Sweet Obsession

by J. Daniels

  The hairs on my neck stand up. I’ve never heard him this angry before.

  I’ve never heard him angry at all.

  Lowering my hand from my mouth, I turn to Mason. “Where did you find this?” I ask, moving closer.

  “Your room. It had your name on it. I thought it was a home video or something.”

  His shoulders stay hunched forward. His gaze straight ahead, burning into the screen.

  I picture the disc on my shelf. I had stuck it up there and left it. I haven’t touched it since.

  “You as a kid, or with your mates. I wanted to see that,” he adds, rubbing at his mouth. “Not this,” he mumbles.

  I pinch my eyes shut, then shake my head, looking up. “I forgot it was in there. I’m so, so sorry. Here. Turn it off.”

  He wrenches his arm away when I reach for him. His cold eyes send a shiver through me. “Don’t.”

  I pull back. He doesn’t want me to touch him? “Mason.”

  “You were in there awhile. I got to watch the whole thing. You and him.” He jerks his head at the T.V. .

  The pain in his voice distorts his accent a bit. His words sound stiff. Fully pronounced, unlike the lazy, sluggish speech I’m used to hearing and loving.

  I press my fingers to my mouth, shaking slightly.

  Oh, God. He watched the whole thing.

  “No,” I whisper.

  Any part of this, a second or a glimpse is too much for him to see. But all of it?

  He slowly turns his head, his blue eyes so dark they almost look black. “The whole fucking thing, Brooke.”

  My stomach drops. “Mason, I . . . just, turn it off.” I reach out again. “Let’s get rid of this. You shouldn’t keep looking at it.”

  “Why not?”

  He tosses the remote. It hits the coffee table with a loud pang.

  I jump. “Mason.”

  “Why the fuck not? I’ve watched it. It’s out in the open now. It’s no longer a secret.”

  “It was never a secret.”

  “Yeah? Everyone knew about it but me, huh? When was this taken, Brooke?” he asks, looming over me. His pain shifting to a louder reaction. Anger. “When I wasn’t fucking you? Did you go out and get it somewhere else?”

  “W-What?” I blink up at him, my voice sounding miles away.

  Is he seriously implying I’ve been screwing around on him?

  “No! This was months ago. Before I met you. How could you say that?”

  “How could I say that?” he laughs darkly. His lips curling against his teeth. “I don’t know. Maybe because that’s all you’ve cared about this entire time. I was just a hard dick you wanted, right? And you weren’t getting it.”

  “No, you weren’t . . .” My voice shakes. Tears well up in my eyes.

  What is happening?

  “No?” he asks, disbelieving. He runs a rough hand down his face. I catch the slight tremble in it. “Jesus Christ. Why do you even have this? Do you fucking watch it? Do you and your mates sit around and get off on this together?”

  I gape at him, expecting him to recoil at his own words. To apologize and take them back, but he doesn’t. He stares at me with nothing but disgust and anger swelling in his eyes. Maybe a hint of sadness. A shred of what I’m feeling.

  I’m having a nightmare. This can’t be real.

  I ball up my fists as tears spill onto my cheeks. “No, we don’t. I have it so he doesn’t have it. I took it months ago, after it was filmed, months ago. I’ve never watched it. What is wrong with you?”

  He gestures at the T.V., bending to get closer. “I just watched you getting fucked by someone else. You. And you’re going to ask what’s wrong with me? I just saw another man having his hands on you, his dick in you, and the woman I care about more than anything getting off on it. I just watched you fucking come!”

  “You were never supposed to see that! I forgot I even had it. Jesus Christ,” I cry, wiping at my face, my entire body trembling. “I don’t even remember that guy’s name.”

  I regret it the second the words fall past my lips.

  I know how this sounds. Careless. Even worse than that.

  His eyes widen. Mouth slack as he straightens a bit. “Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better, Brooke. You make these tapes with just anyone, yeah? Are there more in your room? Or do you keep them out here for everyone to watch?”

  Flinching, I look away. “Stop,” I plead, whimpering quietly against my hand.

  Please, stop.

  “Christ. Did you . . .” Mason’s harsh voice trails off. He moves to turn away but I grip his shoulder, forcing him to look at me.

  I know. I don’t know how, but I know what he wants to ask me. And if he has the balls to think it, he can fucking . . .

  “Say it,” I urge, my lip quivering, my rage consuming me. “What were you going to say? Say it!”

  My hands push and pull at his chest. I can’t decide what I want, him closer or far enough away I can’t hit him. I’m so mad, so shattered. I want him to comfort me and then stand there and take my abuse.

  “Fucking say it, Mason!”

  Fat tears stream steadily down my face.

  He looks down at me, his own eyes brimming now. “Did you tell me all of that just so I would fuck you?”

  “What do you think?” I ask him, but I can’t hear my own voice. It’s so quiet compared to the blood rushing in my veins. To my heartbeat pounding in my skull.

  I want to scream and scream. I want to wake up.

  Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

  Mason looks away. He doesn’t say a word, but the answer I hear is so fucking loud it rings in my ears and reminds me just how real this is. I’m not stuck in a dream, or a nightmare.

  I’m awake. I’m awake and I’m alone. Drowning.

  I cry silently, my shoulders shaking. “I did,” I whisper, grabbing his stare, which goes from shock to crippling grief in an instant.

  Why? I’m only confirming what he thinks.

  I tilt my wobbling chin up to get closer. “I did. It was all a lie. All of it. Everything I said to you. Everything I gave. When I chose you . . .” I sob, sniffing and weeping in my sorrow.

  I don’t even care. God, let him see me like this. Let him see what he’s done.

  He nods, turning away and wiping at his own face now. “Fine.” He moves with purpose toward the door, his feet heavy on the carpet.

  I follow behind. “You think it. It must be true. Nothing mattered to me. Our dates and that night in the tent. Yesterday and the day before and the day before that. So go! Leave! Get out knowing you meant nothing and I hate you! I will hate you for this!”

  He pauses at the door, his head lowered and his hand gripping the knob. His shoulders lifted in tension. His back shaking.

  This is it. That one second we have to take everything back. To tell the truth and admit our wrongs. To forgive and move forward.

  To make this nothing more than a nightmare.

  Reach for me. Reach for me. Take me. Don’t let me go.

  I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Nothing, but a whimpering cry.

  Without a sound, without giving me another look or word or pleading glance, Mason swings the door open and exits the condo.

  Probably for the last time.

  I dart across the room and fling myself into bed, letting my tears fall. I cry for hours, clutching at my pillow, biting and screaming into it until my voice cracks and my throat burns.

  The pain, God, the pain in my chest. This ache. I feel like I’m dying.

  How could he say those things? How could he even think them?

  Mason.

  I sob, picturing his face, staring at that T.V. like a man possessed, ready to explode. Scream or cry, I couldn’t tell. Then, the disgust simmering in his eyes when he told me what he watched. The hurt. Tears welling up and threatening when he asked me if I ever really loved him, and the agony on his face when I lied.

  I gasp and clutch at my chest.

 
God, someone rip this out of me. Take it away so I don’t feel anything anymore.

  “Brooke, sweetie, are you okay?”

  I hear Billy’s voice hours later, after the darkness rolls into my bedroom and blankets me. I open my swollen eyes, trying to see through the tears. Light from the outside room spills across the ceiling. I squint, focusing on Joey’s face as he sits beside me. Billy looks on, standing next to the bed.

  “What’s going on?” Joey asks, studying me. His hand squeezing my shoulder. “And what the hell is that out there on the T.V.? Is that you?”

  I cover my face and wail, sobbing into my hands.

  How do I still have any tears left?

  “Oh, no. What happened?” Joey rubs my arm. “Is it Mason? Did you two get into a fight?”

  I sit up and draw my knees against my chest. I wipe the wetness from my cheeks even though it’s pointless. New tears fall.

  “Yes, we got into a fight. A huge fucking fight. He found that disc in my room and he watched it. All of it. I didn’t know until it was too late. I forgot I even had it.”

  Joey’s eyes go wide. “From like, six months ago? The Cuban guy?”

  “Yes!” I shriek. Thank you! Both men startle. “Yes, from six months ago! Mason accused me of making that after him and I started hanging out. He said I only cared about fucking and since I wasn’t getting it from him, I probably went somewhere else.” My lip trembles. “He said so much,” I whisper, remembering everything and feeling that pain in the center of my chest swelling inside me. “He was so mad, and mean. God, he was mean. He made me feel like a,” I pause, biting my tongue and shaking my head.

  No. No, I won’t say it. Don’t even think it.

  Whore.

  My eyes sting.

  “You know he didn’t mean any of that,” Billy says, moving closer and tugging at the knot in his tie. “He was reacting, Brooke. How I’m sure a lot of us would react if we saw what he saw. He loves you.”

  “It still doesn’t make it acceptable,” Joey snaps. He waves a hand in my direction. “Look at her. Look at how upset she is.”

  “I’m sure he was just as upset, if not more.”

  “He was upset,” I whisper, feeling two sets of eyes on me as I stare at the comforter. “Seeing that, it hurt him.”

  “Good.”

  I look up at Joey, then at Billy. Both of them reacting two different ways to this.

  Staring at them is like physically being able to dig my heart out of my chest and look at it in my hands. There would be a line drawn down the middle. Two bleeding sides of me, reacting with equal passion and reason.

  I hate Mason for what he said, but I get what pushed him to say it.

  I love him. I love him, but I want him to feel what I’m feeling right now.

  Sighing, feeling like every muscle in my body has been stretched and pummeled with a thousand fists, with my eyes burning and tears leaking and dripping down my face, I scoot down the bed and curl against my pillow again, clutching it to my chest.

  A hand strokes my leg. “It’ll be okay, Brooke. It will. I promise,” Billy reassures me.

  I wish I can take comfort in that. Maybe tomorrow he can tell me again and it’ll sink in.

  Joey pushes my hair off my face and kisses my forehead. “Is there anything you want me to do? Issue a few death threats? Egg someone’s fancy new studio?”

  I close my eyes. “Just get me out of bed tomorrow. I need to practice on that wedding cake.”

  “You got it.”

  I hear his footsteps trailing away.

  “Oh, and Joey?” I lift my head.

  He braces himself in the doorway, raising an expectant eyebrow.

  “Get rid of that fucking disc.”

  JOEY (OMG)

  I drum my fingers on the counter as my last ounce of patience is stretched thin.

  This bitch right here. If she doesn’t move her snippy ass along, I’m going to have to search for the number to those window repair men we used a few years back. I am not above violence today. Not after the weekend I’ve had. But only classy violence, of course. A nice hard shove in the right direction never hurt anyone. If she happens to go sailing through a window in the process, that’s on her. I am merely directing her toward the exit she can’t seem to locate on her own.

  Firmly directing her.

  Tapping her manicured finger on her chin, the woman in front of me, who has been debating on her selection for the past thirty-seven minutes, admires the left side of the case.

  Again.

  For the sixth time.

  “These muffins right here.” She points at a tray while glaring at me from overtop of her glasses. “Are those raisins?”

  “The ones labeled cranberry raisin muffins?” I arch my eyebrow. “Yes, those are indeed raisins. We try not to lie to customers here as much as we can. What with allergies and everybody wanting to sue everybody.”

  “Mm.” She pinches her heavily lined lips together. “I’m not sure about raisins. They tend to make whatever dough they’re in a bit on the dry side.”

  “Nothing in this bakery is dry, I assure you.”

  Except for your vagina. When was the last time that thing saw any action? Prohibition?

  I watch her walk along the counter. Back and forth. Back and forth. She leans in close, admires a treat or two while pinching the side of her glasses, then pulls back and resumes her leisurely as fuck perusal.

  Breathe, Joey. Keep your fabulous shit together. No mauling the customers. They pay you. You love them.

  Stopping directly across from me, the woman glances up. She looks bored out of her mind. “I don’t see any gluten free options available. That’s a shame. You know, Whipped over on Madison offers an alternative menu for people who have digestive troubles.”

  I tilt my head. “Whipped also caters to rodents. They were busted two weeks ago by the health department for a rat infestation.”

  Her eyes flicker a hair wider. “Oh, I . . . wasn’t aware of that.” She clears her throat, studying the case again.

  Tension builds in my shoulders. I close my eyes and think of my happy place.

  Billy on his knees, his finger probing my ass and his sweet mouth wrapped around my . . .

  A loud clanging noise arises from the kitchen.

  My head snaps in the direction of the doorway, then back at the woman who startles, a little too dramatically even for my taste, slapping a hand to her heaving chest as her eyes shift frantically around the room.

  “What in the world was that?”

  I grit my teeth.

  Brooke. Poor thing is on the verge of a complete, epic meltdown back there. She has three modes I’ve seen her in the past three days—hysterically crying, angrier than my mother when she doesn’t get a drink by noon, and so utterly stressed she paces around the kitchen, shaking and talking to herself.

  Christ, it’s only Monday. Between the Mason incident and this goddamn wedding, Brooke might need serious therapy by the end of the week.

  I also might need some serious therapy by the end of the week.

  Laughing off the disruption from the kitchen, I wave my hand in the air. “By the sound of it, I’m going to guess a sheet tray hitting the floor. I apologize for that. We’re just so busy back there making things that aren’t dry.”

  The woman adjusts her glasses, cutting a look at me.

  I flick a few strands of hair off my forehead.

  Bitch.

  My phone beeps in my pocket. I tug it out as the woman continues wasting my time.

  Dylan: What was that? Is Brooke breaking shit now? I know she’s upset but she needs to remember where she is, Joey. HANDLE IT.

  Sweet Christ. Why couldn’t she be on bed rest at her mother’s?

  Me: Ease up on the shouty caps, cupcake. Everything is under control.

  Dylan: BETTER BE. (I love you)

  Me: BITCH. (love you too)

  “Is this all fresh? When were these pastries made?” The woman taps two fingers agg
ressively on top of the glass. “They don’t look as moist as they should.”

  I breathe in deeply through my nose, feeling the veins in my neck bulging, reminding myself again how much I love this job and the woman upstairs I don’t want to piss off by murdering someone in the middle of her shop.

  The woman sighs exhaustedly. “Do you offer any beverages here? Coffee, at least? Most upscale bakeries do nowadays.”

  That’s it. Fuck her and the stick up her ass. I am done.

  Forcing the fakest smile I’ve ever worn, I put my phone away and gesture at the case. “No, no coffee. This is a bakery, not a Starbucks. And everything in front of you is fresh and made daily. We here at Dylan’s Sweet Tooth are all big fans of moist things. I myself am like a ripe peach, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Her overly plucked eyebrows pull together. “Excuse me?”

  I glance at the clock on the wall. “A peach. You know, the fruit. I’m sure you’ve noticed the tarts on the middle tray in the case you’ve been staring at for the past forty-five minutes. Those are indeed peaches right there. Now, if I can interest you in a cupcake or anything today, please let me know. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask you to take your fresh little attitude and that knock-off Coach . . .”

  She gasps.

  “Yeah, I see you . . . and head on down the street. This here is an establishment where people come in and purchase things. I know, I am stunning, but unfortunately I am not an exhibit, and neither are the treats in front of me.”

  The woman blinks rapidly, looking affronted.

  I feel like I just came.

  “Well.” She tightens her grip on her handbag and glares at me, her nostrils flaring with her breathing. “I suppose if I’m being rushed, I’ll take three of the mocha chocolate cupcakes,” she huffs, tipping her chin. “Those look the most appealing.”

  Grinning, I grab a box. “Excellent.”

  After taking her money and walking her to the door, just to make sure she gets the fuck out, I spin around and head for the kitchen.

  Brooke is sitting on a stool, her head lowered and her fingers rubbing in slow circles against her temple. The sheet tray I thought I heard is on the floor near the supply shelf. As for the rest of the kitchen, it’s a mess. The worktop is covered in baking materials. Flour is spilled. A stool is turned over. Brooke’s practice wedding cake, which looked pretty damn perfect yesterday, now has a chunk missing out of the top tier.