Chapter 11 – Mason - Age 17
Chapter
Eleven
“Fuck!” King’s warm breath dusts over my skin. “You feel so good, Mase.” He sinks his teeth into my shoulder blade. “You’re my perfect little fuck toy, aren’t you?”
My entire body thrums with pleasure. “Yeah.”
“Yeah you are.” His lips dust over my ear. “I’m really gonna miss you, baby.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Gonna miss you too.”
He gives me a final kiss on the back of my neck before falling onto the seat beside and zipping up his fly.
I tug up my jeans and sit beside him, still riding the high of my climax. He lifts his arm, and I go to snuggle against him, our usual post-fucking-in-my-Jeep position, but before I can …
“What the fuck is going on?” The voice is so full of rage and disgust that I flinch. But my reaction is nothing compared to King’s. His face turns whiter than snow, and he scrambles to get away from me.
We purposely use this spot because nobody ever comes out here. So who’s discovered us? How? And why the hell does he sound so mad about it?
“Shit,” King mutters, and what happens next happens so fast my head spins.
King is pulled from the car by a very large balding man who appears to be foaming at the mouth.
“I knew you were up to something. You dirty little bastard. You sick little piece of shit.” He punches King in the side of the face, and my boyfriend falls to the ground.
“Hey!” Vibrating with fury, I jump out of the car and confront the mountain of rage standing over King. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He turns his angry scowl on me, his face only illuminated by the interior light of my car. “You perverted little shit. I should snap your fucking neck.”
Instead of doing that, he turns his attention back to King and hauls him up by the scruff of his neck, shaking him like a rag doll. “Explain yourself, boy!”
“We weren’t doing anything, sir,” King protests.
He shakes King harder. “I can fucking smell him on you, you filthy piece of shit. Do not lie to your father. Now try again.”
This is his dad? Holy shit. I take a cautious step toward them.
“I was just messing with him,” King says, and I stop in my tracks. “He fucking disgusts me too.”
I freeze now, my eyes darting between King and his father—Kyngston Worthington III. He releases his grip on his son who shrugs out of his hold.
“Tell him how we feel about dirty little perverts like him,” his father demands.
King’s face changes into someone I don’t recognize. His eyes fix on mine. “You disgust me,” he says, his tone dripping with venom. But that can’t be for me. It has to be for his father—the man making him do this.
“King?” I plead. “You don’t have to listen to him. Come home with me. We can—”
“You think I’d go anywhere with you? Didn’t you hear me when I told you that you fucking disgust me? Did you think any of this was real?”
I blink at him, confused, not to mention scared of his father and what he might be capable of.
“This was a joke to see exactly how far you’d go, so that I can tell everyone about what a pathetic, needy, sick little shit you really are. I hate you. You’re a fucking freak! You think any of this is real? I’m not gay. Never have been. Never will be.”
I stagger back a step. He doesn’t mean any of that, but it still causes a physical ache in my chest.
I can’t breathe.
His father sneers at me, then directs his attention back to his son. “Let’s go.”
King doesn’t look at me before he walks away, toward the dark SUV that we didn’t hear driving down the road. We were too wrapped up in each other to notice anyone else.
I watch them drive away, overwhelmed with anger and betrayal and fear. What the fuck just happened?
“What’s wrong, my sweet boy?” Mom’s soothing voice makes me want to cry, but I choke back a sob and stare at the TV, pretending to be engrossed in some stupid show about college kids.
“Nothing, Mom.”
She sits beside me and cups my face in her hands. “You have been crying, Mason. Now, please tell your mama what is wrong so I can fix it for you.”
I wish it were that easy. “It was just a guy, that’s all.”
“A guy what? What did he do?” Her voice goes up about seven octaves, and then she curses in Spanish.
I’m still trying to process what happened myself.
I’ve called King half a dozen times. Left voicemails.
Sent text messages. I haven’t heard anything from him in hours, and I’m starting to worry that something’s happened to him.
I can’t face telling my mom about any of it, so I downplay it all.
“It was nothing. I was kind of seeing some guy, and he broke it off.”
She makes a horrified face. “Broke it off? With my beautiful, kind, sweet boy?”
Usually I wince at her over-the-top compliments, but they’re more than welcome tonight. I nod.
Cue more Spanish cursing. “Do I need to take out a hit on anyone?” she asks quietly, crossing herself. “Or have his home infested with fire ants?” There’s a twinkle in her soft brown eyes, but I have no doubt she would do either of those things if I asked her to.
“No, Mom. It’s fine.”
“I remember my first broken heart.” She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “His name was Miguel Fernandez, and he broke up with me the day before Valentine’s. Bastardo!”
I smile in spite of how lousy I feel.
“How about some ice cream, huh? I hid a tub of mint chocolate chip beneath the vegetables.” She waggles her eyebrows at me.
I shake my head. “Nah, but thanks.”
“Aw.” She plants a kiss on my forehead. “This will not be your first broken heart, my sweet, sensitive boy.” Then she wraps me in a hug, enveloping me in the sweet scent of her flowery perfume.
“And any boy who does not appreciate the wonder that is you, mijo, does not deserve another moment of your time. And he is definitely not worth the salt of your tears.”
If only that were true, Mom.
I barely slept at all, and as soon as I wake up, I check my phone. No word from King, and now I’m really worried. If I don’t speak to him today, I might consider asking my dad if we should call the cops.
I call him for what must be the fiftieth time, and to my utter relief, he picks up. He speaks before I have a chance to. “Will you stop fucking calling me! Stop texting. Stop everything. I told you—”
“I don’t fucking believe you, King. We—”
“There is no we, asshole. It was fake. Every cringeworthy, painful second of it. I don’t even fucking like you. Now leave me the fuck alone. Go beg some other dirty little fuck to let you suck his cock.”
White-hot pain lances through my chest. He can’t mean any of this. His father must be there, making him say this stuff. “King, please, just—”
“Don’t call me again. Fucking freak!”
The line goes dead.
My heart breaks.
I don’t believe him. Can’t believe him. What King and I had means something, and I don’t care what he said, it must have been his father’s influence.
Only yesterday afternoon we were making plans for the future.
He leaves for school next week—Harvard, where Nathan and Drake are studying too.
And next year I’ll be there as well, and we can stop sneaking around so much.
Nathan and Drake are in an apartment off campus, and my mom and dad will let me do the same after my first year.
Then King and I could have all the privacy we want. And after college …
I shake my head, refusing to cry again. Everything couldn’t have changed in the space of a few hours.
It has to be his father making him say those things.
He doesn’t have the best relationship with his parents, and he’s terrified to come out to them, a fact that bewilders me when my own parents, and my brothers, have been nothing but supportive.
But having met his father last night, I can totally understand why.
Still, I’m not about to let his father ruin this for us.
I’m not scared of him. Kyngston Worthington might be a big-shot investment banker, but my dad and brothers would eat him for breakfast. Obviously, King doesn’t feel strong enough to stand up to him, and I’m not going to lie in bed all day and leave him to face this alone.
With that thought in mind, I grab the keys to my Jeep and head to King’s house. I’ve never visited him there before, but I know where it is. When we first started dating, I drove past the place. The imposing mansion on the outskirts of the city looks about as inviting as a root canal.
The wrought iron gates are open when I pull up, and my tires crunch over the gravel driveway. This place is creepy as hell, and I have no idea what I’m walking into. But I glance around and note King’s blue Audi, the same car where we shared our first kiss, and it reminds me why I’m here.
I climb the few stone stairs leading to the door, my legs shaking with each step, and ring the doorbell. A lady with gray hair wearing a pale gray dress and cardigan opens it and inquires who I am.
I roll back my shoulders. “I’m here to see King.”
“One moment, please,” she says. Then she closes the door and disappears.
I shuffle my feet, absentmindedly kicking at the stone wall beside me. I almost pass out when a stone comes loose, but before I can put it back, the door opens again.
“You!” Kyngston Worthington III booms.
I glare at him. He doesn’t intimidate me—not much anyway. “I want to speak to King.”
He glares at me.
“Please, sir.”
His eyes narrow, and right as I’m sure he’s going to tell me to leave, he opens the door wider and invites me in.
Hesitantly, I follow him inside. The air is thick with the overpowering scent of disinfectant, but what’s most stark is the lack of any noise.
I’ve grown up with four brothers, and even when nobody else is home, it seems our house is never silent. This place is like a mausoleum.
“This way,” Kyngston orders, and I follow obediently, my anxiety spiking with each step I take.
“Where is King?” I ask, hating the slight tremor in my voice.