me apart?
What if he bruises them like he’s bruised me?
The thought hits me with a sudden, painful intensity, knocking the breath from my lungs.