Page 62 of Bruised

I shrug, avoiding his gaze. I need to get better at lying if I don’t want this all to blow up in my face before summer’s over.

I need to get better at lying. Who says that? It just proves I’m in way over my head.

“How did the college stuff go?” I mutter, feeling more than a little salty.

He shrugs. “Mom wanted to know where I’m gonna live once I get to Boston. I found a place to rent off some random website, but it seems legit.”

“Oh. Good.” Nope. Bad. Why can’t he just cancel the whole thing? I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want to be left alone, but it seems like it’s going to happen regardless.

Besides, his college stuff is encroaching on our summer fun. Before the phone call, we were supposed to do a fun raid I’ve been looking forward to for weeks, but when his mom called, Oliver dropped everything and talked to her for what felt like an hour, barely acknowledging me and pushing us way past the agreed-on time for the raid. He didn’t just let me down; he let our online gaming friends down, too.

That’s why I went to Mason. I felt lonely. I felt disregarded. I suppose it’s good I went with him, so I got the STI test.

Oh, right, about that: I didn’t have time to process it much when he told me about his little fuckup. My gut reaction was to dismiss it and focus on how good it felt to have him take me without a barrier between us, but now that I think deeper on the issue, it doesn’t seem that simple anymore.

By fucking me without a condom, Mason could’ve passed on any number of infections without knowing. By rights, he should have gotten tested before we even started messing around, given his prison, um, habits. Is that too much to ask? I don’t think so.

Maybe I was in the wrong to ask him to take the condom off, but I didn’t know. He knew, though, and he did it anyway. At least he seemed sorry about it. That’s something.

The thoughts keep churning in my head as I take a much-needed shower, and for once, I’m not even close to getting a boner as I soap myself up.

Hooking up with Mason was fun at the start—illicit and forbidden in a way that was thrilling—but now it’s turning anxiety-inducing and annoying rather than fun.

Sometimes, I wish Oliver would just find out about us, so I could at least know how he’d react. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad… but then again, maybe he would hate me. I’m too much of a coward to risk it.

Mason keeps to the garage for the rest of the day. That evening, Tess comes over with pizza that they eat in his room. When I run into Mason in the hallway, he doesn’t even acknowledge me—not with a sultry glance, not with a sneaky kiss, not even by pushing me up against the wall and sucking a hickey onto my skin.

He just walks past me, his bulky shoulder brushing my skinny one.

Is this it? Is he done with me now? Did I really piss him off so much by refusing to fuck him in the car while we knew Oliver was looking for me?

If that’s why he’s pissed, he’s more of a territorial prick than I thought.

Maybe I should’ve listened to Oliver when he listed all of his brother’s red flags. Maybe I should’ve refused him.

I could’ve just kept on trying to jerk off in the shower; I would’ve succeeded eventually. But no—instead, I ignored the sane part of my brain and slept with the one person I never should’ve slept with. Now Oliver is more focused on the logistics of leaving me than hanging out with me. Maybe he’s noticed how distant I’ve been and not as engaged in our conversations as I used to be. I can’t blame him for distancing himself. It’s what I deserve for being such a bad friend.

On top of that, it now seems like Mason isn’t even interested in sleeping with me anymore.

I’m all alone.

My eyes burn with unshed tears at the thought. I can’t be all alone.

That night, after Oliver is done with his college stuff, I lie awake in bed for a long time. Making sure Oliver is fast asleep, I trail my hand down to the hickeys and bite marks on my neck and throat and sigh as my dick responds to the dull, throbbing pain.

I need more. I need… I need someone to mark me all over. Mark me as theirs. And fuck… If I’m honest with myself, I don’t want just anyone to do it; I want him.

I could go to his room, I guess, but what if he refuses me? What if he’s locked the door or sends me away? I wouldn’t be able to handle a rejection like that.

It’s better to pretend I’m mad at him too—which I am, in a way. It’s better to refuse him than to be refused.

Besides, he’s predictable; he just wants to make me sweat a bit. Tomorrow, he’ll lean into my ear at breakfast and whisper, “Missed you last night, puppy,” and we’ll go back to the way we were… right?

A shudder runs down my spine at the thought and settles predictably between my legs. I palm myself there, letting out a quiet whimper of disappointment.

Fuck, I’m so fucking gone.

The next day, I’m in the kitchen trying to choose between cereal and toast for breakfast. Oliver is chowing down on his chocolate-flavored cereal, and he’s guzzling an energy drink to go with it.