The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)

How to Break a Date, by Chelsea Cooper

Previously: "The Skin You'll Live In" 

There are lots of reasons for sabotaging Chelsea's Saturday-afternoon date with her boyfriend, and only one good reason to keep it.

And that one reason—if you're going to be Chelsea Cooper, you'd better act in character as her—isn't nearly enough to sway you.

But how to squirm out of it? This "date" was Chelsea's own idea for once: The humiliation she poured out over Sydney McGlynn actually left her horny. You can still feel it, as a dying itch down in your new loins.

And Gordon will be back soon, if he's not back already, so you turn to the clothes. You cluck at the way they're all wadded them up, and shake them out before putting them on: panties, bra, a slip, the corset-like top and the skirt; the hose and the shoes ... Piece by piece you pull them on, enjoying the sense of sexy clothes binding tightly to your sexy body.

Maybe it's getting you deeper into character, too, for as you work you feel a hot and familiar irritation creeping over you. What's keeping Gordon? It's been thirty minutes at least since he left to get some condoms—the upstairs supply having run out—and it's not like him to wait patiently for you. He should be out in the gym hollering for you or slapping a basketball around. Christ, it's the only two things he cares about: jamming his balls into one of two kinds of basket.

Once dressed, you push your hair into some kind of shape instead of brushing it out, and make a quick duck face at yourself in the mirror. You pack up the remaining magic supplies into your locker and stride out of the changing room with a frown and a glare.

The court is empty. You cross the gym to the foot of the stairs to the loft and shout up them: "Gordon?"

No answer. "Gordon!"

God damn it. Where the hell is he? You cross over to the side door and step outside.

You freeze at the sight: Sydney McGlynn with her arms folded, chatting easily with your boyfriend.

Inwardly, you grin: Thank you, Sydney, for making it easy.

Outwardly, you flush. "Pookie?" you call out in your evenest tone.

Gordon jerks and looks around. Even from thirty feet away, you can see the surprise, confusion, fear, guilt, consternation, anger, and rueful surrender wash over his expression, all in about three seconds flat.

Sydney just turns a blank smile onto you. "Hey Chelsea," she says.

"Did we move the party out here?" you ask.

"I'll see you later," Gordon murmurs to Sydney.

You feel your face tightening into a hard mask as he trudges over with hanging head. Sydney frowns at you, but you shoot her a venomous glare and tuck your arm into Gordon's as you accompany him inside. You make sure to dig your fingernails into the muscle.

"It sure took you a long time to get back," you observe after the door has slammed behind you.

"Yeah," he sighs. "Traffic was bad, and I, uh—"

"What were you talking to Sydney about?"

"Oh, nothing. We weren't even talking, we were just passing each other, and—"

"What's she doing up here?"

"I dunno. Like I say, we were just passing, we'd just said 'hi' to each other—"

"Gordon. Pookie."

You stop. Inertia carries him another step before he jerks to a stop too. His eyes can't meet yours.

"You know why I wanted to come up here," you tell him.

"Sure. You wanted to, uh—"

"I was in the mood. I told you I was in the mood. We had that squad meeting, and it put me in the mood."

"Yeah." A slight smile tugs at his lips. "So—"

"It was on account of Sydney that I was in the mood."

"Uh huh?" There's a flutter at his throat as he swallows.

You put a hand on your hip.

"Well, now I'm not in the mood. I'm not in the mood anymore, Gordon. The mood's totally gone. Like, ffwhhhtt! Do you know how come, on what account, it's gone?"

"I told you traffic was bad—"

"It's on account of her, you fucking asshole!"

Gordon cowers.

"God damn it, Gordon!" Tears explode from your eyes. "You fucking stop? And you fucking talk? To that fucking scrunt? While you're on your way back to fuck me? Fuck you, Gordon!" You jab him hard in the breastbone with a sharp finger. "What, were you getting yourself a picture, a picture you could pretend you were fucking while you were fucking me?"

"Chelsea!"

"Go away! Don't fucking touch me!"

"It's not my fault!"

"Whose fucking fault is it then? What's she doing up here? Did you set it up with her, text her to come up here and—?"

"Chels!"

With a stifled sob you wheel and run into the changing room. The tears are real, and with blurred vision you bang into a wall as run. "Go home, Gordon!" you shriek. "I'll find my own way home! Just go away, I don't want to see you again until—! Until—!"

You gulp and gag. Never would be your preferred time frame for seeing that gorilla again. You loose a short, sharp scream so he'll know he needs to get lost.

After brushing the tears away, you retrieve your cell phone from your locker and scamper back into the toilets. You feel a spurt of hot fury at the sight of Sydney's texts, but the anger sweetens into glee as you tap in a new message to her: Text me when Gordons gone.

It's a minute before she texts back, ok and another before she texts, He's gone. What now?

Be out in five min, you reply, then spend a quarter hour carefully repairing your makeup before striding out into the parking lot to meet Sydney with a bright grin.

* * * * *

Your duplicate is with her of course, but you ignored him totally as he drove the two of back to your new house. On the way, you prattle in a gleeful way about how you managed to kill Chelsea's afternoon plans so you could hang out with Sydney instead. She listens with a quizzical silence.

On the way up to your bedroom, with your arm in hers, snuggling up close, you whisper in her ear: "Listen," you whisper to her, "if anyone finds out you came back over, we'll have to tell them it was so I could ream you out about coming on to my boyfriend."

"You sure are taking this seriously, Will."

"I have to. Shouldn't I?" You pull her into the bedroom and shut the door with a titter. "God, this is already, like, the best afternoon ever."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean? Dur!" You splay your hands and legs as though you've just come out of a series of backflips and tumbles. "How am I doing? Convincing?"

Her nostrils flare. "I don't know Chelsea, but you seem like you're doing a pretty good impression of ... someone who isn't you, Will."

"I told you the mask would come through. Oh, God, Sydney!"

You fly at her and catch her in your arms. Now she's a little taller than you, and you're easily able to bury your face in the crook of her neck. Her skin is hot and satiny, and you rub your forehead into it. "I'm sorry Chelsea put you through that shit this afternoon," you murmur. "Tell me how to make it up to you."

"I don't think there's anything you do, Will. Or Chelsea, either," she adds after a beat. "It doesn't matter, we got what we wanted. Uh—"

"Yes?"

"You think you could let go of me?"

You're holding her fast, and as you look up, the bridge of your nose brushes the tip of hers, and your lips briefly touch. A shiver runs through you, and it's only with reluctance that you release her.

"Don't get me wrong, Will," she says as you step back. "I just don't want to rush into anything. Besides, like you say, if someone comes up here, we don't want it to look like we're friends."

"So," you say, swallowing a hiccup. "Maybe we should talk about getting a mask for you? So that—" You bounce once on the balls of your feet. "We can hang out?"

"Sure," she replies. "One of Chelsea's friends? A cheerleader?"

"Sure, there's plenty there. Or another one of the— Oh!"

"What?" Sydney asks as you sink onto your bed.

You don't reply, not right away.

How can you, when you're thinking of Andrea Varnsworth, the captain of the swim team ... and of the time in your sophomore year when she tried to make out with you—with Chelsea Cooper?

That's all for now.

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 3)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)"