by Claire Adams
“It’s nine o’clock,” he says. “Most people are at work by now.”
“Whatever,” I tell him. “The chipmunk’s great and everything, and I’m sure the two of you are going to have a blast, but I’m going back to bed and I need to know that you’re not going to bother me again until I awake naturally, fresh and healthy, ready to start my day on my own terms. Failure to abide by this very reasonable request absolves me of any responsibility of what I may do in retaliation.”
“All right,” he laughs, putting his hands up. “Go back to bed. I just thought you might want to taste my first attempt at breakfast-stuffed mushrooms.”
“What the hell is that?” I blurt.
“I remember you said you liked portabella mushrooms, so I picked some up from the store,” he says.
“You’ve already been to the store this morning?” I ask. “When did you get up?”
“Ah,” he says. “This close to a fight, my natural schedule changes a little bit. I probably should have told you that.”
“Are you sure that’s all this is?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Why? What else would it be?”
“First off,” I tell him, “I’ve seen you before a couple of fights now, and I’ve never seen you go manic like this. Therefore, I’m going to really take a chance and guess that the fight doesn’t really have anything to do with it.”
“Oh,” he says. “You think I’m up early because—” he laughs. “No, I just got up early,” he says. “That’s all.”
I’m no less tired than I was a few minutes ago, but that short amount of time spent standing in this kitchen has awakened some of my finer senses.
“What’s in the mushrooms?” I ask.
“Bacon,” he starts.
“Sold,” I answer. “I’ll have some and then I’m going back to bed. You are a foul temptress. I guess it wouldn’t be temptress, though, would it? That’d be the feminine version. Would it be tempter? Now I’m starting to do it.”
“You’re waking up,” he says. “Want some coffee?”
“No,” I snap. “I’m delirious because it’s my day off and I’m not used to waking up before noon on my days off and you’re in denial because you’re upset about your brother getting arrested, but you’re so pissed at him for it that you won’t let yourself admit to yourself,” I repeat, “to yourself, mind you, that Chris getting arrested bothers you. There. I’ve done my good deed for the day, now point me to my mushroom and I’ll be on my way.”
“I’m not in denial,” he says. “I’ve just been expecting it for so long that it really just doesn’t bother me that much.”
“I’m sure that’s part of it,” I tell him, “but you’re acting like it doesn’t bother you at all. That’s your brother. I don’t know if you’re pissed or depressed or disappointed or scared or what, but it’s not the guy making stuffed breakfast mushrooms which, if I could just get a plate—” he hands me a plate “—thank you,” I say. “It’s not the guy making stuffed breakfast mushrooms and chipmunk-watching.”
“I thought you said you were going back to bed,” he says. “Why are we still talking about Chris?”
“Fork?” I ask.
He hands me a fork, at which point I cut off a piece of the stuffed mushroom and watch as cheese oozes out of it.
“Yeah, it’s not just bacon,” he says, “although that was a bigger part of the process than you’d think. You have to cook it to just the right level of crispiness: Too little and it won’t break apart in pieces small enough to stuff a mushroom, too much and crumble it all you want, it’s burnt bacon.”
“Are you not hearing that?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says.
I gather my piece of stuffed mushroom with my fork and blow on it a little before putting it in my mouth.
There are hints of bell peppers, provolone cheese, small-but-crispy bacon bits and I don’t even know what spices. The whole experience of it is almost enough to make me want to stay awake.
“The reason,” I say, swallowing, “that I’m still talking about Chris—”
“Oh god,” he groans.
“The reason I’m still talking about Chris is that, tired and irritated enough to seriously consider your untimely demise as I am, I care about you more than that,” I tell him. “I know you were mad at him, and I’m sure you probably still are, but you can’t pretend like it doesn’t affect you. I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe that’s how you deal with things, but I think it’d be better if you let it out.”
“There’s nothing to let out,” he says. “He broke the law for a long time and it caught up with him. I don’t know that there’s really anything else to say about it.”
“All right then,” I say, walking out of the kitchen on my way back to the bedroom. “I’m going back to bed, then.”
“You said ‘then’ twice,” Mason teases.
“My mind and my ears are shutting down now, thank you,” I tell him. “Good night.”
“You’re taking the mush—” I close the bedroom door behind me.
I set the stuffed mushroom on the nightstand and I collapse back into bed. If it weren’t for the knowledge that the beautiful culinary work sitting next to me will become inedible if I just leave it and fall asleep, I wouldn’t bother opening my eyes again.
After the food has gone from plate to belly, though, I am out.
* * *
I wake a few hours later, this time far less hostile. The only problem is that now my mind’s clearer, I’m beginning to think there’s another possible explanation to why Mason’s so blasé about Chris being taken away.
Getting out of bed, I rub my eyes as I walk to the door.
There’s the metal clink and clang of Mason’s barbell, and I find him out on the corner of the back porch on his weight bench.
“Need a spotter?” I ask, walking past the lawn chairs toward him.
“Sure,” he says, “just as long as you can lift this thing off of my struggling, but useless body in the event I misjudge my strength.”
“I’ve seen you lift weights,” I tell him. “I’m pretty sure I could out-bench you.”
He wheezes laughter, the bar swaying a little above him as he lifts it and sets it back in place.
“You almost don’t need a gym membership at all,” I tell him.
“I need a new setup,” he says. “The bar’s hollow. My dad used it. See how it’s gotten all bent and rusted over the years?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking at what he’s showing me, just wanting to keep him talking.
“The weights won’t come off,” he says. “I’ve tried bending the bar back straight, but it’s too old, too worn down.”
“You’ve never really talked about him,” I say.
“Yeah, well he left when I was just little, so I don’t really remember him,” he answers. “Mom said he was an ass, though, so maybe it’s just as well.”
“Do you know anything about him?” I ask. “Where he lives, anything like that?”
“No,” he says. “I don’t really care, either. If he wants to come home, he’ll come home. I can’t say he’s going to get a very warm welcome if he does, though.”
“This is where your—”
“Yeah,” he interrupts. “I’ve lived in the same house all my life. The parents somehow paid it off, although that might have been something grandpa did. He went bankrupt indulging my mom. Anyway, other than property taxes and utility bills, this place is free to own.”
“Why aren’t you reacting to what’s happening with Chris?” I ask. It’s blunt, but I think it’s clear enough.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I guess I’m just so used to things going bad that when they do, it’s just, you know. It’s normal.”
“What can I do?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t see any reason to get upset about my not being upset.”
“I’m not upset,” I tell him. “I’m just worried about you. If you bottle these things
up, they come out, you know.”
“Like in the form of physical confrontation which, one might say, is the most fundamental aspect of MMA?” he asks.
“No need to be a jerk about it,” I tell him. “Just shut up and realize I’m being very sweet right now and you’re very much not.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. I was going to get in the shower. Care to join me?”
“Sure,” I tell him. “Sounds like good, wholesome fun.”
He says, “I don’t know how wholesome that really—“
“Yeah, I was going to say ‘clean,’ but I didn’t want to go with a pun so I winged it,” I interrupt. “Yes, let’s go take a shower.”
“Okay,” he laughs and off we go.
I’m worried about him. He’s smiling and joking now, but even with something like fighting to get the aggression out, it’s still good to talk this stuff through with someone.
Right now, though, I’m not sure my approach would really help. After all, what do I know about this sort of thing? My parents have always had their own, individual team of lawyers so anything they might have done was dropped before it was picked up.
Now that I think about it, I wonder if my parents only stay together because they don’t want to go through the headache of dealing with the other’s legal team.
That’s slightly unnerving.
We get to the bathroom and we get undressed. As Mason turns on the shower and we get in, I decide to bring up something other than Mason’s family for once. “Your hair’s gotten way long,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says. “I haven’t cut it since before you and I met. I’m going to have it taken way down before my next fight.”
“We’ve been together for what, two months? Three months?” I ask.
He smirks and says, “I’m not stupid enough to answer questions like that without being able to tell you the minute and, seeing as I don’t have my watch with me…”
“When we first met and you were running around like you were fresh off of your latest mass murder, did you ever think you and I would end up a couple?” I ask.
“Immediately,” he says without hesitation.
“You sound pretty sure about that,” I snicker.
He nods. “Oh yeah,” he says. “As soon as you saw what brand of terrible I looked like and you didn’t take off screaming, I knew you were a keeper.”
“You know,” I tell him, wetting my hair, “Jana was standing out there, too.”
“Yeah, but me and her already dated,” he says. “It was your turn.”
I playfully smack his chest and he laughs. Maybe this is better. Instead of getting bogged down with the way people are “supposed” to process things, maybe we should just focus on actually processing it.
If that means he comes off a little callous when his brother gets arrested, so what? That’s probably going to come in handy down the road, too. Chris doesn’t seem like he’s the changing type, although I’m sure he’ll come out of jail “a new man.”
Every con has a simple concept behind it and that one’s just begging to be grabbed.
I’m a little surprised when Mason leans in and kisses me, a bit more when the kiss keeps going, but it feels good. I’ve been so busy accusing him of not being upset enough and he’s been so busy denying he’s upset at all that we haven’t really focused on the more important things in life.
I kiss him back and put my arms around his shoulders. He’s shaking.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Bit cold,” he says. “About done with the water for a minute?”
“Oh yeah,” I answer. “Sure.”
We switch spots and he puts his head under the water. He turns around to face me, and I’m thinking that’s the end of the romantic part of our shower together when he’s reaching out for me again, pulling me toward him.
Only, he doesn’t have the best footing and so he slips a little. He manages to catch himself before he falls, but his reflex to catch himself caused him to pull me a little harder than he’d intended and I’m now shoulder-checking him in the sternum.
I don’t know how, but we don’t fall over. It’s when I run into him, though, that I notice he’s starting to grow hard. Maybe if it were just in the context of my nakedness or our proximity, I’d take it as a compliment; but with as awkward as the lead-up to this particular erection was, it’s more confusing than anything.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, getting my feet more securely under me and taking a step back so he can stand up straight again.
“You think the mood’s killed?” he asks.
I do. I really do.
That’s not what I say, though. Sex, even sex that starts as clumsily as this, is something I know I could really use right now and, from the way Mason feels in my hand, I’d say he’s good to keep going.
“No,” I tell him. “That was just a momentary hiccup. Come here.”
I pull him closer (slowly) and kiss him deeply on the lips, my mouth parting as we come together, and I’m putting one arm back around him.
“That’s better,” I say optimistically as I stroke his dripping wet shaft with my free hand.
“Ah!” he says before a sharp intake of air.
“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you wearing a ring right now?” he asks.
“Yeah, I forgot to take it off,” I answer. “I would have once we got in, but I didn’t want to lose it and it’s cold out there so I didn’t want to get back out.” I narrow my eyes a little at him. “Why?”
“It kind of,” he says, “the skin on my—it went between the ring and your… ya caught me a little—”
“Oh!” I say, letting go of him and pulling my hand away. It’s not until he’s saying he’s fine, that he’ll be all right that I realize I’ve just made the very problem he was trying to tell me about much more painful. “Are you all right?” I ask.
“I think so,” he says. “Am I bleeding?”
That’s a question everyone wants to hear when they’re trying to enjoy a little foreplay.
Still, I refuse to believe that this sexual endeavor is hopeless. If Mason and I have one thing, it’s chemistry.
“No, you’re good,” I tell him. “Still wanna…?”
“Hell yeah,” he answers, and this time, I take the ring off the eponymous finger of my right hand and toss it over the shower rod.
It makes a surprisingly loud kerblubb when it lands in the water of the toilet bowl.
Mason asks, “Did you just…?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him and we’re kissing again.
I’m not in denial.
Neither’s Mason.
This is great.
This feels so—
“Okay,” I say, clutching my face. “I’m done.”
What does it is when Mason reaches his hand up toward my face, seemingly to persuade some strand of my hair away from my face, but ends up with his index finger in my eye instead.
He’s trying to stammer through an apology, and I’m trying to forget how recently I’ve hurt him so I can continue to be mad at him for poking me in the eye and at this point, I’ll just be happy if we’re still talking by the time we get out of this bathroom.
Chapter Thirteen
Eggshells
Mason
He’s right there, standing in front of me. The crowd’s mouths are open, but they’re silent; or at least I can’t hear them.
This is my second match: the quarter-finals.
It’s insane how they threw this thing together so quick, but someone’s got to be make money off of it somehow. Right now it doesn’t bother me that nobody knows how.
Right now, nothing bothers me because there’s simply not enough in the world.
There’s Ash standing behind me, supportive in my corner.
In front of me is the man I’m about to fight.
To either side of me are walls of flesh and bone.
<
br /> Beneath me is the floor, above me is the ceiling, and here I am in the center, ready to do what’s necessary.
The fight must have started because he’s walking toward me now. My hands are up, I’m ready.
He throws a left and tries to catch me with a quick follow-up right, but he’s sloppy and I’m better and he’s down and I don’t know why all these people are trying to pull me away. All I know is that the fight just started and now it’s over.
It’s not until one of the guys holding me reaches up and slaps me hard across the face that I come back to a wider view of the world.
I don’t hear the crowd, but that’s because nobody’s cheering. My opponent’s on the ground and Tom’s with him, checking him.
“Is he gonna be okay?” I ask the open air.
I’m only greeted by harsh glares.
I turn around and look back at where Ash is standing and her mouth is open under her hands.
“You need to come with me right now,” a sharp, but familiar voice says.
Logan’s got me by the hair on the back of my head and he’s leading me through the crowd toward one corner of the room.
He lets go of my head with a shove, saying, “What the hell was that? What do you think you were doing? Were you trying to kill him? What’s the matter with you?”
“Is there a particular question you’d like me to answer?” I ask.
He slaps me in the face and pushes me up against the wall, seething, “You’re lucky we’ve got the people we do in the crowd, man,” he says. “If these people weren’t all fighters, they might have missed the fact that you’d snapped and would have killed the guy if we didn’t jump in.”
“I wouldn’t have killed him,” I scoff.
“Six punches,” he says. “In the time between when the match was called and they pulled you off, you’d thrown six punches and that guy looks like he got hit by a truck. You can’t tell me you were in control of anything.”
“Six?” I ask. “People always end up throwing a few after it’s called. It happens on reflex: The command hasn’t processed yet because you’re in fight mode. You know this stuff as much as I do.”