Page 22 of Bruised

When he passes us on the stairs, he just nods and says, “Morning, boys.” He doesn’t even send me one of those looks like he always does.

Wait… what?

I was so sure he would at least make some vague innuendo—not just pass me while barely acknowledging my presence.

It strikes me that I should be grateful, that maybe he’s gotten whatever he wanted from me out of his system now. Maybe it was just a one-time thing, a quick rub-off, and that’s it.

Maybe he’s lost his interest in me entirely. I was selfish, after all—only focused on my own pleasure and not at all on his.

Maybe I pissed him off. Wasted his time by not helping him come, by using his body for my own depraved pleasure. Maybe he’s done with me already. Maybe he wants us to pretend nothing happened between us.

Maybe it’s over.

If so, I should be grateful—it means I’m safe.

So why do I feel so disappointed?

That afternoon, Oliver and I take a break from gaming and relocate to the patio with our last set of popsicles, intending to lounge in the shade and chat about unrelated stuff. Just relaxing. Just being friends.

My mind has been so preoccupied with other things—with Mason—the last few days that I’ve almost forgotten about the reason I’m staying at Oliver’s to begin with. It’s our last summer together. It’s all we have before he leaves for college. I should be focused on that rather than agonizing over Mason’s lack of attention.

Oliver and I eat our popsicles and look out over the glittering pool and the pristine lawn that a gardener comes and tends to every week.

Growing up, I never could’ve imagined living in a place like this. My dad barely had enough money to put food on the table, let alone have a whole-ass pool and a gardener on the regular.

I try to stay focused on what Oliver’s saying—something about our strategy on the next raid—but my mind keeps wandering off.

The sound of the patio door opening makes me jump, and I turn my head to the source of the sound.

Mason is dressed in loose swim trunks, and he’s got a towel slung over his shoulder. He barely acknowledges us with a glance as his bare feet pad toward the pool edge, and his substantial back muscles ripple with a stretch before he jumps in.

Oliver rolls his eyes. “Does he really have to do that now?”

“It’s hot,” I say. “Uh, I mean… it’s hot outside.” My cheeks heat up. As if I needed to clarify that.

The popsicles melt quickly in the heat, so I have to hurry not to let mine melt all over my hand. I hope Mason won’t make another comment about sucking on something. At least not in front of Oliver.

Oliver can’t know.

He agreed, so I hope he’ll keep his word. Although, to be fair, Mason doesn’t seem like the type to keep promises—at least not if he can benefit from breaking them.

He is a criminal, after all.

I still don’t know what he did, and I’m not so sure I want to know. It’ll either intensify the regret for what I did, or, in the worst case, it’ll make me even more attracted to him. My body works in strange ways.

I fidget with the choker around my neck as I watch Mason swim lap after lap in the pool. He keeps ignoring me, and for some reason, it makes me a little peeved. It makes me feel like I did something wrong—not just to Oliver, but to Mason, too.

“I’m going inside,” Oliver mutters. “Come on.”

“It’s nice out here,” I say, leaning back on the lounge chair.

“You can stay if you want; I’m starting dinner.”

When Oliver leaves, I watch Mason with more intent. Has he gotten sick of me already? Is he about to take someone else into his room tonight—someone who’ll hump his lap while he calls them “puppy,” and maybe this time he’ll actually get to come?

Jaw clenching, I lean back in the comfy chair and close my eyes against the evening sun. A nice breeze cools me down; I could fall asleep right here if I wasn’t so on edge about Mason ignoring me.

The sun dims. Either that, or a shadow is looming over me. Then a drop of water lands on my chin.