'90s Playlist (Romance Rewind Book 1) Page 4

  “Well you do now,” he says.

  “I do now, what?”

  “Know,” he says, his face inching closer to mine. Close enough that his lips brush against mine with each word. “That I haven’t.”

  I stare at him for several seconds, then snort and roll my eyes, pushing back to get some breathing room. As much as I don’t want to hear about him with other girls, I’m also not an idiot. He’s Mason Fucking Brooks, starting quarterback, VP of his frat, and all around campus god. People fawn all over him wherever he goes. He’s never without female admirers, especially during football season. “You’re telling me you’ve been faithful to someone you’re not even dating?”

  “Not someone, Tia, you. And yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”

  I’m too stunned to say anything, even if it’s the same for me. I told Piper the truth earlier—there has been only one since the school year started. Mason.

  Even if I wasn’t stunned, though, I don’t think I could muster up the courage to actually voice any of that. I’d feel too vulnerable, cracked wide open and raw. I make it a point never to do any of those things. And doing them with the one guy who has the power to truly hurt me? No fucking thank you.

  It seems he doesn’t need or isn’t expecting an answer, though. He walks us around his car and sets me down on top of the hood, lays me back, then goes to work on my tights, grumbling the whole time about how they’re not any better than pants. And when his head is between my legs, his lips and tongue all over me, his fingers filling me so deep, I see stars. Even though we have to get back, he takes his time, teasing me with touches and flicks of his tongue, making me arch farther into his mouth.

  This isn’t the first time he’s had me laid out on top of his car—we’ve done it at least a dozen times before. This time, though, there’s an undercurrent to our actions that hasn’t ever been there. In the way he touches me, the way he looks at me…the way I look back. Or maybe it has been there before. Maybe it’s been building the whole time, slowly working its way to something bigger, brighter—something more intense than either of us expected, but I’ve managed to studiously ignore it.

  When I come against his mouth, I don’t even try to hold back my cry, gripping his hair in between my fingers as I arch into him. His tongue flutters against me until I’m boneless on the hood of the car, and then he pulls away just long enough to get a condom. The air is cool against my exposed skin, but I barely feel the chill as Mason covers my body with his. He kisses me, his tongue sliding into my mouth as he thrusts slowly but deeply into me, and I can’t grip him tightly enough. My fingers dig into his back, his shoulders, his ass, trying to pull him farther into me. Get him closer. Drag him deeper into me, and into this thing between us.

  “Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, his breath against my ear, on my neck, and I love that I can do this to him. Reduce this two-hundred-plus pound football player to a string of barely held together syllables punctuated by moans.

  He rocks into me, my name a prayer on his lips as he pushes us both exactly where we need to go with the precision of someone who’s been paying attention to every little cue I’ve ever given. I’m at the top of the cliff, falling over before I have the chance to do anything but open my mouth in a silent scream.

  “That’s it. Jesus, you feel so good. So fucking good.” He groans and pushes deep inside me, his eyes locking with mine as we come together, and I’m certain now. There’s something between us that’s new. Something I never, ever expected. Something I never counted on.

  And something I’m not sure I’m ready for, especially when he’s content to let me remain his dirty little secret.

  Chapter 6

  Mason

  The ride back to the Denny’s parking lot is silent. The radio is still off, and Tia didn’t replace her headphones when we both slid into the car after sex that blew my mind. The best we’ve had together. The best I’ve had…ever. In all fairness, I tend to think that after every encounter with her, but this time, there’s no denying it. Laying her out on my bed isn’t going to happen, so I did the next best thing: spread her out over the hood of my car. She was still mostly clothed—the chill in the air giving us no choice—but I could use my imagination.

  I glance over at her as I pull into the lot. Normally, this is the time she’d hop out of the car and head back to the dorm, both of us satisfied, no words spoken between us until next week when we’d do it all over again. But despite it being nearly one in the morning, I’m not ready for this night to be over yet. I don’t know why, but I’m not ready for her leave.

  Staying away from the overhead lights in the lot, I park as far out as I can and shut off my lights, then turn to her. “You never told me what you were you doing in the quad today…with your video camera.”

  “What do people usually do with video cameras, Mason?” She unbuckles her seatbelt and looks at me out of the corner of her eye, the darkness shrouding us making it hard to see, only the soft glow of the dashboard showing me the contours of her face. “I was filming.”

  I ignore her irritation and press. “Me?”

  “Not you specifically, but yes.”

  I know she’s a cinematography major, but that’s as much information as I’ve ever gotten out of her. As much as I’ve ever tried to get out of her. Not tonight, though. Tonight, I want more. “Is it…I mean, are you doing a project or something?”

  She pauses, then says, “You get how weird this is, right?”

  “What?”

  “You asking me all these questions. Since when does our fucking come with a side of inquisition?”

  Huffing out a breath, I say, “Jesus, Tia, it’s not a fucking inquisition. I’m just trying to talk to you.”

  She’s quiet for so long, I figure she’s not going to answer. I don’t even know why I tried. The reason the sex with us is so fucking phenomenal is because there’s so much hostility between us. That would also account for why the conversations between us have been totally lacking. Or, more aptly, nonexistent. We can’t say hello without getting into an argument about it.

  Just when I’ve given up, she surprises me and says, “Yeah, it’s my project for the showcase at the end of the semester.”

  I hide my smile, knowing that will only piss her off, but I can’t deny how good it feels that she opened up, despite how superficial it is. “What’s it about?”

  “Segregation.”

  That’s the last thing I expect, and I can’t help the surprise from showing on my face. “How do you mean?”

  She turns toward me, one leg tucked under the other. “We all had to deal with it in high school, right? The cliques? Getting shunned for hanging out with other groups? There were usually a handful of people who could traverse all of them, but they were few and far between.” I can see her better now that my eyes have adjusted to the near-blackness. Her entire demeanor changes when she talks about her work. She becomes animated, her hands gesturing wildly, her face open. “I thought it’d be different in college, but it’s the same fucking thing as always. We’re just older. Everyone still has their groups they won’t deviate from. We’ve still got the cliques, as much as we did back then. The snobs hang out with the snobs. The jocks with the jocks. The stoners with the stoners. The geeks with the geeks. And God forbid anyone ever try to breach one of the groups, by themselves or being brought in by someone else. What would people say? What would they think?”

  The last few sentences hit a little too close to home, and I sense the change in the air when she stops abruptly. Then she says, “But you know all about that, don’t you, Mason?”

  I’m shocked by the venom now laced in her voice, where thirty seconds before it was only excitement and passion. Especially when that venom is directed straight at me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. Or have you already forgotten how you basically told me to get the hell out of your house last week because I didn’t belong?”

  Clenching my jaw and gripping the
steering wheel, I grit out, “I never said that.”

  She laughs, but it’s a hollow, mocking sound. “You didn’t have to.”

  “Don’t play that bullshit, Tia. Don’t do that girl thing where you read into shit that’s not there. I said you weren’t like other girls, and that’s one of the reasons—you don’t play games.”

  “Tell me, Mason, how would your other girls react to being told they could only fuck you in deserted parking lots where no one could ever have the chance of seeing them with you? That they couldn’t hang out with you on campus, couldn’t talk to you, couldn’t even look at you. Think they’d go along with it, just because of who you are?”

  My shoulders are stiff, my knuckles white from my grip on the steering wheel, and I have to work hard to keep from shouting. “No fucking way are you putting this all on me. You helped come up with those rules. It’s the same for you, and you know it.”

  “Oh, yeah, because I’m the one vying for President of my fraternity, right? Isn’t that why this whole secrecy thing started in the first place? Just because I’m not part of Greek life doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I’ve known all along why you’ve wanted to keep me stashed away in the dark, only pulling me out when it suits you. And when no one else will see or know. God forbid the Vice President of Zeta Alpha Tau be seen with someone like me.”

  “Don’t act like I haven’t been upfront about that with you. Yeah, I have a good shot at President, and you just said yourself that people stick with their groups, and that includes my frat house. But you can't tell me your roommate would welcome me in if I showed up at your dorm. We both know that’s not true. And we both know if I did that, you’d come up with some lame ass excuse for why I was there. You’re just as bad as I am. At least I’m honest enough to admit it.”

  “Fuck you.” She gets out, slamming the door so hard it shakes the whole car, and then she stomps off in the direction of campus.

  And I do nothing but watch her go.

  * * * * *

  Tia

  After Psych, I swing by the lab on campus and pick up the film roll I dropped off yesterday to be developed. Assuming all my shots came out how I wanted them to, I think I finally have enough B-roll footage for the documentary. And since I spent weeks at the beginning of school interviewing different people from different groups, I’ve got the majority of that done, too. Thankfully, my fellow film students are a diverse and eclectic group, a merging of different social statuses and cliques. Somehow, this melting pot works here.

  The groups I don’t yet have represented? Athletes or Greek life. Before I can work on my storyboard and figure out what exactly I want this documentary to say, I have to get those interviews so I know what direction I’m going in. And I know if I asked, Mason would help me out—I could even kill two birds with one stone and interview him about both. Except we haven’t spoken since last Wednesday after I stormed out of his car, fuming the whole way to campus.

  While I stomped off with anger fueling my path, the farther away from him I got, the more I realized…he was right. As much as I didn’t want that to be true, and as much as I wanted to put it all on him, we’re both guilty of it. We both made a choice to keep this thing between us a secret locked away in a closet, buried deep and ignored whenever it’s brought to light. It’s not fair of me to fault him for the same exact thing I’m doing.

  What would happen, though, if I did acknowledge him? If I smiled in his direction, said hi… Would he return my greeting? Or would he keep walking as I fear he would?

  Needing to take my mind off it and having some time before my last class today—the class I have with Mason—I take the film reel and poke my head in a couple different classrooms in the department, looking for a secluded place to review it. In the end, the only place open is the one we affectionately refer to as The Box. At one time, I think it must’ve been a maintenance closet, but the film department hijacked it. Lots of students hate that you can practically touch opposite walls if you hold your arms out straight, but I like it. Hardly anyone ever wants to come in here, which means no one’s going to bother me while I review the footage I got last week.

  I set up the reel on the projector, then sit down as the machine rumbles to life with a whir. And then it’s there in front of me. My hard work, my creative eye, my vision brought to life. I make notes as it goes, things I think might work best for cutaways during the interviews, shots I really love and want to find a place for.

  All too soon, the touch football game is in front of me. Except the game isn’t what I filmed. Players go in and out a few times during the shot, but the camera isn’t focused on them. It’s focused on him. On Mason. And he’s staring into the lens. It feels like he’s looking right at me. Like he’s looking right through me.

  The weight of his eyes is a heavy kind of comfort, settling deep in my bones. What would it be like if he looked at me like this all the time?

  The doorknob rattles as the reel continues on, jerking my eyes from the picture in front of me, freeing me from the magnetic pull of Mason’s gaze. “Gimme another five minutes, and I’ll be done!”

  That doesn’t stop whoever is on the other side, though, and soon the door creaks opens. A guy is standing there—I can tell by the sheer size of him—backlit by the flood of light from the hallway. I shouldn’t know who it is just based on his outline. Just based on his height or his stance, on the breadth of his shoulders or the shape of him.

  I shouldn’t, but I do.

  Thinking about the dozens of students on the other side of that door, people roaming around, has me reaching out and yanking him inside. I slam the door behind him, then hiss, “Mason. What are you doing here?”

  He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I followed you after your last class.” The projector is still rolling, the light of the film casting a weird glow over our skin, and I can see him cringe. He scrubs a hand over his face. “That sounded a lot less creepy in my head.” Sighing, he drops his hand. “After we left things last week, I just wanted to see you before class. And I wasn’t sure when else I’d get a chance.”

  So he snuck all the way over to this side of campus just to get me alone. I hold my breath, not daring to hope—about what, I don’t know—but my stomach doesn’t get the message, and the butterflies lying dormant inside take flight. “Why did you want to see me?”

  He stares at me in the flickering light of my work against the wall, and it’s the same as it was through the film. I’m sucked in by that gaze, can feel it straight to my toes. Is this new? Or has it always been this way, and I’ve just been too oblivious to notice?

  “Look, I’m sorry, okay?” he finally says. “Not because any of what I said wasn’t true, but because I wish it wasn’t.”

  Despite trying to remain still, my shoulders slump the tiniest bit. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice. Why should I be disappointed, anyway? It’s not like I didn’t know the deal when I went into this thing with him. It’s not like I didn’t agree to the same thing he did.

  The very thing I’m beginning to resent now.

  He reaches out, bringing his hand to curve around my neck, his thumb brushing up and down the length of it. “Are we okay?”

  I swallow down the disappointment and bitterness and remind myself this is exactly what I wanted. This is what works for us. What works for me. Nodding, I say, “We’re okay.”

  He grins the tiniest grin, just one side of his mouth curving up a bit. “So I’ll see you tonight?”

  My stomach knots, the thought of sneaking away, of hiding again…still…settling like a rock in my gut. I push it away, ignore the sensation, chock it up to temporary insanity. Even if we could be out in public together, would I want that? Would I want to deal with the stares, the whispers? Having a bull’s-eye on my back for girls like Taylor to take a shot at? I can’t imagine what it’d be like, sitting in the stands at one of his football games, next to his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Perfect. God, what would they say about this? About me? I’ve shoved my parents ou
t of my life as much as I can, but Mason…he and his family are close. I don’t have to be his best friend or know his deepest, darkest secrets to know that. And it’s not hard to think they’d want the best for him. A film student covered in tattoos and piercings with an attitude barely contained by North America isn’t exactly it.

  I’m quiet so long Mason asks again, uncertainty tingeing his voice. “We’re still on for tonight, right?”

  I shouldn’t say yes. I should end this while I can. While I can still get out relatively unscathed. Before I get deeper and deeper with no escape route. Before I get buried under all our lies and secrets. But I can’t. Not yet.

  I’m not ready to be done. I’m not ready to give him up.

  So I seal my fate, take a step into that wide-open pit and wait for the avalanche to bury me alive. “Yeah, we’re on.”

  Chapter 7

  Mason

  Between classes and football practices and chapter meetings, my schedule is packed. So packed I shouldn’t have time to think about a certain five-foot-nothing girl who drives me fucking crazy. The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about Tia. It’s been like that for longer than I want to admit, but it’s gotten even worse since I found her in that tiny closet of a room. Since we talked, since I apologized for the way things have to be. And though I hate every second of it, of the secrecy and the hiding and sneaking around, it has to be this way.

  Unable to get her out of my mind, I’ve been half tempted every night to stop by Spin and see if she’s working, see if she’d be willing to do an encore performance in one of the listening booths, but something’s stopped me. Something’s held me back from seeking her out just for sex, despite that being what our entire relationship is supposedly based on. Somehow over the past couple of weeks, it’s changed. It’s morphed into something else, something more. Even though I can’t yet define it, I don’t want to rock the boat. I don’t want her thinking the only reason I want to be around her is to get in her pants.