Page 36 of Mason
He could be hurting himself.
I won’t knowingly leave him alone. If I can offer him even the smallest bit of comfort like he so unexpectedly provided for me last night, then I have to do that. Iwantto.
Taking in a few fortifying gulps of air, I hurry from my room, where I immediately see the light shining from the crack under the attic door, and I can’t curb my curiosity. Mason disappears all the time, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure this is where he goes.
Steeling myself, I pull the door open and start up the steps as quietly as I can. The staircase is open to the attic, but everything here is unfinished, a direct contrast to the rest of the house. It’s dark, and I wonder why that is—no good lighting, or because Mason prefers it that way? Hard to say, and this definitely isn’t the time to ask.
As I approach the landing, my eyes clear floor level, and I can see the space where Mason spends most of his time. There are canvases leaning everywhere, of all different sizes. Some are hung haphazardly on the unfinished walls. There’s also a gigantic pad of paper on an easel, where it looks like he sketches, or maybe that’s the finished product, I can’t tell. Mason’s sketches include strokes and swirls of the darkest, most pitch-black charcoal. Some of it is frantic and messy, some is more controlled.
Butallof it is gorgeous. My eyes widen trying to take everything in all at once.
“Motherfucker. Doesn’t even know. Doesn’t know what he’s done,” Mason hisses out, his body absolutely rigid as he crosses the floor again. He’s stripped off his shirt, leaving him only in jeans. There are smudges of black as dark as sin all over him—a swipe over his pec, a mark running the length of his jaw, fingerprints on his washboard stomach, but most notably, his fingers are coated, as is the side edge of his left hand. I’m guessing he’s a lefty.
Each weighted step he makes back across the room vibrates across the floorboards. As I watch, he rears back and chucks a piece of charcoal at the paper on the easel, which promptly breaks into several smaller pieces and lands on the floor. He covers his face with his hands before driving them up into his hair and clenching hard at the dark strands. “Fuck!”
Oh god. Maybe I should go. But obviously, some part of me disagrees because I find my mouth opening and his name falling from it. “Mason.”
His head whips around, harsh, bitter eyes landing on me. “What. Thefuck.Are you doing?” He glares at me, fury flowing freely from him. He stomps one foot in my direction like he’s trying to scare an animal. “Get the fuck out of here! Who told you that you could fucking come up here?” His chest heaves with wrath, face turning red with temper.
I draw on every bit of strength I possess and slowly climb the remainder of the stairs, all while his jaw locks in place and his fists clench at his sides. He’s seething mad, and every bit of it is aimed in my direction.
I straighten my spine and look him dead in the eye. I haven’t forgotten for a single second that this is the same guy who on my first day here acted as if I’d come here to punish him. This is the same guy who choked me with his bare hands and coerced me into craziness in the backyard at the frat party. But he’salsothe guy who took care of the tequila shot for me. He beat up that Chris dude for touching me. And just last night, he came to my rescue, helping me in the aftermath of my nightmare. I haven’t forgotten the scary stuff he’s said and done—but I know there’s some good in there.Somewhere.There has to be. I need to be here right now. For him. “I came up here to help you, if you’ll let me.”
He grits his teeth, shaking his head. “You can’t—”
I throw up a hand. “Iknowyou said no one can help, but… I’m a good listener. And I’m already bound by the Bainbridge Hall keep-your-mouth-shut oath.”
“This isn’t a fucking joke.” He’s like a hurricane whipping, gale-force winds carrying his turbulent madness. It’s palpable in the air, swirling around and around so viciously that I worry I might suffocate on his intense anger.
“No, you’re right. It’s not.” My eyes wander the room. “Your artwork… it’s incredible. Beauty meeting savagery. Intense.” I inhale slowly, taking in image after image of a woman with long hair and such sad eyes, I wish I could hug her—a woman who looks a bit like me, though I know it can’t be. But now I sort of see why my presence here has fucked with Mason’s head, even if I don’t have full comprehension of why I affect him like I do.
My eyes flick to another sketch, and I swear, it’s Mason himself, only a distorted, crazed version with hands hiding his face. The terror and sadness leaps from his work and punches me directly in the gut.
“Stop. Looking,” he heaves out, crossing the room to me in three strides and getting in my face. His minty breath hits me like a slap. “No one is supposed to see any of this.” He grips my upper arms, shaking me until my gaze locks on his pain-filled eyes. They bore into me, into my very soul. A shudder runs through my body as he backs me to the wall with one strong, dexterous hand gripping my throat. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
I wet my lips. “I hear every word. But I’ve already seen it.” My chin juts defiantly upward, elongating my throat for him. Mason doesn’t know this yet, but I’m impossibly stubborn when I want to be. “I’m not leaving,” I state as boldly as I can with my airway half-blocked by his hand. He and I? We’re in the same damn boat and sinking fast, if only he’d recognize it. Fuck, I thought he had yesterday, which is why I came up here in the first place.
He cocks his head to the side, peering into my eyes as his grip tightens. His tongue slips out, slowly slicking over his lower lip. My eyes follow and my brain does an odd little flip, wanting to feel his perfectly plush lips on me again.
“You want to stay here.”
“Yes.” I struggle for air.
“With me.”
“Y-yes.”
“Because you want to help me.”
I grit my teeth, and croak a final, “Yes.”
His lips twist, eyes squinting. “Fine.” He releases me and turns away, walking across the room to a table with a bunch of supplies. Glancing at me over his shoulder, a devilish smirk teases at his lips before he grits out. “Strip.”
TWENTY
LENNON
I sag against the wall,catching my breath. My brow furrows. I couldn’t have heard Mason right. “Sorry, what?”
