#c;devyn

[mason-janes]

+ @devynmurphy​

                Various pairs of eyes had warranted speculated looks while he’d walked rather briskly through the local Kroger’s produce section. No cart or basket had been at his aid, but instead the loose durability of long, muscular arms, carrying the precise ingredients for the rather anti-climactic average spaghetti dinner. Alas, as anyone is in a dire state of mind, his actions were self-regarded as reasonable. But who could blame a young man and his libido when he had a woman, waiting at home, promised to be perched in her lace. Mason surely wasn’t the first boy to quicken his step in pursuit of a girl, nor was he the last. A quick bagging, a swipe of the credit and a short drive later–– hovering a solid ten over the speed limit, he arrived back at his apartment, nestled on the third floor of a higher-end, North End complex. 

                The jingle of keys, the turn of a lock–– it must have been enough noise to sound his arrival because as he opened the door, he was greeted with his vixen counterpart, decked in a familiar black robe. He smirked, though it quickly grew into a smug grin and held up the plastic shopping bag for her to see, “As promised,” The blonde greeted, eyes mantled on her, growing glassy with an all-too-familiar desire, one of a carnal nature. He set the bag down on the counter and began walking towards her, nearly juxtapositioning his prior, hurried movements. He was now sauntering, chin slightly lowered, lips agape enough to allow his tongue to slide out over his bottom set of ivories, “–– What’s the plan?” The male pondered aloud, reaching her, but instead of stopping in front of her, he circled, head lingering over her shoulders, fingers reaching out to graze over her behind, “You gonna show me what’s underneath,” He stated, letting his hand slide around her waist as he moved in front of her, chest to chest, digits finally looping around the robe’s tie, “Or am I gonna be the one taking this off of you?”

[mason-janes]

                “Alright. What looks good?” The male parted from the grocery cart and swiveled around to face her, a smile traced upon his lips, arms slightly extended, his chin raised, “Tell me what you like, exactly, ‘cause we need to get down to the nitty and the gritty,” The blonde stated, “Y’know–– it’s a twelve-hour drive, we need snacks that will propel us, not slow us down,” A light laugh parted his full lips, his grin on display, eyes scanning her features, “Like these sugar-free gummy worms here,” Mason raised a hand to the green bag, suggesting to them, “No can do. These will probably put me to sleep more than anything, I assure you–”

[mason-janes]

                It was simple. He had an objective–– an unadulterated instinct, actually: to find his girl. And time, nor his utmost sobriety, evidently, was on his side. He’d been at a booth on the far side of the grounds, two hundred yards away from the main tent, blowing his money on a game and fuming to the worker. He hadn’t heard wind of the catastrophe until later, and though later only entailed ten minutes, fire seemed to disintegrate what it touched far quicker than seconds ever could. His heart rate quickened, hammering in his chest as he ran, the smell of smoke and the sounds of sirens seeming to echo louder and louder out into the night as his distance closed. The only reason he’d left Devyn’s side was because of an argument. The blonde had, in fact, been left a rather unwarranted gift by a strange girl: a kiss placed quickly on the corner of his mouth. He had at once been shocked. And then annoyed, and finally bothered enough to go up to Devyn, his girlfriend of a mere hour, and tell her what had happened. Long story short she had been infuriated; shared some choice words about the both of them, Mason and the mystery girl, and left, leaving him in the dust of the crowded main tent. That was the last he saw her–– his possible last image that he’d remember her by being the dark silhouette of her fleeting frame. 

                His breath quickened, huffs parting his lips with each step he took, coat in one hand, clenched around the dark fabric. He neared the tent finally, managing to sprint the two football fields worth of space in three minutes–– two had he not consumed a third of a bottle of whiskey just prior, but time, no matter when his arrival hit, seemed to have slowed exponentially. But as he approached the tent finally, it all seemed to catch back up; to step on his heels and smack him in the back, and what a sight that tall, burning tent was. A spectacle had there not have been people trapped, or so he imagined, and Devyn–– she could positively be one of them. Devyn. He needed to find her, his desire far beyond a want, driven and nailed by the most powerful emotion known as love, or what he believed to be love. He continued, warm to touch, running up to the crowd that had formed outside, a herd of crying women and dismayed men. Mason, luckily was one of the tallest amongst the pack, and he pushed through, rather haphazardly, “Devyn–” He huffed out, his cheeks red, his shirt clinging to his torso with perspiration. The blonde called out her name again, pushing through the crowd, eyes shifty and alert, or at least as much as they could be in his state. He would know if he saw her. When he would see her. Because he would. He told himself he would. There was a will inside him that garnished the idea that was safe, perhaps on her way home in a taxi, right at this very moment. He would believe, and once more, he shouted out her name.

[mason-janes]

              Droplets of fresh rain stained his dark hoodie, leaving darkened, manifested patches of fabric over his shoulders and head and back. A storm was in the works of the early night, the deluge having begun to come down in sheets halfway through his all too familiar route. It had smacked his car window and roof with a hell-risen stamina that he hadn’t seen in awhile from an early spring precipitation, reminding him of the near monsoons they would receive come April, in his own serene hometown of Magnolia. That was the thing: he didn’t mind the rain. Of course, he’d take the sun over clouds any day, but rain had a way of embodying a symbol of renewal, literally sweeping the muck away, and leaving a sense of tranquility in its wake. He could appreciate that: the constant cycle and purging the world demanded with each shower. Precipitation was, in a sense, a metaphor for what could, in fact, happen between the now converging couple that was nearing a head. They could recommence or merely diminish into the gutter, but either way, it would have to be one or the other. No more sweeping anything under the rug, no more neglecting what was at stake. Mason had decided before parting his apartment that this would be the set of twilight hours that would either put them on track or send them back peddling in retrograde. He wasn’t sure what it’d be–– the outcome so far in the hands of a perilous, metaphorical coin-toss. Or merely fate, as it could be otherwise said.

              A hand raised to knock on her wooden door, the golden numbers nailed to the surface meeting his eye level, the brass worn and in need of polishing. If they’d make it out, he’d fix it up for her on a day off, perhaps even repaint her door and moulding alike, surely appraising it to be the finest entry of the complex. He enjoyed fixing and upgrading furniture and houses. He was good at it–– had strong hands that could cogently grip a wrench, but delicately paint around a window frame. He had a patience that could only come from years of practice and a God-given gift. Ironically, Mason was the epitome of a mason, and it worked for him, but his versatile hands felt weighed down on this particular night. His fist dropped from the door, his other raising in return, palm finding the top of his damp hood before pulling down on the fabric, rustling his short blonde locks. It was a waiting game now, and as moments passed he felt his heartbeat in his neck, and his insides churn with a boiling restlessness that could only be appeased with the communication of his thought over words. He’d mulled over what he was going to say to her the whole day, from the moment she left breakfast, to the recently preceding minutes where he’d arrived outside her apartment complex. He had a lot to say, and she was going to listen.     

              The door opened, and he looked up from his feet, finding her dark, hickory eyes. His lips fell slightly agape, noting her attire: a long, oversized shirt and a near-empty wine glass to accompany it in her hand. Mason slowly dragged his tongue across his lips, all fear–– all dismay having been left out by his blue, Chevy truck, “We’re gonna talk,” He stated, no sense of hesitance in his low, earthy voice, the male pausing before he shrugged, “– I mean, I’m gonna talk, and you’re gonna hear me out,” The male corrected, stepping forward, pressing his way into her apartment, sliding past her, and walking into open space of the jointed living room and kitchen. He gave her time to close the door and become settled with his presence, the male himself turning to face her, “Listen,” Mason began, “I love you,” The words slipped from his lips in a softness, permeated with honesty, “I love you and I wanna be with you, and there isn’t anyone else in the world that makes me feel like you do,” He admitted, “And I do–– I remember the first time I saw you like it was yesterday, at that diner wearin’ the red lipstick and the black jacket, and as stupid as it sounds, I think I was sleepwalkin’ that night, but you woke me up somehow,” Mason continued, not missing a beat, “And I wish I could, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to show you how much I appreciate your fire and your courage, and all other perfectly imperfect traits that I can’t get enough of... But I can tell you, and I’ll make it a habit of telling you every day jus' how much you mean to me, ‘cause I took that for granted when I had you, Devyn. I did,” The blonde shook his head, taking a moment to pause, “I know I messed up. I messed up big time. I was selfish, and I wasn’t ready to commit to someone, and I hurt you. But I am ready now. I am more than ready to give you all my love, if you’ll let me,” This next part–– it would be the deciding factor, he knew it, but nonetheless, he pushed through, “But if you don’t want me, or you don’t think we’ll ever work out, you need to tell me now. Tonight. ‘Cause I don’t wanna be led on, and I don’t want to get my hopes up if there is no hope to begin with.”

              He allowed his words to settle in, but he wasn’t quite done yet, “I’m so sorry for disappointin’ you, Devyn... I'm sorry for bein' an asshole and givin' up what we had for somethin' so irresponsible and short-lived.  –– But you need to believe me when I say you’re the one that I don't only, but I need right now. Nobody else. Just you, because more than anythin' I jus' miss talkin' to you. I need it, I think. I need someone to talk to,” The male continued, swallowing before he cleared his throat, “And I want to be able to say that I’m not leavin’. Not now, not ever... But you need to let me in, and to give me that chance. If it’s not there, then it’s not there, I understand that, but please, let me know if it isn’t. Be straight-forward with me,” His tone had decreased with fervor and had simply become tired, as if he was finally being hit with the prospect that he may lose her on the spot, for forever, “– Let me know, and if you want me to stay, I’ll stay. We’ll talk, and we’ll figure this out, and we’ll pick up the pieces–...” Another pause from the male taunted the air, his gaze dropping from her for the first time as he stepped forward, his hazel orbs raising once more, flicking up her frame and to her own eyes, “Either way, I want you to know that I love you. I mean it, I’d do jus’ about anythin’ for, Devyn, and that’s not gonna change whatever happens. I need you to know that.”  

[mason-janes]

@devynmurphy

                He was in the utmost sense, disheartened–– an airborne side-effect of the abrupt pungence known as ‘the hard truth’. Or at least what he’d gathered over the past twenty minutes. As always, it didn’t matter how distasteful the facts were. It sunk like an anchor, knotting your throat like a dry-swallowed pill or a mint that had yet to dissipate. The truth hurt, it did. Even more so when you hear it from the wrong person. And even more so when you had to face the right person, usually ignorant to their own storm, but in this case, no cloud or current ahead could stop him. He’d driven back home mildly over the speed limit and gotten out of his car and walked into his apartment complex with an ordinary pace. It was when he reached the door did things creep to an edge; it was when he paused–– really started running through words in his head and points he wanted to address and how he’d explain to her that, yes, he was leaving her for the night, miles away, into the city where he’d ultimately be lost from her touch. Tough, it was, but pushed through, literally and metaphorically, his key turning, his front door swinging open and into the dim light of his home.

                He received silence and the soft buzz of the television. He wasn’t greeted with her, but instead emptiness, and it was unsettling but not surprising. It was late, past midnight, and instantly knew where he’d find her: curled up in bed, waiting for him. Well, he would join her this time, ten feet away at the door with a yes or no question and a means to begin packing a bag. The male didn’t even bother to remove his shoes as he approached, finding the familiar white frame and leaning against it, his eyes settling on the female’s outline, drawn in the sheets. He paused, glanced down, and she may have said something but he didn’t particularly acknowledge it. He was thinking, perhaps even collecting himself as he raised his phone up, his gaze along with it to match her eyes, “... I just got off the phone,” A pause, “With Libby,” He then stated, tone unmatchable as it carried a formidable density only concocted once in a blue moon, “And truthfully, I was angry with her at first because she’d sent me another message about you, one that wasn’t all very nice,” The blonde continued, “So I just assumed, ‘oh, y’know, this is just her way of bein’ immature and startin’ more bullshit that I’d have to address when I smoothed it over later’,” Mason continued, crossing his arms over his chest, “... But then she told me somethin’ that really stuck to me. It was that you found her and talked to her, about the messages, about me, about us––...” His voice was stern and certain, embellished with the tones of confidence and ascendency, “... So is that true? Did you go against my one wish and talk to her–– even try and scare her off when I specifically told you the other day that I wanted to handle it on my own?” He asked, voice still calm, “I mean... There’s no need to lie honestly, it’s fine. I’m sure as fuck done with her and I’m just about done with you too, so you may as well tell the truth.”

[mason-janes]

             11:57–– he had three minutes to park and find her. A hundred and eighty seconds to disperse from his truck and into the club and hopefully, into her embrace. The male had texted her, no more than fifteen minutes ago, asking where she was, and he hadn’t exactly been astounded when he’d received a name of a well-knon club. Luckily, he was already in Westbrook, having attended an uppity party that he didn’t feel much of anything at other than a buzz from overpriced champange. The traffic has caused some delay in his transport, and thus he was in a time crunch, each moment playing a precious part in his cheesy, but nonetheless, genuine plan. With tires meeting inky pacement, the blonde swerved into the parking lot, turning into the closest handicapped spot there was before he slid out of the vehicle and into the snow. 

             11:58–– the pure white particles collected on his hair and lashes as he half-jogged to the front entrance, the bouncers seeming to have ventured on into the building to watch the ball drop from the large screen that had surely been set up for all to watch. He was lucky in that way– that he got in with ease, but so it goes, with a positive always comes a negative. His counter was that he was instantly met with a group of sweaty individuals– no, a sheer mass of people that had gathered, each chanting and blowing on toy horns and fixing plastic hats upon their heads. Mason had to find her quick. Mossy, hazel orbs scoped out the large crowd, the task seemingly impossible, but nonetheless he continued to look carefully. His height was convenient in moments like these, the tall boy shifting and sliding over to get a better view at the bar. He looked ridiculous– like a zombie compared to the rest of the entergetic horde of bodies. He gave up on the center of the room rather quickly, discovering he wasting time, eyes instead, going to the large bar.

             11:59–– Bingo. He finally had her. She was on her phone, a drink in her other hand, looking as striking as ever. In that way, it was rather easy to spot her. None of the other women in the building compared to her brazen attire and hourglass figure and cherry-painted rosebud lips. He thought of something quick, his actions taking hold before anything else and quickly, with fingers fumbling he removed his own device, a smile growing onto his lips. They’d already started counting down, now on 25, and 24 and 23...

                           ‘What did I tell you about looking so goddamn beautiful?’

             He dodged an overly excited man, before glancing down at his phone and then up to her, waiting for her reaction–– or anything for that matter. A look, a sign, and fucking siren to sound–– and the male, though twenty feet away could see her brows furrow and the female turn around sharply, looking for him, or so he assumed. Confetti has already began falling, a wisp of pink paper hitting his head and falling to the ground. Mason smiled coyly, shoving his phone back in his pocket, before making his way towards her, furrowing his way through people, a plethora of ‘excuse me’s’ leaving his full lips. She was still looking for him. Still peering out into the mass of a crowd, her attention having raised from edge of the horde and instead finding an area off somewhere distant. Mason was only a few feet away now– only one more person to scoot past before he made it to her, and so he did, ironically and uncannily a few moments after the clock struck––

             12:00–– He was smiling. A real smile, full of poise and solace, a row of pearly whites exposed under the dim bar light. The male’s large hand reached out for her, his hazel orbs clicking with her brown. He gave her a moment to realize what’d he’d done– to register that he had perhaps taken the most phantasmagorical action possible, and was there, for her. But just a mere second, no longer, and then, he was raising both his hands to her face, pulling her closer, up and to his lips. He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t seem to part with her contact, his lips diconnecting before they pressed to her own again, more vehemently and heated. A roar cycloned through his ears, but paid no mind to the sound or to the falling scraps of colored plastic or even to the classic song, ‘New York, New York’ that blared from the television speakers.

             12:01–– “I wanted it to be you,” His words floated from his lips and into her ear, the phrase only intended for the dark-haired female in front of him, “It wouldn’t have felt right with anyone else–” A small smile, indistinguishable between coy and cocky found his countenance, “I like you–” The words had been resting on his tonuge, nestled into the rouge fibers of his mouth, “I like your spunk, I like your fire–... I like you.” The male repeated confidently, dropping his hands from her face and pulling back, offering his wandering eyes and that stapled, tantamount smile that couldn’t quite be decifered. 

[mason-janes]

              He ran into someone, the movement clipped and abrupt, and instinctively, his hands raised, finding the smaller individual’s shoulders, “–– Devyn.” He greeted upon reconization, lips twitching into a withering smirk, “How are you?” The male asked consideratly, eyes roaming down her while his hands dropped, finding his own pockets, “You–...” The blonde trailed off, allowing his gaze to roam her once again, head slightly shaking, “–– You look stunning...–– But I’m sure you’ve had half the men here tell you that, and what’s little ole me compared to all those Kingsgate men, huh?” He lightly jested.