How We Deal With Gravity(41)
“Damn, that’s a rip-off,” Mason says. I laugh in response, and I feel his hand get firmer along my back when I do, and the same chill travels down my body.
“Right. Well, joke’s on them, because we’ve read that thing through, cover-to-cover, forty times. Max has it memorized. We’re almost to a buck a read,” I smile at my joke, and when I look up, Mason’s smiling back, his dimples deep. I want to touch them, so I take my right index finger and reach up to his cheek and softly run the tip of my finger over the divot.
“Uh, that’s…different,” Mason says, his eyes almost crossed while he peers down at my finger on his face. He’s unshaven, and I want desperately to cup his chin with the rest of my hand, to feel how rough it is, but I’m embarrassed enough already, so I pull my hand away and turn my face into him so he can’t see me.
“You’re dimples are cool. Kinda always wanted to touch them,” I say. What the hell, I already violated his face—might as well own up to that one. I can feel Mason chuckle deep in his chest, and then his thumb gently slides back and forth on the bare skin of my shoulder. I. Never. Want. It. To. Stop.
“Your turn. Ask me something. Ask me anything,” he says, almost eager for me to want to know one of his secrets. I think about it, and then I spare a glance at his face for inspiration. He’s looking straight up at the ceiling, his other arm tucked under the back of his neck, completely at ease.
“The tattoo,” I start, and I watch as his eyes close tightly, and he slides his hand forward over his face, almost wincing. He tilts his fingers up just to glance at me, and then he shuts them back over his eyes when he sees I’m watching. “What’s the story?”
I’ve hit a nerve, and Mason Street is actually embarrassed, which only causes me to prop my head up with my fist to look him in the eyes. He laughs lightly when I do, and he turns to face me more, but he leaves his arm under my neck. His fingers are playing with my hair now. I wonder if he knows I can feel it? I don’t react, though, for fear he’ll stop.
“All right, so I’m on the road with the guys…for like…six months. We started out playing some pretty decent venues, but then it turned into some pretty shitty dives,” he looks at me when he says this, probably more embarrassed admitting that his tour wasn’t a great success than about the tattoo. I just shake my head, urging him to keep going.
“So, we end up in this nasty old casino in the old part of Vegas. I mean, rooms are being rented by the hour, and there’s a guy they call the King of Heroine on one of the floors—that kind of a shithole. Anyhow, me and the guys decide to party with some chicks we meet at the casino; they were in town for a bachelorette party. We start drinking at this rundown club, and this one girl, Teresa, is really putting herself out there for me. So we drink more, and then we bring it back to the hotel, and we drink more. And—” he pauses, his lips suddenly getting tight; I prod him with my elbow. “I don’t know…are you sure you want to hear this story?”
I nod yes, my smile bigger with every piece he tells, probably because it embarrasses him. For some reason though, my wanting to hear makes him get quieter, and he’s staring at me hard. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But you have to promise me something…”
His words make me a little nervous, but I say, “Okay,” anyhow.
“Promise me you’ll still see me the way you do right now?”
I nod yes slowly, but without hesitation. I’m in—I’m deep into this…this…whatever this is that I am feeling for Mason. And who am I to talk—the girl whose ex just told her he basically wants to hide her existence away, like an offshore money account. Mason has a past—I’ve seen it. And I don’t think this is the story that’s going to make my heart do a complete U-turn.
“Okay, well…me and Teresa ended up ditching the room party after some pretty crazy, uhm…stuff,” he coughs, and I know he means they had sex. And I know it was a roomful of people. And I’m not surprised Mason was in the middle of it. I don’t really like imagining it, but I’m not shocked or angry. “We sort of ended up at the chapel. And next thing I know, it’s the morning, and we’re married.”
“Ohhhhh,” I start laughing now, uncontrollably, because you hear about rash wedding chapel runs in the movies—I never thought they were real.
“Right? But wait, it gets worse,” he says, rubbing his hand over his face at the memory. “Turns out Teresa…was the fiancé!”
“Oh shit!” I’m laughing even harder now, covering my mouth with my hand to stifle the noise.
“We got it annulled, of course. But I’m pretty sure she ended up calling off the wedding. Or the dude did. Never saw him, but she told me he found out,” Mason says, nodding at the memory.
“So…how does that fit with the tattoo?” I ask, and Mason takes a deep breath, finally pulling his arm out from under me and sitting himself up a little to pull off his shirt. And I now suddenly could not care less about the tattoo—because he’s lying back down, his bare skin right there, touching me, and it’s bronze, and it’s perfect, and there are abs happening and…oh my. I force myself to listen to him even though all I want to do is run my fingers up and down his chest.
“If you look carefully, you can still sort of see it,” he traces his finger over a few stripes within the delicate tiger wrapped around his bicep. I don’t know what he’s pointing at, exactly, but I take the opportunity to study his arm. “Look there…it’s her name. I tattooed that chick’s full f*ckin’ name…on my arm! I covered it up with the tiger a few weeks later, but the guys kept calling me Mr. Teresa Westerhouse for months.”