seven
“So, what do you think?” I did a twirl in front of the mirror, even though the dress was tighter than a European’s jeans.
“You look fat,” said the resident European. I rolled my eyes at her assessment and turned to the other person, hoping to receive a better reception.
“I’d rather you weren’t wearing anything at all, but I like it,” the boy voiced with a smirk. I waited for a more in-depth critique of the garment, as he always gave: “The color, though, I’m not loving. No offense, Nat, but army green isn’t your color…or anybody’s color. Except for soldiers. Also, the studs look tacky.”
“And you look fat,” repeated the bitch whose job it was to dress Mason Grey on a daily basis.
“Thanks, Beth,” I shot her a fake smile.
“It’s Bethany,” the stylist corrected in her prissy English accent. I rolled my eyes, knowing that she was just jealous that I was naturally pretty, and that in order for her to achieve a forged “prettiness,” she had to die her hair pastel pink (as it currently was) and wear globs of eyeliner. Besides, even if she did get paid to play dress up with the biggest pop star on the planet, that didn’t mean that she knew shit about women’s clothes.
Mason was a dude. Bethany was not a dude. While Mason may have always looked photo-shoot-ready, that didn’t necessarily mean that the person who dressed him did. Bethany’s current attire could definitely serve as an example as to why I was convinced she couldn’t dress herself. She was wearing a black and white horizontally striped button-down (I didn’t even know that those existed), an ombré maxi skirt ranging from hues of blue to yellow to pink, and a pair of white rain boots. It was not raining outside. Bangles covered her wrists, long hoops hung from her ears, and a dragon pendant was secured around her neck. Personally, I thought she looked like a boho hobo. But I was just a model—what did I know?
“So this dress is a no?” I sighed in defeat, looking at my reflection once more. Honestly, it wasn’t that ugly. A little skanky, yes. But it wasn’t horrible.
“Yeah,” Mason determined in finality. “Try the black one on now!”
“And you, sir, need to go try on that new tux,” Bethany said, shoving the boy into the dressing room opposite mine.
“But I already have, like, twenty tuxes!” Mason groused, forlornly retreating into the miniature room.
“You can never have enough clothes,” Bethany scolded.
“Preach it!” I laughed, trying my best to get along with the Brit. She just shot me a bored glare, and I got the hint, going back to my changing room.
I stared at the gorgeous dress of black that was dangling on a single hanger, and sighed. It was so beautiful. The top was cut low (like, my-boobs-would-be-half-out low), and it was sleeveless. There was a thick band around the waist that then dropped into the skater-esc skirt. The main part of the skirt stopped right above my mid-thigh, and then there was a section of sturdy tulle that was broken up in the middle by the focal fabric from the rest of the dress. It was Donna Karan. And I wanted it.
So, I shimmied out of my puke green body-con number, and handled the black dress like I was playing football with a butterfly and trying not to kill it. Warily, I slipped on the new dress, and figured it was a good sign that even I was breathless as I stared into the small mirror that didn’t do the dress justice. With a confident smile gracing my face, I exited the room, and went out into the hall, eagerly awaiting Mason’s reaction. Bethany’s eyes glazed over my body, and a tiny but evident look of approval flitted into her face.
Mason emerged a moment later, clad in a tuxedo that would put penguins to shame. Like my outfit, his was also black, though with a pop of white from the collared shirt beneath. His tanned skin contrasted the white and black, and I tried to look him over as discreetly as I could, but when my eyes caught his, I knew my cover had been blown. Mason looked good. Ravishing, even. Though the boy may have been an ass in the personality department, one thing was for sure: he was born to rock a tux.
Then, my vision shifted back over to his face once I was done ogling his body, and I realized that he, too, was in awe. There was no flirty remark about my exposed chest or how skimpy various aspects of the dress were. He just stared at me with an unfamiliar intensity, unable to utter even a sound. When his eyes finally landed back on mine, I saw rawness and desire, but I wasn’t sure what was coming next.
“Beth, would you mind giving us a moment?” Mason requested.
“Uh, of course,” she said, not correcting him about her name. Quickly, Bethany left us in peace, no questions asked. We were alone.
“We look hot,” I commented, staring at the two of us in the collection of mirrors that coated the walls. Normally, whenever I saw pictures of the two of us, we just looked like Natalie and Mason. Sometimes, if we were photographed walking the red carpet, then we would look like a pop star and a model. But right now, all I could see was the Natalie Perry and Mason Grey. I couldn’t even begin to describe how incredible we looked—as if we belonged together.
“You look beautiful, Nat,” Mason whispered, finally managing to speak once again. Then, as if to shatter the moment, he added a quick, “And so do I.”
Before I could correspond to his accusations of our appearances, Mason had already taken hold of my waist, and was guiding me backwards, until I was pressed up against a wall. He looked into my eyes, and I looked into his, and I knew what was about to happen. So, because of our little arrangement that we had made the other day, I decided to skip the whole drawn-out process and just get the deed over with. My head tilted up, and this time I was the one surprising Mason by pressing my lips to his. But his shock was only fleeting, for he then became an active and more than willing participant. It felt weird to share a mutual kiss with Mason, but it also felt weirdly right, at the same time.
Since my evening of Netflix and Chinese food gone awry, a lot of changes had been made in my life. It had been less than a week, but I had already moved in with Mason (to the room with the big closet he had tempted me with, which happened to be across from his own bedroom). The living arrangements weren’t ideal because Mason Grey happened to be an absolute slob, but I definitely never got bored. Oh, and then there was the whole thing about Mason and me being “best friends with benefits” (or “BFWBs” as Mason insisted on calling us).
Living with Mason and being subjected to pretty much acting as a live-in girlfriend had been interesting. I had definitely learned a lot about Mason Grey over the past few days. For starters, he was a lot messier, tardier, lazier, and hornier at his house than he was when in public. Though I had been there quite a few times in the past, since moving in, I had yet to venture into Mason’s room, for fear that the mutant mold growing on the floor would eat me alive. Mason also sucked in the realms of punctuality, for we carpooled together, and he somehow always managed to get us to places late. Additionally—though barely anyone could tell due to the façade that he put up all day—when at home, Mason lacked a certain drive to do anything at all besides eat, sleep, and play GTA. And then there was that damn XY chromosome of his that caused him to be a dude and enjoy making out with me whenever he got the chance. Not that I really minded, though.
Right now, I was pretty content with how things were going between Mason and me. We were acting like the old us (before he was miraculously straight), except with more sexual tension and the inability to keep our mouths (and in Mason’s case, tongue) to ourselves. He was still acting like the asshole with a heart of silver (he didn’t like gold—it didn’t look good with his complexion) that he always was, and I continued to try and knock down his confidence by telling him how much he sucked, just to keep his ego in check. Things were finally getting a bit better, and felt healthier. Well, except of course for this little issue we had of keeping our hands off each other whilst trying to keep up the charade that Mason was “gay.”
So here we were, on a regular shopping outing with Bethany to buy red carpet attire, and because Mason had tried on the hottest tux I had ever seen and I was able to kill it in my Donna Karan, we were now kissing with the looming threat that someone would see us. If it was a fan, then that was fine. But if it was anyone linked to Mason’s key team of people (like dear little Bethany, for example), then we were screwed. Well, Mason was. And I probably was, too, by default. Then again, secrecy was always more fun, and hiding Mason’s true sexuality made it all the more thrilling.
“I’m buying that dress,” Mason said once were done conceding to the hormones.
“What are you going to do with a dress?” I said as seriously as I could before breaking out into a wicked grin. “Mason, you’re not a drag queen, are you?”
“I’m buying that dress for you, loser!” Mason rolled his eyes with a look of distain. “Oh, and I were a drag queen, I’d be bigger than RuPaul—so you’d definitely know.”
“Mason Grey the drag queen,” I mused aloud, slinking away from the boy. I took a step back towards my dressing room, and bit the edge of my lip. “What was your first pet’s name?”
Mason shot me a confused look, but answered, nonetheless: “FiFi. It was an annoying canary. I hated that thing.”
I cracked a smile at even the thought of Mason being responsible for another living thing, and then asked a random, “And what was the name of the street you grew up on?”
“Google it,” he scoffed. I shot him my best I-don’t-have-time-for-your-sarcastic-narcissism look, causing him to reply correctly. “Fairfield,” he said, “Fairfield Lane.”
“Well, Mason Grey, in case you weren’t aware, your drag queen name is ‘FiFi Fairfield,’” I informed him, which only caused Mason’s eyes to widen until I continued. “Your first pet’s name and the street you grew up on—your drag queen name. You’ve never heard that before?”
“No,” he snorted. “Besides, FiFi Fairfield is a dumb name.” He was wrong. It was a good name (for a drag queen, of course). “If I were a drag queen, my name would be, like…Hot Stuff or Pretty Babe. I’d be the hottest damn drag queen there is!”
“Glad to know you’ve put a lot of thought into this, Mason,” I smirked, waltzing back over to the direction of my dressing room.
“I really have,” he assured me with an earnest series of nods. “You’re not taking that dress off already, are you?”
“If I don’t, how are you going to buy it for me?”
“You could wear it out of the store?” he offered up skeptically. “Natty, I really like that dress.”
I studied his frantic face for a moment before asking, “Do you like the dress, or me in the dress?”
“Both,” he replied without an ounce of hesitation. “Don’t take it off yet.”
I didn’t get a chance to defy him, for Bethany then returned with an edgy look about her face, and her fingers viciously tapping away at her phone. She glanced over to the two of us, and just sighed. “Natalie, get out of the dress. Mason, get out of the tux. You’re both buying them, and hurry because we have an eyebrow appointment in five,” she rattled off, looking down at her phone the entire time. I childishly stuck my tongue out at her, but she didn’t even bother to see due to that nifty cellular device of hers that was consuming all of her attention.
With one last twirl in front of the mirrors and Mason, I retreated back into the dressing room, and slipped the Donna Karan off with a bucketful of remorse. I was really digging that dress. After hanging it back up, I put back on my worn salmon tee that said something about California across the chest and was from Topshop. Currently, I was going through a bit of a Topshop phase. Anyways, I shimmied my legs through the ripped denim shorts with the embroidery I had picked out this morning, and then stuffed my feet into this weird brand of sneakers that was currently sponsoring me for whatever reason. Obviously, I had barely been conscious when I decided upon what to wear this morning. But at least I wasn’t wearing rain boots and a maxi skirt like a certain Brit I knew, so I was all good.
I pulled my hair back into a loose ponytail, and then slung the strap of my purse over a shoulder. My eyes wandered around the area, searching for anything I had overlooked, and then I saw my phone. I picked it up, took a dumb selfie of myself making a fish face, and then posted it to Instagram with the caption, “@MasonGrey’s drag queen name is FiFi Fairfield. Shopping with my boi is always da best<3.” Satisfied, I tucked my phone away inside my bag, and then grabbed my dress before exiting out into the corridor.
“Why’d you put your hair up?” Mason whined, something telling me that he was in a hyper attentive state right now. Like me, he had also changed, but instead of looking like a summer-loving teen, he actually looked the part of Mason Grey—cool kicks, faded jeans, designer T-shirt, expensive jacket, swagariffic jewelry (the manly kind, of course), and all. “Natty! It looks so much better down!”
“Mason, stop whining and bring me your tux,” commanded Bethany the Bitchiest Brit in Beverly Hills.
She strolled over to where I was, and plucked my dress out of my possession, only to hand it off to our personal shopper who hadn’t been all that helpful thus far. Mason zipped into his changing room empty-handed, and then emerged with the tux. He gave it to Bethany, who then gave it to the chick in charge of making sure we were all set. Honestly, though, she sucked at her job. She didn’t check on us once, and it wasn’t because she was “star struck”—I knew that much.
“Bring these up to the register, would you? We’ll be there eventually,” Bethany told the store’s employee. The girl nodded eagerly, not saying a word as she carefully handled the two articles, and disappeared. “You two,” Bethany pointed a finger at Mason and me, “Eyebrows. Now.”
Mason shot Bethany a tight-lipped smile, and then rolled his eyes, coming over to where I was standing and drooping his arm over my shoulder. Bethany examined us for a brief moment, but then shook her head, beginning her departure from the land of clothes. Though it was pretty depressing in retrospect, Mason and I had shopping outings—like this one—at least every week, if not more. We liked our shopping, and it was the time when Mason got to release his inner sassy feminine side that could really flare up the gay rumors. The very first time I had gone shopping with Mason Grey was when I was convinced he was “gay” (evidently, he just happened to like shopping more than the average teenage girl).
Mason was a good shopping companion. Like with the green dress, he called things as he saw them, and wasn’t afraid to be brutally truthful if needed be. I trusted his judgment, and often offered up my own, even though he never asked for it. Mason also had really good taste in clothes, so we always shopped in the most extravagant boutiques and designer showrooms. Since I wasn’t the one who got paid a bazillion dollars a day just to breathe, Mason typically evoked his inner-most gentleman and usually offered to pay for me (his “girlfriend”) whenever we went shopping. Not wanting to be rude, I generally accepted. Shopping with Mason was always fun. Now, shopping with Mason and Bethany was an entirely different experience.
Bethany didn’t believe that shopping was a form of therapeutic rehabilitation or even a leisurely pastime. Instead, she regarded my favorite activity as just another chore that needed to be done like washing the dishes or taking out the trash (or “rubbish,” in her world)—which I didn’t entirely understand, considering her job was to essentially shop and make sure that Mason didn’t look like an idiot. So, when I was dragged on shopping expeditions with the two, there was always one end of the spectrum that couldn’t get enough of the designers and brand names (aka Mason), and the other that couldn’t wait to pay and walk away (that would be Bethany dearest). I was in the middle, though severely more towards Mason’s side.
Today, we were on a scheduled shopping excursion to find fancy clothes that we could stockpile in wardrobes for when the time was right. We had an appearance on Sunday night, but Bethany strictly stated that we weren’t to wear the clothes then (which didn’t make any sense to me at all, but whatever). Thus, we went gallivanting along the streets of Rodeo Drive, a place that made Newbury Street back home feel like a strip mall. Bethany dragged us all over, and somehow managed to extract almost all of the fun from shopping.
Our last stop was this department store that caused Neiman’s to be comparable to Walmart. I had been here before, and the store’s sheer vastness was always what surprised me most. It was giant and had about five levels, each designated for a different section: women’s clothes, men’s clothes, shoes, accessories, and makeup. After meandering around on the women and men’s floors, Mason and I had picked out a stack of clothes that we liked. Bethany disapproved of just about all of them, but that didn’t stop us from handing them to our sucky personal shopper and having her put them in our changing rooms. Then we tried everything on, liked about a quarter of our discoveries, and now here we were, being whisked down an escalator to the land of perfume and hair products!
Bethany walked a few paces ahead of us, not wanting to be associated with two of the most popular young adults in the world at the moment. But then again, as Mason and I stumbled over our steps as we laughed about nothing at all, who could blame her? Mason and I eventually caught up with Bethany, but she had already initiated a new conversation with one of the people who would be responsible for the well being of two of our most prized possessions: our eyebrows.
Since our calendars were jammed packed to the max, we didn’t have time to go to a nice spa and get massages and all that crap that accompanied the not-so-pleasantries of waxing one’s eyebrows. So, Bethany had booked us (yes, both me and Mason) quick appointments at an extreme beauty counter within the store to try and utilize our time in the best way she knew how. It wasn’t actually that crazy of an idea, but as we grew nearer and nearer to Bethany and the beautician, my acute qualms emerged.
If there was one thing that I hated in life more than the physical endeavor of running, it would be getting my eyebrows waxed. It was such a scary thing, because you couldn’t control the outcome, no matter how much you wanted to. Also, I happened to have pretty sensitive skin, so the wax always felt like lava, and hurt worse than a bullet in the shoulder when it was being ripped off. Unfortunately, I lived in a society where groomed eyebrows were considered “pretty,” and since my entire job revolved around being “pretty,” nice eyebrows were a necessity.
As for Mason’s eyebrows, well, that was just a formality, and—as he explained to me back at his house—a way to “keep Bethany thinking that [he was] queerer than a rainbow flag.” I also suspected that he actually liked getting his eyebrows done, but he would never admit it. Mason was subjected to the public’s opinions every millisecond of every day, and if so much as a single hair on his attractive little face was out of place, people were sure to notice. So, he got his eyebrows waxed. Normally they were just touched up a bit on the edges, and it was never anything heavy duty because Mason Grey already had (real shocker here) perfect eyebrows. But Bethany and the media thought that he needed a little bit of priming, so here we were.
Mason and I sat down in matching chairs next to each other, awaiting the torture to come. Even though nothing had happened, I shut my eyes tight, and grabbed Mason’s hand for support, like always. He squeezed back, and then my nostrils detected the sweet smell of the semi-organic honey magma, zeroing in on my eyebrows. Heat pressed up against my face, and after being applied for a few seconds, it was ripped off, and I recoiled. The process was repeated four other times, and each time I winced and clasped Mason’s hand even harder. Eventually, the agony ended, and I opened my eyes to a rather distraught Bethany.
“Natalie,” she began, her lips thinning, “Rob just texted me. Care to share what you posted on Instagram recently?”
Mason’s head snapped over in my direction, his eyebrows looking even better than they had before, which was just not fair at all. Also, he didn’t even flinch once throughout the entire process. “You’re eyebrows look nice, Nat,” Mason complimented cordially, “what’d you post?”
“Oh, nothing,” I dismissed with a wave of my hand. Mason shot me a stern look, and Bethany did the same, though turned up five million notches. I sighed, conceding: “Just a picture of my beautiful face.”
“And what were the words that went along with this picture?” Mason prompted.
“Something about shopping.”
“And?”
“Well, I may have mentioned that your drag queen name is FiFi Fairfield…”
If I hadn’t known Mason any better, then I would’ve charged him for premeditating murder in that very moment.