The Book of Masks (Vol. 2)

Just Desserts

Previously: "A Mission in the Dark" 

If you had the magical means to make the floor open up and swallow you, you'd use it. Chelsea's request tears you into about five different pieces.

Of course you want to spend lunch time up here with her. You know exactly what kind of "lunch" she is suggesting, and you almost burst out of your skin -- the fake Gordon skin and your real skin beneath -- with excitement. The gorgeous, haughty head cheerleader, who sent her goon boyfriend to beat you up, is asking you to screw her. She is panting for it, even.

Gordon's lizard brain wants it too. Chelsea rarely asks to be laid; usually Gordon has to beg her for a tumble. When she does ask, he lunges for it.

But you can also feel Gordon lunging in another direction. Don't you fucking touch my girlfriend, he screams in the back of your head. I will fuck you up more than you think is possible.

Or is that your voice screaming while pretending to be his? Because you also feel deep guilt just for being tempted. Didn't you and Gordon basically promise to be friends back at the elementary school? Is this what friends do? Sleep with their girlfriends?

But he more or less gave you permission to occasionally do it with Chelsea. He knows it's impossible for you to play him otherwise.

Maybe this is a way to compromise: You do it when Chelsea asks for it, but you don't make any moves on her.

Well, not serious ones.

It's taken you an awkwardly long time to come to this decision, and Chelsea's expression has turned both fearful and disbelieving. "Yeah, let's have lunch, that'd be great," you say.

Your words don't seem to reassure her. "You don't sound like you mean it," she says in a small voice.

"I was just thinking about my schedule today, making sure I could take a lunch like that," you tell her, and it sounds very lame. "We'll meet up here for lunch and -- "

Even now, with your desire (and your cock) so hard, and with a self-bestowed blessing, you hesitate before putting your mouth to hers. But instinct takes over once your lips touch, and your tongues slide over each other and into each other's mouths. She tastes like raspberries. You suck gently at her, and sigh --

And you realize your breath tastes very bad. You pull back. "Sorry," you murmur. "I spent the night up here, I didn't brush my teeth."

"It's okay," she says, and strokes one side of your head while nibbling at the other. "Want me to get you some gum or something from my locker?"

"Please." You grunt and make another stretch, and get up. You don't try to hide your swollen cock as you stand, though you nearly poke Chelsea's eye out with it. "Can you leave it up here? I gotta get down to the floor."

"You need a cold shower first," she titters.

"I'll watch Richards make a few free throws. That'll kill everything south of my neck." You jerk and flail while pretending to make a free throw. "Fuck, I don't know what I'm going to do about him."

Chelsea goes and you sweep on a sleeveless tee, then slip on socks and shoes. A quick jog in place -- you missed your run this morning -- to limber up the joints, and you go downstairs to run the practice.

* * * * *

"You gonna cut Richards?" Patterson asks. He's swaggering along beside you toward the main building; here, on the open ground, the crowds part for you and him (and Jason, who's trotting along behind your other elbow) without you having to do anything.

"I dunno. Maybe. I don't like losing a guy, but is there anyone else in this shithole who's any better?"

"We could have open tryouts to find out."

"Coach won't go for that." By unspoken tradition, when you reach the double doors, Patterson opens one and you open the other and you go in at the same time. People are coming toward you, but you bulldoze through them, knocking them sideways but otherwise ignoring them.

"Do we give a fuck? Just don't make it official," says Patterson. "Put the word out we're auditioning people -- "

"I'm not gonna call it a fucking audition, okay? Christ, you want Hartlein showing up?"

"That'd be hilarious," Lynch sniggers. "Can you see him -- ?"

"No I can't," you retort.

"Call it whatever the fuck you want," says Patterson. "Just make it open to people, let's see if there's anyone good enough." A sophomore doesn't get out of his way quick enough for his taste, and he grabs the kid by the head and hurls him into a wall. "Or what about Rojas?"

"Jay-vee Rojas? Fuck that, I'm not bringing up -- "

"He's good enough."

"He's on the jay-vee. Those fuckers need to know their place. I dunno. A tryout might not be a bad idea. I dunno." You've reached your locker by now, and since your neighbors know better than to block it, you've no trouble opening it and getting the day's books. Luckily, you'd left your book bag in the Bug all weekend instead of taking them in the house with you, so you've got your homework with you too. Patterson claps you on the shoulder and says he'll see you at lunch. "Hey, no you won't," you call after him. "Forgot to mention." You grin and waggle an eyebrow. "I'm eating out with Chelsea. She asked me to."

"Dawg," Patterson drawls with a faint smile.

* * * * *

First and second periods pass quickly and easily. At the end of second you rendezvous with Chelsea at her classroom, and escort her -- arms wrapped around each other, palming each other's asses -- to her class in the language wing, where you high-five Patterson as he's coming out. "I'll be up in the loft waiting when you get out," you murmur in Chelsea's ear. She giggles and blows gently in your ear.

You stop in the restroom first, though, and you stop dead just inside the door. Seth Javits is standing on the far side, and he grins at you. He's got his hands raised as though in the middle of a free throw.

You look to your side. A very miserable Keith Tilley is standing in the trash can, with discarded paper towels bunched up around his hips. He flinches but doesn't otherwise try to protect himself as something small and wet hits him in the side of the head.

"Yo, wanna take a couple of shots?" Javits calls to you. He yanks a paper towel from the holder, runs it under the water pouring from the faucet, and squeezes it into a tight, hard ball. Then he cocks his arms, gives a little jump, and flings it to score another bulls-eye on Tilley's cheek.

"Christ." You grab Keith by the collar and hurl him -- the can following -- to the floor, sending him and the garbage flying. "Get up, you pathetic shit. Clean that up -- " You barely keep yourself from kicking him on the floor. "Clean all that up and get the fuck out of here. And don't let me catch you playing backboard in here again, or I'll take you into the gym myself and jam you ass-first through a hoop."

Javits laughs as Tilley scrambles about over the tile floor. But the laugh turns into a gasp as you lift him by the belt and bash him against the wall. His teeth rattle. "And instead of fucking around with your ladyboy over there, why don't you do something about your girlfriend?"

He blinks. "You mean Cindy?"

"No, I mean Richards, you faggot. You're practically spooning with him out there on the court when you should be kicking his ass. You heard me this morning, I'm this close to cutting him, and instead of sucking him off you should be manning him up." You bash him against the wall again. "What are you gonna do when I cut him and then you don't got the squad to play beard for you and him when we're traveling?" You press up close, and push a hoarse sigh out of him. "That's what you were planning on, right? You and him rooming, and doing it in both beds when we're on the road? You better fucking help me straighten his shit out, or you're gonna have to ask Cindy to start taking it anally while answering to Richards' name. You get me?" You give him one more blow for good measure before dropping him.

He's very pale. "I'll talk to him, Gordon, I'll work with him -- "

"I don't want you to work with him, asshole, I want you to make him fucking work!"

"I will! Any special drills or skills?" he stammers.

"All of them! No time off for either of you! If you got enough time between classes to -- " You look over your shoulder in time to see Tilley crawling out the door on his hands and knees. "Who was that, anyway?"

"Name's Tilley, he's -- "

"I don't give a shit. If you got time for that fuckbag, you got time for Richards." You put your chest against his and push him against the wall. "Or I'll hang you offa one of our backboards, and we'll all take turns bouncing a basketball off your face!"

You grab him by the ear and hurl him toward the exit. "Now watch the door while I take a shit."

It's the best you can do for Keith, and you doubt it'll really make a difference even in the short term: Javits will still find time to torment him. But maybe he'll feel a little better for having seen Javits be tormented himself.

* * * * *

Third period is study hall, and you spend it doing homework. You're starving, having had a workout without breakfast and with no prospect of lunch. As the middle of the period you're sorely tempted to call your doppelganger and ask him to bring you his lunch.

Next: "A Date with Another Guy's Girl" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 2)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 2)"