Chapter 25 Better Lies
My knees throb with pain as I get up from the hard tile floor and wipe my mouth on the back of my shirt, just in time for Oliver to come down the stairs.
Fuck, that was close. What the hell was I thinking?
Mason has a knack for making me cross my boundaries, but that was way too dangerous. It’s a miracle Oliver doesn’t seem to suspect us yet, or if he does, he at least hasn’t shown it.
When I got on my hands and knees and crawled across the kitchen floor, all I wanted was to feel needed.
To be close to someone when it felt like my world was closing in on me.
Only a few weeks remain of a summer that once seemed endless, and Oliver’s increasing phone calls with his mom make me painfully aware that soon, he’ll be out of my life—or at least out of town.
Soon, he’ll start packing. He’s already sorting the stuff he’s going to bring with him and the stuff he’s going to leave into piles.
I’m part of the pile he’s going to leave. I’m right there, and he’s turning his back on me. It’s life, I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear. I don’t want him to leave. Fuck, I don’t want to be alone.
Oliver makes me feel like something to be discarded, while Mason makes me feel like I’m wanted.
Like I’m needed. At least in terms of my body.
I want more than that, though—something I can’t even put a name to.
Something that won’t make me feel so empty when I’m not in his bed.
Something that won’t leave me feeling hollow.
Sore, sure. Wrecked, absolutely. Bruised, hell yeah. All of that and more.
And yet, I can’t help but think I’m giving him all of me, but he’s not giving me all of him. He’s giving me parts of his body, but none of his real thoughts. Who is he beyond that cocky, dominant facade? I’ve seen glimpses of it, but not nearly enough.
Maybe I’ve been wrong in never asking him about his life. Maybe I’ve made him think I don’t want to get to know him. I do—I just don’t know how to make him understand that. I don’t know how to connect with him other than through sex.
Then there’s the matter of his jealousy.
I thought he’d gotten over it when I started wearing his collar, but apparently not.
He got jealous simply because I asked Oliver to touch up my roots and not him.
That’s his neediness showing through, and to be honest, I don’t mind it.
In fact, it gives me hope I’m more to him than just a convenient place to dump his cum.
At the same time, I worry Oliver will see through my avoidant glances and realize what’s really going on—the promise I’ve broken and the lies I tell to keep me afloat.
I’m risking a lot by being with Mason, but it doesn’t seem like he’s risking anything in return.
I want to know him, but so far, he’s shown no signs that he wants to know me.
He just wants to fuck me. He just wants to…
to own me. Control me. What I wear, who I see.
And if that isn’t a red flag, I don’t know what is.
He’s got me wrapped around his little finger, and I just keep begging for more.
What would happen if I hinted at wanting more than sex? He might ignore me and shut me up with a kiss—put me on my hands and knees and make it so good I forget what I was even talking about. He’s good at that.
Or, God forbid, he might shut me down. He might start ignoring me again, like he did after that day with the ice cream. I can’t handle that.
Maybe all I can do is pretend nothing’s wrong and just keep this thing between us going for as long as it can, because it still feels good most of the time.
The last thing I want is to act too clingy, to scare him away.
Maybe I should just be happy I at least have him in some ways, even if he owns far more of me than I own of him.
I touch his skin, but he touches my insides, and it all boils down to one dangerous realization—one that makes tears burn behind my eyes.
He’s not risking anything by being with me, but I’m risking my heart.
During the following week, a heatwave engulfs Portland and the rest of Oregon. Of course, the AC picked this as an excellent time to break.
Oliver called a technician a few days ago, but they’re booked up until tomorrow, so in the meantime, Oliver and I have taken to sleeping out on the patio in the sun loungers at night, while Mason seeks refuge in the garage.
In the daytime, Oliver and I take at least three dips in the pool to cool ourselves. Pool time means undressing time, and I can’t very well expose the collage of bruises and bite marks covering most of my torso.
Luckily, I’m sensitive to the sun, and a tan doesn’t pair well with my aesthetic anyway, so when I insist on keeping an oversized black T-shirt on, Oliver doesn’t question it.
Most of the time, everything is normal between us. When we play in the water, splashing each other and screaming with glee, I forget I’m a horrible friend, and I forget Oliver’s a few weeks away from leaving me.
“You getting hungry?” he asks randomly as we float around in the pool.
“Sure,” I say. “Why?”
“I saw this recipe the other day. Thought I’d make it for dinner.”
I nod in encouragement. Oliver’s been cooking more and more meals from scratch lately. He still loves junk food and candy, just like me, but I suppose he’s gotten bored with microwave-ready meals and chocolate cereal. Either that, or he feels an obligation to cook for us.
“You can stay in if you want,” Oliver says as he heaves himself up by the ladder. “I’ll call when it’s ready.”
I nod in relief. It’s so nice to get a reprieve from the heat for once, and the water lapping at the edges of the pool is calming, almost meditative.
I swim a few laps, trying to relax and stop thinking about the two sources of worry in my life. Well, the two strongest ones, anyway: Oliver leaving for college in a few weeks, and Mason.
Just… Mason.
Lately, he’s become a point of worry rather than a source of fun, mostly because of the warm feelings swirling inside me and the scarce evidence that he feels anything like that about me in return.
I’m just someone he can entertain himself with while his other options are limited thanks to his parole, and while I didn’t mind that at first and used him the same way he used me, I don’t know…
Something has changed, and I can no longer look past the fact that my chest tightens whenever I think about him.
I’ve never felt like this before. Haven’t had feelings for someone who doesn’t have feelings for me.
With my ex, Micah, it was the opposite: he did everything I asked, and he was a kind and generous lover, but what I wanted was for someone to give me orders and fuck me so hard I scream, and Mason gives me that.
I got what I wanted, but somehow it’s not enough, and I’m left feeling vulnerable and small, alone in the dark with no one to hold my hand.
Maybe those feelings will go away if I try hard enough.
If I keep giving myself to him—all of me, like he expects—will my heart get used to it and no longer protest?
My eyes are burning, and the choker around my neck feels constricting as I keep swimming lap after lap.
I’m fine—it’s just the chlorine. I’m not about to cry… I’m not…
“Hey, puppy.”
My lips part in shock, and I swallow a mouthful of water that sends me into a coughing fit. I turn around to see Mason chuckling by the poolside.
“Easy there, puppy. Don’t want you to drown yourself. Need some help?” He lifts his shirt over his head, but before he reveals his sculpted body, I look away and keep swimming.
“No.”
“No?” The splashing at the deep end tells me he’s not listening. He’s going to get in.
Oliver’s in the kitchen, and while the line of sight from the kitchen to the pool isn’t exactly clear, if he steps into the living room and looks through the windows, he’ll see us.
I swim toward the shallow end, but when I turn my head, Mason is coming after me like a shark in the water.
“Here,” he says. “Let me help you.”
I gasp as he swims into me, way too close. “I don’t need your help.”
He grabs my hips, steadying me and holding me afloat. “No?”
My treacherous body responds to his touch, and I try to squirm away, but he holds me fast.
“Oliver’s in the kitchen,” I hiss, wanting to sink through the pool and into the ground. I could get out, I guess, but I want to stay in the water; I want to stay cool. But staying cool is pretty much impossible whenever Mason’s in the picture.
“I know,” he says, leaning close. “But you’re here. And I wanted to see how my puppy’s doing.”
My puppy.
Like I’m some kind of pet. Is that what I am to him?
“I’m not yours,” I want to tell him. “Just because I’m wearing your collar, it doesn’t mean you can call me yours. You don’t treat me like I’m yours. Just because you want to fuck me doesn’t mean you really care about me. It doesn’t mean you want all of me.”
And if he doesn’t want all of me… does he really deserve to have any of me?
He spins me around in the water, bumping our bodies together. I glare at him, but he just smirks and pushes my wet bangs out of my face.
Despite my conflicted feelings, there’s one thing that stays true: whenever his hands are on me, I get into the same headspace as when I’m in his bedroom, kneeling between his thighs.
Everything feels floaty and uncomplicated, like I don’t have to do anything except obey him.
I can’t get into that headspace here, though; it’s not safe.
I fight all I can, both in my head and by squirming out of his grip, but when he grabs me by the back of my neck and pulls my body flush to his, all the fight goes out of me.
His mouth is soft as it slots over mine. Our kiss turns wet and hot in no time, his hands running up and down my lower back under the water.