by Claire Adams
Suddenly, I don’t feel so guilty anymore.
“Yeah, I’m out,” I tell Jana and start for the door, “See ya later.”
It’s delaying the inevitable. I know that. Still, given what the inevitable is, I’m pretty happy putting it off for a while.
“You know he sleeps around, right?” Jana asks and I stop.
“What?” I ask. “Did he cheat on you?”
“No,” Jana says. “Well, we weren’t really a couple. We were kind of sex acquaintances.”
“Sex acquaintances?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “When we first met, we had sex. I gave him my number, he gave me his. Things were just so busy for me back then. We really only got together when one of us needed a booty call. Then I met someone else, and then he met someone else. If you want to go see him, I’m not going to be that friend, but I thought you should know.”
“So what you’re saying is that the two of you started something, but you were busy a lot so you never made it out of the bedroom?” I ask. “That’s not really sex acquaintances as much as it is being unavailable for anything more.”
“He did that with other people, too,” Jana says. “I mellowed out a ton, but from what Carli told me, he’s still quite a little man-whore.”
I don’t ask if that means Mason and Carli are a thing. Carli’s the biggest gossip I’ve ever met and, more likely than not, she’s never actually met Mason. I’m not much for gossip or the people who do it, but Carli does have an outstanding track record for spreading rumors that end up being true. I’ll give her that much.
Maybe I should call Mason back and cancel. I’m really not looking to go out with someone who’s just going to look at me like a piece of meat, even if it is just to get out of seeing Jana’s mom a couple extra hours.
“Look,” Jana says, “mom’s going to be here in like three minutes. Why don’t you—where are you going?”
I don’t answer.
I know that Rhododendron—or whatever flower Jana’s mom has repurposed as her new moniker for the moment—is going to be here when I get home, but if I stay out a while, there’s always a chance that she’ll be taking a weed nap by the time I’m back.
Maybe Mason’s a dirt bag, maybe he’s not. Either way, I’m getting out of here before Jana’s mom tries to pin me down and slather me with hemp oil. Again.
* * *
“Well, that’s a shame,” Mason says, sipping his soda in a weak attempt to hide his smile.
“It’s not that I have a problem with hippies or anything,” I tell him. “I just subscribe to the idea of personal space.”
“Yeah, that seems totally reasonable,” he says.
“So, my roommate says you’re some kind of man-whore or something,” I say and take a bite of my salad.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Mason answers calmly.
“What would you say?” I ask.
“I’d say that I’ve had my fair share of relationships that didn’t work out, but you know. I’m still optimistic. These things take time,” he says.
“Well, I think I may have given you the wrong impression regarding my motives,” I tell him.
“What?” he asks with a smirk. “We met, we hit it off. I’m incredibly attractive, although I do think it’s pretty weird you thought so, too, given my appearance at the time, but—”
“Does that work?” I ask, sipping my coffee.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“The whole overconfident thing,” I tell him. “I was flirting with you before because I saw how much it bothered Jana when she saw you again, and sometimes that particular friend of mine just needs to be taken down a peg or two, but I’m not looking for some desperate slap and tickle with a juvenile walking phallus.”
“You’re kind of mean, you know that?” he asks, but he’s still smiling.
“You’re used to rejection, aren’t you?” I return.
“Very,” he says. “If I’m not being rejected in a public and humiliating way at least once a day, I feel like I’m not trying hard enough.”
“So it’s all about the sex for you then, huh?” I ask. I don’t know if he’s figured out that I’m not interested, but either way, toying with him is just too delicious.
“Not really,” he says. “I mean, I do enjoy me some—what’d you call it?—slap and tickle, as much as anyone, but that’s not what it’s all about for me.”
“Oh, and what’s it all about?” I ask. This should be entertaining.
“I don’t know,” he says. “A lot of people are worried about who they’re going to get to spend the night with them. I always thought mornings were more romantic.”
“Oh really?” I ask, not hiding my amusement.
“Really,” he says. “I think it’s much more a statement when someone wakes up and wants to spend their day with you than when someone just wants to spend the night, you know?”
“Wow,” I say. “So, did that punch to the face knock something loose or are you actually telling me you consider yourself a romantic?”
“I don’t see why I can’t be a romantic just because I happen to spend a good portion of my free time training to beat the crap out of people,” he says. “We all have hobbies.”
“Yeah, but your hobby tends to have a pretty big downside,” I tell him.
“Nothing’s more dangerous than always running away from things that scare you,” he says.
“Okay, I get that you’re trying to be all ‘charming, pithy guy’ right now and everything, and I will say, up until now you’ve been doing a pretty good job,” I start.
“But?” he asks.
“But this isn’t an infomercial,” I tell him. “You know why you never had a shot with me?”
“Why’s that?” he asks and nothing seems capable of getting that smile to stop returning to his face.
“Because you think it’s appropriate being bandaged up by the stranger-roommate of one of your ex chew toys,” I tell him.
“Ah, I’m a dog now,” he says.
I answer, “Just in the whole puppy-isn’t-housebroken-and-chews-holes-in-all-my-underwear—”
“Hot,” he interrupts.
“You’re too sarcastic for me,” I tell him. “That and I’m not unconvinced you’re a man-whore, and I don’t see that being a good move for me.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” he says and claps his hands together. “Now, do you think we’re ever going to get a refill on these breadsticks? We’ve been waiting ten minutes for that crap.”
“The service does seem exceptionally slow,” I respond.
He’s looking over my shoulder to try and spot our waiter, and I’m thinking this might not be better than suffering through Jana’s mom and the thick, dark cloud that follows her everywhere. Sure, it’s a dark cloud made up of pot smoke and patchouli oil, but a dark cloud it remains.
“You’re really giving up that easily?” I ask.
“Well, if you’re not interested, you’re not interested,” he answers. “If it’s all the same to you, though, I really am pretty hungry, so I’m going to stay and eat. You’re welcome to stay too, of course,” he adds. “I promise I won’t take it as some kind of encouragement of my high-risk lifestyle choices.”
I chuckle softly.
“You know,” I tell him, “for a meathead, you’ve got a decent brain on you.”
“You really don’t hear the term ‘meathead’ as much as you used to, have you noticed that?” he asks.
“So, what was it like dating my roommate?” I ask. “I’ve always imagined it’d be the sort of thing where you have to sign a waiver. I’ve gotta tell you, long have I been interested in learning the rationalizations that could lead a man to make such an odd choice for himself.”
“You two are friends, huh?” he asks.
“Yeah, we’re friends,” I tell him. “Not just that, we’ve been friends forever. I mean, so long that neither one of us really remembers why we started hanging out in the first place, you know?”
“You’ve got a lot of baggage,” he says. “It’s really hot.”
“A girl’s got a work with what she’s been given,” I tell him. “Do you do anything besides flirt with the roommates of ex-girlfriends and get the brains you’ve got beat in?”
“Actually, I spend about as much time adding to the contents of my skull as I do having them pounded out of me,” he says. “I’m going to college.”
“You’re a scholar,” I say, nodding. “I’m actually not surprised.”
“Oh, you’re not?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “You’ve got the frat guy thing down solid.”
“You’re pretty when you’re being unreasonably judgmental,” he says, putting his elbows on the table and his jaw onto his hands like a child.
I’m just afraid the mixture of giggling, blushing and trying to hide my face a little might give him the wrong idea.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” a voice comes from a few feet behind me and I turn to see our waiter coming to the table. “We’ve had a bit of an issue with the breadsticks, but we would be happy to offer you stuffed portabella mushrooms instead, free of charge of course, as an apology for the inconvenience.”
“Pretty diverse menu you guys have here,” Mason says. “I have a problem with mushrooms, though.”
“What’s your problem with mushrooms?” I ask.
Mason looks over at me, and I swear the actual words coming out of his mouth are, “It’s personal.”
“Oh god,” I groan.
“My apologies,” Mason says. “It seems the lady would like a few minutes to consider her order.”
“Very good, sir,” the waiter says and cheerily walks away.
“They really do have a very diverse menu here,” Mason says. “I’m not sure if that means the chef can actually pull off Taiwanese, Spanish, French, and American-greasy-spoon all at once or if he just doesn’t have the common sense to know it’s a terrible approach to running a restaurant, but I’m very excited to find out, aren’t you?”
“Would you like to know what your problem is?” I ask.
“That I try way too hard, especially for someone who’s been told in very clear terms that I have no chance of making any kind of headway with you whatsoever?” he asks. “I have been made aware of this fact, but I don’t see much sense in trying to change it now. Maybe I’m a bit set in my ways, but that’s how I roll.”
“No,” I tell him. “You told the waiter I needed a few minutes, but I love me some stuffed portabellas, and I’m beginning to think they never actually gave our order to the kitchen. So, we’re just going to end up picking at salad and slurping down our drinks when I could have something delicious on my plate.”
“I am very sorry I got between you and your mushrooms,” he says. “It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t,” I tell him, just hinting at a smile.
Even with the bandage, he’s a good-looking guy. I just don’t know that I want to taint myself by getting too friendly with Jana’s former scratching post.
“Married?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him. “Why would I go to dinner with you if I was married?”
“Oh, it’s not that I think you would, although it sounds like you’d do a lot of things to get away from your friend’s mom,” he says.
“So you’ve got some kind of relationship going on?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says. “I just think it’s good to ask. You know, that way everybody’s cards are on the table from the start.”
“Had some bad experiences?” I ask. “Seen some things?”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” he says, taking another drink of his soda. “You wouldn’t sleep right and I’d feel bad and it’d be this whole thing that’d just end up getting in the way of our torrid love affair.”
“You enjoy getting ahead of yourself, don’t you?” I ask.
“Just think about it,” he says. “We’re both young, available, absolutely stunning…” he takes a moment to run his fingers through his short, dirty blond hair before going on. “I know just how these things go.”
“Oh really?” I ask. “Please, do tell. How exactly are you going to sweep me off my feet and onto your beat-up futon?”
“Well, if I told you then it might not work right,” he says with a smirk and nod. “You know, I think we’re gonna be buddies, you and I.”
He is pretty attractive. I don’t usually go for the whole peacocking thing, but he’s amusing. He might even be charming if he’d just stop trying so hard to act like he’s not trying so hard.
Or is that what I’m doing?
I don’t know—I didn’t expect him to be witty, much less engaging. I expected the quasi-adolescent behavior. Still though, if nothing else, going out with him would give me the opportunity to get some more practice treating wounds. But is a relationship built upon gratuitous violence and the healthcare training possibilities it affords really worth the effort?
“You’re funny,” I tell him. “You bother Jana, so that’s a plus.”
“These are positive-sounding words,” he says. “Very positive, I like that.”
“You’re not as phenomenal a specimen as you so clearly would like to think you are, but you’re not the person I’m least thrilled about spending time with in the next twenty-four hours, so you’ve got that going for you,” I say, really trying to sell it as a compliment with my chipper tone and my generally ensorcelling demeanor.
“Oh, you,” he says. “You sure do know how to sweet talk a lady.”
“I’m not without my own wiles,” I tell him. “Seriously though, if they don’t bring something other than salad out in the next few minutes, I might have to create an embarrassing scene.”
“You know what I like about you?” he asks.
“What?” I return, my eyes already rolling.
“You have the most incredible eyes,” he says. “They’re judgmental a bit more often than is probably healthy, but you’ve really got a couple of fine specimens there.”
“That still wasn’t quite a compliment, but I think you’re getting closer,” I tell him.
“Yeah, I’ll work on it,” he says.
After a while, our food arrives. I roll my eyes a lot more before the meal is over, but I never get up from my chair.
He’s smug, and all joking aside, what he does “in his free time” scares me more than a little, but he’s so easy to talk to, leaving never crosses my mind. Before I know it, we’re already making plans to see each other again.
It’s not until we’ve paid the bill and we’re walking out of the restaurant that I realize I now have nothing but eventuality standing between me and the intermittent sounds of Dandelion’s mantras for everything from conquer sores to enlightenment. I can put it off, maybe even for a few days if I want to stay in a hotel, but sooner or later, I’m going to have to go home.
I just hope we all make it out of there alive.
Chapter Three
Dreaming in Color
Mason
“Wick got caught, I know that,” Logan says, clenching his teeth as he tries to get a few more reps done on the bench. “I just got the hell outta there, if I’m being honest with you. I know I can throw down like a mofo, but guys as pretty as me don’t do well in the cage. There are just too many guys who wanna get a handle on some of this, you know?” he asks, setting the bar back in its cradle.
“Are you actually bragging about how often you’d be sexually assaulted in prison?” I ask, having seriously considered knocking the bar out of his hands while he was lifting it just to see what would happen.
“It’s not a gift, dude,” he says. “It’s a curse.”
“Anyone know who tipped off the cops?” I ask him, taking the cuffs off each side of the barbell and adding another fifty pounds, twenty five on each side.
“Who knows?” he asks. “Maybe no one did. Those things can get pretty loud, and the way you were screwing with that guy was start
ing to piss people off.”
“So it’s my fault?” I ask.
“Well, you certainly didn’t help,” he answers, wiping off the bench with his towel.
“What do you know about the tournament?” I ask, giving the bench an extra going over with my own towel.
“Same as you, I guess,” he says.
“Which is what?” I ask. “All I’ve heard is that there’s going to be one.”
“Yeah, man,” Logan says, getting behind the bar to spot me. “Guys from the biggest pits in the state got together a while ago in Madison and they set the thing up. It’s going to be big.”
“How big?” I ask, lifting the bar from its place.
“Ten thou per winner big,” he says. “More than that, though, the guys who are putting this together are going to tape the whole thing and put it up on the internet, so it’s good exposure, too. One guy from each weight class, straw through super, is to be chosen from within each pit to be in the tournament. Eight guys total in each class, so a champ’s gonna have to pull off four wins,” Logan says, his eyes drifting after a passing female in an obnoxiously bright pink leotard. “Nothing you can’t handle.”
“You’re not going to go for it?” I ask. “How do they decide who to put in the tournament?”
“There’s not enough time to put together tournaments within the pits. First fight’s in a few weeks and they come pretty quick after that. We could try to throw something together, but people have jobs. All the guys we got showing up lately, it’d take us a few months to get through ‘em all only to discover you’re the best featherweight and I’m the best light heavyweight. Everyone already knows that. Expect a phone call in the next couple days.”
“I appreciate that,” I grunt, wondering if this is my fifth or sixth rep.
“You get us in the same weight class, whether I go down some pounds or you go up some, I’m going to humiliate you every time, but as long as we’ve got a couple of classes between us, I don’t have to think of you as just another statistic,” he says.
I lift the bar one last time and set it down with a loud clang into its cradle. When I sit up, I’m laughing.