Page 84 of Relapse
The scent was the first thing to hit me when I tore open the foil. Caramel should not smell like this. Maybe ass, but not caramel. I officially knew what ass smelled like. Did I really want to know what it tasted like?
“Is something wrong?”
Yes there was something wrong. My head cocked at the tiny piece Mason had left of his. Did he eat this stuff all the time? How did his breath smell so fresh?
He tipped his chin at me. “You gonna eat that?”
If I didn’t, how long would I be able to keep this shirt on?
“Of course I am.” I gave him a smile, then chomped down on the bar.
Or at least I tried to. The thing was made of rubber. I had to pull it back and forth while grinding my teeth just to tear the smallest chunk off. And let me just say, the reward was not worth the effort. It took everything in me to hold back my gag. Clearly Aunt Mae had never had caramel in her life.
And now I know what ass tastes like.
The second Mason turned his attention to the TV, I spat it back into the foil and pushed the piece down. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but maybe in this case honesty was the best policy.
“This is kinda hard to chew,” I said, while gingerly setting the bar down.
“Really?” This time it was his nose that scrunched up. “I don’t find them hard to chew.”
That’s because your teeth are made of metal.
I had the mark on my left breast to prove it.
“Here.” Without even looking, Mason pulled open the drawer on the bedside table and plucked another bar out. “Try this one.”
This bar had black and white wrapping and said cookies and cream. I was terrified to find out what Aunt Mae thought that would taste like.
“That one’s too sweet for me, so if you don’t like it I think I got some peanut butter ones left.”
How many of these things did he have? Were they just randomly stashed around his room? Why on earth, out of all the things he could hide away, would he choose this? And what was wrong with real food? Pizza, salad, heck I’d take a cheese sandwich over this and I was lactose intolerant.
Sighing, I scooped up the new bar. May as well get it over with. Besides, Mason did say it was sweet, and sweet was good, right? Wrong. While this one was easier to chew, it had the consistency and flavor of chalk. Where was the sweet?
Mason cocked a brow. “Well?”
I didn’t want to disappoint him. So I smiled, said, “Mmm, so good,” then forced it down my throat.
The thing hit my belly with the weight of a lead balloon. I could feel it in there, swirling around. But Mason seemed pleased so I took another bite, then another after that. His smile somehow made it taste better. Before I knew it, I’d eaten the whole thing, and I instantly regretted it. I’d never been so full in my life.
Mason chuckled when I groaned and laid back down. “A little full there, Freckles?”
A little was an understatement. It felt like my stomach was going to explode.
“How did you eat two of those?”
He shrugged. “I burn a lot of calories.”
His statement drew my attention to the punching bag. It was obviously used a lot. In some places I could see his knuckle marks on the canvas. I understood why he had one. Everyone in Ashworth knew about Mason’s proclivity to fight. But there was one thing I didn’t get…
“Why do you have that next to your bed?”
“It’s easier than trying to find something to hit in the dark.”
That was a strange response. “Why would you want to hit anything?”
“Because it’s fun, Freckles.” Mason released an annoyed huff and turned his attention back to the TV. “You should try it sometime.”
