Chapter Nine Cam
Chapter Nine
Cam
Mom and Dad are at work, thank Christ, because I can’t fathom how they’d react to me bringing home a Disney prince like Mason.
I get the “can’t resist a cute face” flaw from both of those losers, and Mason has one of the most aesthetically pleasing faces I’ve ever seen.
Every time I look at that twerp, despite the emotional trauma he’s given me, I’m still hopelessly mesmerized.
The studying itself is fine. I guess. I’m pretty distracted, and Mason notices, constantly asking me what I’m thinking about and redirecting me to the subject I’m working on.
Now that I know how effective a tutor Mason is, and how grounding his presence is, I’m certain my grades are going to steadily improve.
I’m getting closer to being on the field, showing off my skills to the scout who’s been following Darius.
It should be elating. So why does my skin itch, and why is my stomach sinking?
It’s a pretty uninteresting session, until Mason receives a call that causes the table to vibrate.
For a while, he lets it ring face down, staring at it blankly before flipping it over and revealing the name “Dad.” He exhales, then slips out of the booth to take it.
As he’s walking away, the bones in his back tightening, the sound of yelling echoes through his receiver.
“I’m busy,” he mutters. “Why is she shouting? Tell her I— What’s that noise?” He pauses, still as stone. “Put her on the phone.” Another beat. “Mom? Hey. Uh. No, what you’re feeling is valid, I’m sure, but—I’m out. It’s important, so…stop talking for a moment.”
Mason wanders farther from the table, but the establishment is small and there’s someone in the bathroom, so he can’t retreat out of earshot.
“Put it down and stop yelling. Honestly, it’s embarrassing…” His shoulders slump and his voice quiets. Then, angrily, “Go for a walk or something. Just get away from Dad. I’m busy.”
He slams his phone into his pocket, then storms to the booth and slides in, snatching his pen. He starts jotting notes down with heightened vigor.
“I’ll come over after this,” he says, his voice strained. “To work out.”
“Okey dokey,” I say, smooth, casual, and natural. I’m not going to ask about it, even if I’m curious. I don’t want him prying into my life, so I won’t pry into his.
Cam Morelli doesn’t worry about other people’s problems.
I shouldn’t have offered him access to my workout resources. What was I thinking? Being around him makes it difficult to remember the kind of person I’m supposed to be, and I have no idea why.
I can’t exactly retract the offer because I’m not a complete asshole, so we end up at my place.
I draw him toward my bedroom and fumble for workout clothes that won’t slip off his figure, then toss them over.
He’s been staring unblinkingly at my poster of Beau Rainey and seems surprised when the clothes land in his arms. “Oh, we’re actually doing this,” he says, looking at the outfit with dismay.
“How can I give you a plan if we don’t know what works for you?
” I ask skeptically, shedding my pants and shirt to pull the looser clothes over me.
Mason’s face burns pink, and he charges to the bathroom to change.
I’m not sure why he’s flustered, since he’s seen everyone’s bodies in the locker room.
When he returns, he’s wearing my shabby old workout clothes.
The shirt hangs low enough to expose his collarbone, and he’s had to tie the shorts as tight around his narrow waist as they allow.
“So, exercise,” I say as we descend into the basement, and I awkwardly do a twirl with my arms extended because Mason Gray is in my house, wearing my clothes.
Mason looks between everything, intrigued. The elliptical, treadmill, weights, chest press machine, exercise bike, yoga mats, and so on. “You have a whole gym,” he says with amusement.
“I wanted to get bigger after I moved, so I put years of allowance money toward equipment. My parents chipped in, and I’ve built my own little exercise haven over the past few years.
” I turn the TV on, filling the basement with casual lo-fi.
“What are you hoping to get out of working out? Fitness? Stress reduction? Bulking up? Improving—”
“Bulking up,” Mason says, desperately enough that my brow pops. “I want…If I had a body like yours, maybe I wouldn’t be so…”
He doesn’t complete his thought, and I decide not to press. “It’s important to warm your body before exercising,” I say, guiding him to a yoga mat opposite me. “We’ll start with basic stretches. Sound good?”
Mason nods, though he’s fumbling with his fingers and his eyes dart around the basement like he’s mapping out escape routes.
“Squats.” I clasp my hands and lower myself, then rise and gesture for him to try.
He mimics my position, pointing his toes forward and holding his hands out flat, face down.
His palms are shaky. Instinctively, I wonder if it’s because he hasn’t eaten before remembering that we just stuffed our faces a couple of hours ago. Why is he so anxious?
Mason doesn’t descend nearly as far as he should for a proper squat. “Ow,” he remarks.
“Spread your legs wider and try again.”
Mason’s lip flinches into a smirk. He spreads his knees apart, and though he sinks lower, his face strains again when he comes back up. “What’s next?” he prods.
He wants to move on after one and a half squats? I decide to swallow my laughter. “Message received,” I say, and I thread my fingers, then rise to my tiptoes and reach for the ceiling. “Stretch like this. As high as you can go.”
I catch that he spies the hint of skin showing beneath my shirt.
He mirrors me as requested, the T-shirt sleeves bunching at his shoulders, exposing his pale upper arms. Despite how tightly they’re tied, the shorts he borrowed have already slid down his waist and are resting on the flare of his hips.
“Touch your toes,” I instruct, bending over and grazing my tennis shoes. He attempts to do the same, though his hands barely dangle past his knees. “Lower.”
Mason gives an irritated sigh that further amuses me. Like, he asked to do this, didn’t he? We’ve only been at it for forty seconds and he’s already whining. “Can’t,” he snaps.
“Move your legs farther apart and try again,” I instruct.
Mason gives me a skeptical glare. “I’m starting to think the only reason you let me come over was so you could ask me to spread my legs for you.”
At that point I’m sipping on one of the water bottles I brought downstairs, and I hack violently on it.
As I try to sputter out a response to defend myself, Mason widens his stance as ordered and forces his fingers lower so they’re nearly touching the ground.
I think I catch the faintest glimpse of another smirk.
Is he teasing me?
“Lower,” I snip, and I reach over, pressing my hands flat to his back and pushing down. He squeaks with pain and immediately swipes my hands away.
“Are you trying to kill me?” he demands, slinging himself upright to stare daggers.
I huff at him with displeasure. “The more flexible you are,” I say, rolling my hand dramatically, “the wider you’ll be able to spread your legs for me. Since apparently that’s why you think I invited you here.”
“Is it not?” he asks with a weak, uncertain smile. Something about the defeated way he says it bothers me. Is he seriously anticipating that I’m going to invite him to bed after our workout? Is that why he’s been so apprehensive?
“Why would you think that?” I grumble. “I hardly know you.”
Mason stares at me long and hard for several seconds, his expression unreadable. “Did you not just ask me out last week because you’re attracted to me?” he asks coolly.
“I said I like your face because it’s symmetrical,” I squeak out. “That doesn’t mean I want to fuck you.”
Mason cocks his head with curiosity. “You don’t?”
“Why would I?” I demand, taking an uneasy step back. The intensity in his stare is unnerving, like he’s trying to dissect me. “Like I said, I barely know you.”
“I thought you were trying to sleep your way across the entire graduating class.”
“Well, that’s a lie.”
“Then why,” he says softly, “are you doing this for me?”
I stare at him blankly. He returns it with heightened concentration that makes me want to crumble away.
“You tested a burger place’s vegan options to make sure they would taste good for me,” he says slowly.
Maybe he feels guilty about cornering me, because he stretches for the ground again.
“You specifically chose a studying place with food so you wouldn’t worry about if I was hungry.
Now you’re offering to make me a personal workout routine.
If it’s not because you want me to spread my legs for you, then why? ”
Mason rises, then decides to reach for the ceiling, now deliberately avoiding my eyes.
“If it’s not for anything in return,” he says, quieter, “then that means Cameron Morelli must be different than who I thought he was.”
By the time he finishes, I feel like all of my intestines have been brutally squeezed between tight fists.
My breath is coming in short, panicked spurts.
What is he talking about? The things I’m doing…
Aren’t they things normal people would do?
Cam Morelli is well-liked, meticulously crafted to resemble the most popular people in my previous school.
Confident, boisterous, fun-loving, flirty.
He looks out for himself, but that doesn’t mean he’s a dick to everyone around him.
He has friends because he’s a decent, loyal guy.
Isn’t it normal for Cam Morelli to help someone with their workout routine? To bring them to a burger place to indulge in some greasy slop?
How is this out of character?