Chapter Fourteen Cam
Chapter Fourteen
Cam
Mason was drunk when he said it, so I won’t let his words carry too much weight.
My back is getting sore from sitting upright on the middle of the bed, supporting us both.
He’s leaned fully against me, arms linked around my neck, his knees curled in around my hips.
His breathing is slow, gentle, and warm against the crook of my neck.
I know he’s asleep, but I can’t stop my fingers from wandering across the smooth plain of his back, trying to press warmth into every fragment of his frigid skin.
I’ve never seen Mason cry before. Or show any emotion that intense. I wish sadness wasn’t the first one I got to see at full force.
Slowly, I lower myself until I’m sprawled on my back, Mason lying completely on top of me. His head rises and falls gently with my every breath, the strands of his obsidian-black hair fluttering with my exhales.
I probably shouldn’t, but I can’t help it.
I smooth my hand slowly through his locks.
They’re as soft as I’ve imagined. Thick.
Shiny. The perfect length and texture to twirl one’s fingers through.
My stubbed nails graze his scalp, and I can feel little bumps rise along the back of his neck, where my pinkie is lingering.
I hate that I like this feeling. His reaction to my touch. When I brush my fingers down his nape, he makes a quiet, pleasant noise against my shoulder, which warms my face.
I should stop treating him like he’s my boyfriend and not just a tutor who shot me down.
Then I notice his hand curled up into a light fist against my chest, soft knuckles pressed to my skin.
Again, I know better than to fiddle around with him like he’s some kind of doll, but my curiosity outweighs my reasoning.
I smooth my hand over his, unfurling his fingers until they’re spread out. I press our palms together.
His is smaller.
There’s a warm tingling that stirs in my stomach, which puzzles me.
I knew this. Mason is several inches shorter than me and nowhere near as padded with weight and muscle.
It’s no surprise that my hands are bigger.
But seeing them side by side is giving me this unrecognizable rush of emotion that feels almost carnal.
Suddenly, I want to hide him. I want to wrap myself around him and make sure nobody looks at him the wrong way again.
The sensation is cringe-inducing. Really? One week, and that’s all it takes for me to suddenly care about some snarky water boy who verbally kicked my ass when I tried to ask him out? The hell is wrong with me?
I draw his sheets and comforter around us, remaining on my back, allowing him to lie sprawled over me because he looks cozy and I know he’s had a long night.
I like this side of you, Cameron Morelli.
I give him the kiss he was waiting for, pressing it lightly to the top of his head before I fall asleep as well, my arm around his waist and my hand in his hair.
—
When I open my eyes, there’s a gaping emptiness beside me, the sheets rumpled and the pillow cold. A halo of light leaks in around Mason’s bedroom shades, telling me it’s probably well into the morning.
I crawl out of his bed and stuff my shirt from yesterday over my head, then hike my frigid, damp pants over my waist and creak the bedroom door open. Down the hall, I see Mason at the kitchen table, head bowed over a plate of buttered toast.
There’s someone with him. The man I spotted smoking a cigarette on his porch, with hooded eyes and sallow skin, his dark hair hanging like a curtain over his forehead. He’s reading a real, actual newspaper, like he’s from the 1800s.
The air is stiff. I can feel it from all the way over here. Maybe I should interrupt it, but Mason suddenly mumbles, “You said you wouldn’t let him in.”
The man’s jaded gaze flicks up to Mason. Then down to his paper. “You know how your mother gets,” he says monotonously. “I can’t do much when she’s made up her mind. And she’s not wrong. That boy can provide for you.”
“You hate him.”
“But he can get you out of this house,” Mr. Gray says flatly. “He’ll provide for you. He’ll stay by your side. He’ll make sure you’re always fed and warm and comfortable. He’ll give you anything you need. Right?”
I wonder who they’re talking about. Is this the same person who gifted Mason that necklace? Who he threatened to contact if I didn’t stay? Regardless, I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, so I shimmy into the kitchen.
Mason’s head pops up when he hears me, and I swear his eyes actually brighten.
“Toast,” I say, nodding to his plate. “Good work.”
He smirks at my attempt to compliment his sustenance. “Dad, this is Cameron,” he says, gesturing at me. “He’s the guy I’m tutoring.”
Mr. Gray peers over his glasses to examine me. Before I can extend a hand in greeting, he grunts an acknowledgment and returns to reading. He looks like he’s half-conscious.
Mason rolls his eyes—maybe this is typical behavior—then points at his fridge. “Take what you want for breakfast. I made extra coffee in case you’re tempted.”
“You’ll never make me a coffee drinker,” I warn, wandering farther into the kitchen to take stock of his items. His fridge is painfully empty compared to the leftovers and unnecessary impulse purchases that stuff mine.
“Your first time was rough because you torched your mouth,” he explains. “Maybe you should change flavors from sweet to nutty.”
“The taste of nuts is the last thing I want in my mouth in the morning.”
Mason laughs so suddenly that he nearly forgets to cover his face. His father seems momentarily distracted by this, looking over at Mason with bewilderment, like he’s never heard his son laugh before. The man peeks over at me, I guess to get a better look.
I opt for a freezer-burned bagel and watery cream cheese. No wonder Mason rarely makes food for himself.
He’s wearing the aquamarine necklace. I notice a pair of snipe nose pliers on the kitchen table and the broken clasp beside it.
He must’ve taken one from another necklace or something.
I wonder how early he left my arms this morning to fix it.
There’s a tremor in his hands, and his skin is pasty, the circles under his eyes more violet than usual.
Lingering signs of a hangover, probably.
“Where are we studying today?” Mason asks as I stand in the corner of the kitchen, mowing down my bagel, out of reach from their strange energy.
“What about your gallery?” I ask. “Do they have anywhere we could sit?”
Mason’s eyes widen, and suddenly, he’s radiating so much sunshine that it singes my corneas. “You want to go?” he asks enthusiastically, looking ready to vibrate out of his seat. “Really? Actually?”
I can’t help but smirk at such genuine delight. “Why not?” I say, shrugging. After last night, I’m not sure that recommending some ridiculous sporty place more befitting of Cam Morelli’s personality is going to fool him.
Down the hall, a bedroom door opens. Mason’s expression immediately deflates, then twists with irritation. “Let’s go,” he says, shooting to his feet.
“You haven’t finished your toast—”
“I’ll eat it on the way.” He strides to the door in such rapid earnestness, it’s clear he doesn’t want to see his mother. Which is so wild to me as a certified mommy lover. He hikes his backpack up and gestures at me, his plate of toast in hand. “Let’s go.”
I don’t think now’s the time to question him. So I merely head after him and say, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gray.”
His father eyes me again. His lips part like he’s about to say something.
Mason pulls me from the house before he gets a chance.
—
“I’ve never seen our son so eager to study,” Dad says when I rush down the hall to scoop my backpack up. My parents are being aggressively average by watching separate shows on their respective laptops with their headphones on.
“How was the party, bun?” Mom asks. I pause on my way out to stoop over and let her kiss my cheek. I repeat this with Dad, because I guess I shouldn’t show favoritism. “Has that water boy fallen for your charms and sensational personality yet?”
I can’t help but grin at her insistence on calling Mason “that water boy” as her personal way of holding a grudge. “I’m sure he regrets rejecting me,” I say with a dismissive flutter of my hand. “I’m a standout guy.”
“Mm,” Dad says, fitting his headphones over his ears. “Better start moving if you don’t want to warm the bench with your ass again for the next game.”
And he wonders why I prefer to hang out with his wife. “Have fun with whatever this is,” I say, gesturing to their figures on the love seat, and then I’m rejoining Mason in my car.
“Were your parents upset that you didn’t come home last night?
” he asks, tucked up in a familiar ball formation.
I try not to think about the way his hair felt under my palm, or how cool his skin was under my fingers.
How his hand looked pressed to mine. The way I wanted to wrap them both fully in my own.
“Extremely.” I give a solemn, wistful sigh. “They were waiting at the door so they could disown me. So you’re indebted to me for the rest of your life.”
Mason nods, expression surprisingly neutral. “And what does Your Majesty require of this humble, filthy peasant?”
The fact that he’s letting me come up with something without needing proof makes me feel like a dick. “I’ll just pardon you,” I tell him. “Because I’m nice.”
Suddenly, he leans over the middle compartment and presses his lips to my cheekbone. “That should suffice, yes?” he asks. “My liege?”
Oh. I think I’m royally fucked when it comes to Mason Gray. I’m not even mad that he’s clearly mocking me, because his tiny grin makes my heart flutter. Why am I suddenly so whipped for this annoying-ass water boy?