Chapter 16 – Mason
Chapter
Sixteen
MASON
Icheck my appearance in Jack’s bathroom mirror, running a tongue over my teeth and making sure there’s no stray greens from our early dinner date. His bathroom is tidy and elegant, with expensive grooming products neatly displayed on a shelf.
I like a guy who takes good care of himself, and Jack Donnelly definitely falls into that category.
He’s a regular at my gym, and we’ve been eyeing each other for weeks.
Last night, he finally asked me out, and as luck would have it, neither of us had plans for this evening.
The guy is built. He has muscles on his muscles and tattoos covering most of his chest and arms, not to mention a killer smile.
He’s funny too. Also terminally single. In short, he’s exactly my type.
So why aren’t I fucking ecstatic about what’s about to happen?
Inviting me to his apartment for a drink is code for fucking, and we both date enough to know it.
Yet, I’m … I’m not exactly nervous, but I’m not thrilled either.
And I should be. This is what I do. I hook up with super attractive guys for meaningless but fulfilling sex.
If things go well, we might date for a few weeks, and then we’ll move on.
I wash my hands and give myself a pep talk. This has nothing to do with King Blackthorn walking back into my life. And absolutely fuck all to do with the memories seeing him has dredged up. Get it the fuck together, Mase.
Pep talk administered, I head back into the open-plan living space. It’s a nice apartment. Clean, orderly, tastefully furnished.
Jack has fixed us drinks, and my Scotch and his vodka sit side by side on the coffee table in the center of the room, but from the look in his eyes as he prowls toward me, I’m not certain we’ll be drinking them any time soon.
He comes to a stop in front of me, and we act on instinct, our mouths crashing together and hands roaming wildly.
He pulls back, breathless. “I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to be fucked by you from the second I set eyes on you, Mason.”
I arch an eyebrow, tugging his head back with my hand fisted in his hair. His eyes are dark with hunger. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re hot as fuck.”
His T-shirt strains against his hard pecs, and my mouth waters at the thought of running my tongue over his skin.
“Can I taste you?” he pants.
“Knock yourself out, handsome.”
He drops to his knees and makes quick work of my belt and jeans.
My cock hardens at the touch of his skilled fingers, thickening in his grasp.
He murmurs appreciatively, then his tongue darts out, flicking over my crown.
I groan, pleasure building in my core. I grab his hair again and guide him onto my waiting cock.
He takes all of me until I hit the back of his throat.
Then he looks up at me, tears being squeezed from his eyes.
A memory takes hold, and I shake my head, trying to shake it loose. But it’s too late. It’s no longer Jack’s mouth on me; it’s mine on him.
I’m on my knees. Choking. Crying. My head is held still. He tells me how disgusting I am to be enjoying what he’s doing.
I screw my eyes closed, willing the memory to slink back to the deepest recesses of my brain where it belongs. But it’s a stubborn little fucker.
And now I can taste him. Smell him. My stomach rolls.
I stagger back a step, sliding from Jack’s mouth. “I can’t,” I mumble.
Jack’s staring up at me, blinking.
“I-I …” My eyes dart around the room. I’m in Jack’s apartment, but in my head I’m in Kyngston Worthington III’s study. All I can smell are cigars and cheap brandy. And him. Stale piss and dried cum.
I balk.
Jack jumps to his feet. “Mason. Are you okay?”
I slam my hand over my mouth and mumble against my palm. “Must be something I ate.”
He comes closer, trying to reassure me or maybe help me, but I wave him away and hurriedly do up my pants. I need to get out of here. Need to get home. Need to get safe.
I make a hasty apology and a hastier exit, and as soon as I make it out into the busy street, I suck in a lungful of New York air.
I’m still sweating. Still feel like I’m about to throw up. I decide to walk home, needing the fresh air.
Out of nowhere, like a gift from the heavens, I bump into my baby brother, and everything feels better. I wrap my arms around him like he’s a life raft in the storm that’s become my life. “Maddox! What are you doing here?”
He hugs me back, holding me tight, giving me exactly what I need. “I’ve just been to a meeting after my shift.”
I nod, my head still spinning. “Of course, yeah.” Maddox attends regular NA meetings, and one of his favorites takes place in a church near here. Still, it feels more than serendipitous to bump into him now.
“Everything okay, Mase?”
Shit. I must look a mess or at least not my usual self. I nod again though. “Yeah. Yeah. Just happy to see you. You headed home?”
He smirks. “Where else would I be headed on a Saturday night?”
“You want to stay at my place?” I could really use the company tonight—anything to distract me from the disastrous date I ran out on.
Maddox is a nomad, and although he has his own place in Queens, he often stays with me, our dad, or one of our brothers, so it’s not unusual for him to spend the night at my penthouse. Still, I’m glad when he immediately agrees with no questions asked.
We walk through the city, and he’s quiet, which I know from experience is a strategy he uses to get me to talk. After our brunch this morning, I know he suspects there’s something up with me. “How was your meeting?” I ask.
“Great.” He smiles, expertly dodging a mom with a double stroller who gives him a brazen once-over.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You can always ask. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna answer.” He winks.
“You’ve been sober for over seven years, but you never miss a meeting. Why do you still go?”
“Maybe I’m still sober because I never miss a meeting.”
I shake my head. “I think you’d be able to do it on your own now, no?”
He laughs. “But I don’t have to, so why would I? And besides, apathy or overconfidence—whichever makes people stop thinking they need help—are addicts’ biggest downfalls. The moment you start thinking you don’t need a meeting, you’re in trouble.”
“You think you’ll go every week for the rest of your life though?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He shrugs. “For now, the meetings are a big part of my life. A meaningful part of it. I don’t only go for myself; I go to support my peers too.
People get a lot from hearing others’ stories, and what if my story is the one to help someone else choose sobriety? Then isn’t it worth it?”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
“And as much as I love you and Dad and the guys, and as much as I value your support, nobody understands an addict’s journey better than another addict.
The struggles or the triumphs. There’s something remarkably healing and awe-inspiring about being in a room full of people who’ve been where you are—or where you were. ”
I never considered it like that, nor how difficult it must have been for my baby brother to admit he needed help. It takes guts. “That makes a whole lot of sense.”
“That’s probably how any support group works,” Maddox goes on. “The people who’ve been through it are often the easiest to talk to about it.”
“Are there other kinds of support groups for people struggling with something?” Like men who freak out while having a hot guy suck their cock because of something that happened a lifetime ago.
He nods. “In New York, I bet you could find a support group for anything.”
There’s every chance I’m about to reveal something I don’t want to, but I trust Maddox enough not to push me if I do.
“Theoretically speaking, is there a group for people who …” I swallow the words, not able to bring myself to say them.
I shift tactics. “A friend of mine … Something happened to him when he was a kid. He was … forced to do something he didn’t want to do. Is there a support group for that?”
The time between my question and Maddox’s response seems to stretch into eternity. My heart is beating in my throat. Surely he knows I’m not talking about my friend. He knows it’s me who’s fucked up.
“You mean sexually assaulted?” is all he asks.
I nod.
“Yeah,” he says. “There’s a few actually. One meets every other week in the same place as my Tuesday NA meeting. I’ll write down the details when we get to your place and you can pass them on to your friend.”
“Thanks, Mad. I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”
“No problem. I’m sure he’d be interested to know that almost twenty-five percent of men experience some form of sexual violence in their lives.”
I had no idea the figure was that high. “That many?”
“Yeah, and over fifty percent of male rape victims experience it before the age of eighteen.”
Definitely didn’t know that either. But why does my brother sound like he’s giving a presentation on sexual violence? “How do you know all this?”
He shrugs. “I read a lot. And I support a lot of sexual assault charities, for both men and women.”
Of course he does, after what happened to his high school girlfriend, Yasmin. Jamestech donates to a designated charity every year in her memory, and I make a mental note to add a charity for male victims to our annual donation list.
“Male sexual assault is rarely discussed openly, and I’m sure a lot of victims, like your friend for instance, think they’re alone. Unfortunately, they’re not.” He gives me a sad smile.
What would a support group for men who’ve been sexually assaulted look like? Would I have anything in common with any of them, aside from the obvious? I spent ten years in therapy and did all the work, got my pat on the back, and graduated. That should mean I’m fixed.
Maddox and I are quiet for a while, and I don’t know how to stop feeling so fucking tense and awkward.
Of course, he expertly lightens the mood with a change of subject. “Are we watching Top Gun, then?” I have never been happier to have him by my side than I am at this moment.
“Only if we watch the original,” I reply.
He scoffs. “Have I ever insisted otherwise?”
“Yes. Two years ago on New Year’s Day. I had an epic hangover, and I recall it vividly.”
He rolls his eyes. “That’s only because I hadn’t seen it yet.”
We’re quiet again.
“Do you have popcorn?” he asks.
“Of course I have fucking popcorn. What kind of heathen do you think I am?”
Laughing, he throws an arm around my shoulder. “I can guarantee you don’t have any green tea though.”
“Because it tastes like ass. I have soda—the appropriate accompaniment to popcorn.”
That gets me another eye roll.
“Fine. We can stop by somewhere and I’ll get you some of your ass tea.”
“Good.” He gives me a side eye. “And I would have thought you enjoyed the taste of ass.”
I laugh so loud that the people around us stop and stare. This is exactly what I need—not some support group full of strangers who don’t know my name.