Authors: Prescott Lane
Kathleen could tell Steven was lying but decided to let it go. She would take it up with Mason directly. “I just hope he’s doing what is best for him, and that you are steering him in the right direction. This may be his last contract, you know, with his shoulder and all.”
* * *
Mason could no longer keep the surprise, turning towards the Blumenthal Performing Arts Center. Emory screeched, clapping her hands together, then kissed his cheek. “I can’t believe you’re taking me to the ballet!” The Joffrey Ballet was in Charlotte to perfor
m
Sleeping Beaut
y
, which included her favorite dance the “Rose Adagio.” Emory had tried to get tickets, even using her and Wesley’s dance connections, but no luck. It was sold out for months.
“I can’t believe it either,” Mason joked, then weaved quickly into the valet lane. “We need to hurry. The hallway was fun, but it’s making us late.” Mason led her towards the entrance and presented their tickets to an usher who escorted them to their box seats.
Emory squeezed his hand. “How did you get these amazing seats?” Mason just smiled back at her, as the house lights went down. Being an NFL quarterback -- even a journeyman -- had its perks.
Mason leaned back in his seat, while Emory leaned forward, resting her hands on the ledge, mesmerized for the next two hours. At times, she couldn’t help but move her arms and hands to the music, pointing and flexing her toes for good measure. Mason, as always, enjoyed watching her move, and it helped distract him from the ballet itself, which he found ridiculous, especially the male dancers in make-up twirling around in tights.
Do these dudes call themselves ballerinas? That would be unfortunate
.
It also helped distract him from the audience, young and old alike, stuck-up and overrefined, dressed in their finest black tie, silently enraptured by the absurdity unfolding on stage. He was used to a different stage -- a stadium filled with 70,000 screaming fans wearing jerseys, weathering the elements along with the players, hurling cheers and insults, feasting on beer and brats.
But he tried to harness his contempt tonight. It was this contempt, he regretted, that made him cast aside Emory’s dance career. So to keep himself in check, Mason kept his eyes fixed on Emory. He was proud to be with her. He was proud of himself, too -- for spending two hours of his life this way. It was torture -- but in a good way -- and he figured he deserved it.
This is what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. Making Em happy.
Mason occasionally glanced at the stage. There was one particularly weird scene where two guys and a girl -- he had no idea who the characters were -- were skipping around for some reason. His mind flashed back to the first time he met Wesley, a week or so after he began dating Emory.
He’d arrived at the college theater, unannounced as usual, to watch Emory practice, but she wasn’t alone this night. A shiver went down his spine, as a young man pressed his body against hers, his hands sliding around her hips, legs, and waist, her leg draped around his body. Her leotard rose up, and his hands dropped lower and lower. “What the fuck is this?” Mason yelled, charging down the center aisle from the back of the theater, hurling himself onto the stage and tackling the man to the ground. “I’m going to kick your fucking ass!”
Emory screamed, as she pulled Mason off the man. “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” Mason paced the stage, circling his victim as she tended to him. “What were you doing?”
“Dancing, asshole!”
“Looked like you two were dry humping! Like porn ballet or some shit!”
“For the love of God, Wesley is my dance partner!” She pushed on Mason’s chest. “You’re such an idiot!”
Emory helped the man from the floor. He dusted himself off, and extended his hand. “I’m Wesley. Emory’s told me a lot about you.” Mason glared at his hand, angry Emory hadn’t told him she had a partner, and even more pissed this guy just groped his girlfriend in places he hadn’t even touched. An awkward silence fell between the men and Emory, and Wesley decided to put them all out of their misery. “I’m gay.”
“Oh?” Mason’s heart sank, feeling like the complete idiot Emory said he was. “Well, uh, in that case, it’s nice to meet you.” He shook Wesley’s hand, then apologized profusely.
The house lights of the Blumenthal Performing Arts Center came on, Mason thankful he’d survived all the skipping and twirling around, as Emory thanked him for a wonderful evening. He kissed her nose and forehead. “The night’s not over.”
* * *
An eager maitre d’ in a trendy downtown restaurant approached Mason and Emory. “Good evening, sir and madame,” he said with a slight bow. “Please follow me. We have everything ready.” Emory, surprised by the greeting and high service, looked approvingly at Mason, then both followed the maitre d’. He ushered them to the “cheater’s booth,” isolated from other tables, and opened the curtains for Mason and Emory to walk inside. “I trust you’ll find everything to your specifications.” Mason gave a nod, and he quickly excused himself, drawing the curtains as he left.
Emory’s eyes sparkled, surveying the assortment of desserts on the table. “Dessert first tonight!” he said.
She kissed him on the cheek, then removed her coat and sat down, Mason sliding across the booth next to her. “I can’t believe you did this!” She grabbed her fork to dig in. “I don’t know where to start.”
Mason chuckled, picking up a strawberry. He dipped it in cream, and placed it softly in her mouth. She moaned, thanking him with a slow suck on his fingers. As she did, the server called out from outside the curtains, asking for permission to open them. Emory giggled, as Mason slid his fingers out of her mouth, Emory gliding her tongue along her lips, taking in all the cream. After she made her last lick, Mason granted permission to the server, who then took their drink orders and promised to return quickly, closing the curtains behind him.
“Did you enjoy the ballet?” she asked.
He took a bite of cheesecake. “It wa
s
tremendou
s
.”
“Liar.” She carved off a piece of key lime pie.
“Let me rephrase,” he said. “It was tremendous being with you.”
“I put on a pretty good show,” she said suggestively. “I’m sure you remember.”
Mason raised his brow and leaned in to kiss her. “Will there be a private show tonight, maybe? We could just use this booth.”
No underwear
.
“You could just hike up your dress a little.”
Emory blushed. “I’m sure that would work out well with the server coming in and out.”
“I think so. We could entertain him.” Mason took a bite of chocolate cake. “It would be instead of a tip.” The server returned with their drinks, and Emory granted permission this time, getting a thrill being in total control. He dropped off the drinks and left. “Seriously,” Mason said, kissing the tip of her nose and forehead, “I could stay at your place tonight, and then we head off to Atlanta in the morning.”
Emory waved her fork at him. “Or you could pick me up for the airport in the morning.”
He kissed her neck. “Or you could come stay with me at the hotel tonight.”
“We’re going slow, remember?” She gently shoved him away, trying to control her own desires. “I think separate beds are better tonight.”
“OK,” he said, grabbing another strawberry. “I’ll try another day.”
“I know you will. Now pass me the bread pudding.”
* * *
From his bedroom, Wesley heard the front door open and close. It was nearly midnight. He figured it was Emory, but had expected her much later, or not at all. He wondered whether Mason was with her. He shut off the television in his room, picked up his popcorn bowl, and walked into the den, finding Emory with her eyes closed, leaning against the front door, smiling broadly, her hand resting over her heart.
“Is that sex afterglow?”
“No. Just happiness, I suppose.” Emory floated into the den, removing her heels along the way. She fell onto the sofa, and Wesley took a seat beside her.
“So you had a good time?”
“He took me to the ballet,” she said, her head still in the clouds.
“Mason took you to th
e
balle
t
?” Wesley cocked his head and gave her a side-eye. “He must have wanted to nap.”
She delivered a gentle elbow to his stomach. “I forgot to tell you. I’m going to Atlanta in the morning with Mason to see his doctor.”
“How long are you going to be gone?” he asked, with a hint of anxiety.
“Just tomorrow, Friday night.” Emory patted his leg. “And I promise, you and I will spend Saturday night together.”
“What about Mason?”
“Mason doesn’t change what you and I have, Wesley. Just like Eric and Tomás didn’t. I’ll always make time for you. Mason knows that.” She stood up from the sofa and pulled him up. “At least he better.”
Wesley smiled mischievously. “There’s a Charles Bronson marathon on. Want to watch with me?”
“Let’s put Charles on in my bedroom while you help me pack.”
Wesley stretched out on her bed and turned on the television, while Emory plucked various outfits from her dresser and closet. But she reached a point that stumped her. “I don’t know what to do.” Wesley shoved popcorn in his mouth, watching Charles destroy three bad guys at once, each with a different weapon. Emory waved her arms in front of him. “Hello? You are supposed to be helping me, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Wesley sat up. “This was just a really good part. What’s wrong, babe?”
“I’m not sure what to pack to sleep in.”
“I’m sure Mason would prefer you pack nothing.”
“Maybe I should text him and see what he has planned?”
“No, that’s lame. If he has any surprises, he won’t want to tell you.” Wesley walked to her dresser and opened two drawers, pulling out a pair of boxer shorts and a cotton shirt. “This will do.” He folded them in her bag and resumed his position on the bed, extending his arm for her to snuggle.
“I love you, Wesley,” she said, getting into bed and patting his chest.
“I know.”
Emory heard her phone ding and reached for it on her nightstand. She read Mason’s text to herself.
Thanks for a great night. I love you
.
Wesley looked at her face, as she looked at her phone, obvious to him who sent the text. “You should tell him you have another man in your bed.”
“Not if you want to live.”
“Probably right. Let’s keep our snuggles between us.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They sat in the small examination room waiting for the doctor to arrive. They’d waited over an hour. Emory was tired of waiting and tired from her late night with Mason and Wesley and the early morning flight to Atlanta. Mason fidgeted with his phone and paced the small confines of the room. He took a seat on the examination table.
Emory patted him on the back. “Nervous?”
“No,” he fibbed, wiping his hand on his pant leg. “More nervous about what I have planned for tonight.”
“Oh, really?”
Emory leaned towards Mason and gave him a kiss, interrupted by a knock at the door. A middle-aged, pudgy-faced nurse entered with a disapproving look. She approached Mason and removed the sling from his arm. He stretched his arms in the air and flashed a huge smile.
Freedom
!
The nurse didn’t seem to care and advised Dr. Lewis would be in shortly. Before leaving, she told Mason to remove his shirt and extended another disapproving look for good measure.
“What was her problem?”
“I don’t know. They’re always real hard asses here.” Mason captured Emory with both arms. “Forget about her. Now I can use both my hands. You’re in so much trouble.”
Emory giggled and planted a quick kiss on his lips. Mason removed his shirt, giving Emory her first real look at his scar, several inches long and discolored with purple and red blotches. Her face quickly changed, and she stopped giggling, stunned by what she saw, slowly tracing a finger along the outline of the scar, then kissing his shoulder.
“I had no idea it was this bad.”
“It looks worse than it is,” he said, suddenly aware he hadn’t prepared Emory for what she was going to see or hear.
“How much pain have you . . . .”
The door flew open, and Emory quickly took a seat in the corner of the room. Dr. Lewis walked in and sat in a swivel chair in front of Mason. He was an old, crusty man, with a pointy face and long delicate hands, draped in a white lab coat covering a tie and pocket protector. He lacked any kind of bedside manner, but athletes throughout the country sought him out to rehabilitate and revive their careers. They didn’t give a damn about his charm or good company. Dr. Lewis was the foremost orthopedic surgeon in the Southeast.