Masen Days Outtake 6

Summary: Bella and Masen get invited to a party at Tyler's. Bella buys a new shirt beforehand but can't figure out if Masen likes it or not. Time Frame: Between Chapter 12 The Day Masen Confides in Me and Chapter 13 The Day Masen Goes to Not-Prom. POV: Bella

Disclaimer:Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some very strange word association, pencil-buns, Vans poetry, and a bunch of yeahs.

Prereaders:_ss77_, modernsafari1, cejsmom Beta:Perry Maxwell

The Day Masen Gets Flustered

"Did you hear?" Angela asks, plopping down beside me at the small lunch table Masen and I share.

"Hear what?" I ask, mouth full of potato chip.

"Tyler's throwing an impromptu." She snags a chip from my bag and pops it into her mouth.

"Impromptu what?"

"Orgy," Embry says, sitting on Angela's lap. "Should be fun. You in, Masen?"

Masen shakes his head and stares at the table, sipping his drink.

"A party. Impromptu party. I think Tyler's gonna solicit his prom date there. While she's drunk," Angela says, clarifying it all.

"Ah, sounds classy. And fun. We'll be there, I guess." I look to Masen, and he nods.

"Okay, good. Now ditch with me 'cause I need a new shirt."

"I can't ditch. I'm on lockdown for the week. I ditched too much last week." I snap my eyes to Masen's. He's smirking but not looking at me.

"Young love," Embry coos and reaches across the table ruffling Masen's barely-there hair.

Masen swats his hand away, like it's an annoying fly.

"Come on. I'll get you something too. Something just for Masen."

"For me?" Masen asks, speaking for the first time since they interrupted us.

"You'll like it," Angela ensures him.

"You'll like it," Embry repeats. Apparently, he knows.

"Fine," I say, standing, ready to go.

"Now?" Angela asks.

"It's now or never."

"Okay. You won't regret it."

"I hope not." I lean down to give Masen a quick kiss before following Angela to the parking lot.

-MD-

"Ooh, look, look, look, look!"

"No, no, no, no," I say for the umpteenth time.

Angela keeps holding up these slinky, one sleeved, topless numbers. Okay, so maybe they're not topless, but they're just not very me.

"I've already found something. You said you were going to get something."

"I will."

"Masen will like this. I know it."

"How do you know?" I ask, flipping through a bunch of black tops on a high rack. We're in Wetseal at Scottsdale Fashion Square Mall. I hate this place. I don't know how she convinced me to come.

"Because he's a boy. It will draw attention to your boobs. Boys like boobs."

I shake my head and mutter, "Then I should just wear my little red shirt."

"What's that?"

"Nothing," I say louder so she can hear me.

"He likes your red shirt?"

"Yes," I answer reluctantly.

"Know why?"

"No, why?"

"Because it shows off your cleavage."

"It does not," I say, turning to her, crossing my arms in front of me. "That v-neck covers everything."

"Sure it does. If you're not taller than you are. Which he is," she says, sliding satin underwear along a rod smacking them into each other.

"Are you serious? So he looks down at me and sees . . ."

"Uh huh."

"Oh my—"

"I see it too, and I'm a little bit jealous. So the least you can do for those of us that are not as endowed as you are is enjoy it. Let him enjoy it."

"All right. Fine, let's do this. Help me pick something."

"Yay. He'll love it!"

"He better," I mutter as Angela drapes no less than five tops over my arm to try on.

-MD-

Masen's wheels clack along the sidewalk, and I watch as he glides onto my driveway. Some light fabric peeks through his button up, hinting at an undershirt or a tank underneath.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," I say, smiling. I stand and lean over to get my bag, then meet him at the truck.

We're silent as we get in and continue to be quiet as we drive.

"You okay?" I ask, and he nods, keeping his eyes trained ahead. "We don't have to go if you don't want to—"

"No . . . want to go, just—uh—um," his eyes dart to mine, drift downward to my chest, and back up again.

I giggle silently, my shoulders shaking. "I knew it was too much."

"It's not," he says, voice quiet and sweet. He slides his hand into mine, setting his eyes back on the road.

We arrive quickly, and the music blaring from the house tells me the party's already begun.

We stand in the cramped kitchen, watching some drinking game our friends are playing. Masen's arm's around my waist, his hand squeezing me there occasionally. He's quiet tonight. Really quiet. Like he's concentrating.

"Hey, girl," Angela says tickling my sides from behind.

"Hi." I turn to hug her but stop short. "Your shirt. You said—"

"I know. It just seemed vulgar, or . . . I dunno. You look hot, though." She nudges Embry in the ribs and says, "Doesn't she look hot?"

He refuses to look at me and says, "I. Don't. Know."

I glare at Angela, but she keeps a straight face until she busts up laughing. "Come on. You can't be mad. You look amazing. The color, the cut of the cami. It's great on you. She's amazing, Masen, right?"

"She's amazing," Masen repeats and kisses me on the cheek. It's shy and painfully awkward. Not sure if it's because we're in front of all these people or because he felt he had to say something, but it doesn't matter. I was hoping we wouldn't have to be awkward around each other anymore now that we're together.

"You boys are pathetic." Angela whistles loudly, then shouts, "Tyler!"

"What!" he screams from the back porch and comes inside.

"Bella's hot, right?"

"Yeah, course," he says, not even looking.

"Tyler!" she yells again, and he looks in our direction, his eyes getting wide.

"Hold on!" he yells behind him and ambles toward us, looking me up and down. This is so weird. "Nice going," he says, grinning and giving Masen a fist bump.

"Thanks," Masen says, mouth practically closed. Is he mad at me? No, but he seems completely flustered about something.

Tyler looks me over again and nods in a 'sup fashion. Ew, Tyler, I'm with Masen.

Masen pulls me in close and whispers, "Let's move."

With his arm around me still, he steers me into a back bedroom. What in the world is going on?

He releases me once inside and runs his hand over his face. "This is just–and then–why are you—"

"Hey, what's—what's going on?"

Masen drops his hand and locks eyes with me. He brings his hand up sharply and swings it up and down, gesturing at my body.

"What? My clothes? My shirt? It's too slutty, right? I told Angela, I said—"

He lunges toward me, cutting me off with a hard kiss, lips crashing into mine. The sounds of the party disappear, and all I hear is his deep breathing as his mouth moves against mine. He releases my mouth and kisses across my cheek and onto my neck, then just beneath my ear, which he strokes lightly with his finger. "Don't like the way they're looking at you."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have worn it. Angela said you'd like it."

He exhales and drops his head on my shoulder, kissing my collarbone, his warm breath caressing the bare skin that my cami doesn't cover.

He releases me quickly and unbuttons his shirt slowly.

What is he doing? In Tyler's room? No way.

He tugs it off his back and wraps it around my shoulders, helping me into it. He buttons up the bottom for me as I roll up the sleeves. And I was right; he's wearing a tank. Looks good on him.

When he's finished with the buttons he looks up, shy and sweet.

"Better?" I ask.

He sighs and nods. "Much."

-MD-

We hole up in a massive leather Lazyboy in the living room. I'm curled up in Masen's lap, and his arms are wrapped around me. We watch our dorky friends dance around and talk loudly, drunkenly, about nothing. Every now and then I feel Masen's eyes on me. Once he's looking, he runs his nose up and down my neck, burning my skin with his light touch. He's killing me tonight. I kind of just want to leave.

I shrink back into him, wrapping my arms around his neck and looking into his eyes. "You wanna go?"

"No one's watching . . . all too drunk." He moves his hand from my outer thigh to my inner thigh and inches it upward.

"Masen," I say, not sure why.

"Hmm?" he nuzzles my neck and kisses me softly there.

"Nothing," I whisper.

He kisses his way down my neck and sneaks inside his shirt to get at my bare skin. This is the best shirt ever.

"She was right," he says, his breath ghosting across the tops of my breasts.

I don't respond. I can't be coherent now.

"Like the shirt."

"Oh," I say softly so only he can hear, though it doesn't mean what he thinks it means, I think.

"Wanna be the only one who gets to see it, though."

"Okay," I say, and add "deal" before he stands up and pulls me out to the truck.

Once seated inside, he slides over to me, grinning. "Promise?"

"Yeah," I say, and he unbuttons my shirt – his shirt – to get to the one he really likes.

Author's Note: Hi! This outtake was written in honor of Masen's nomination (and because I miss him). He's up on the Twilight Eclipse Awards for Best Edward. Thank you to those of you who nominated him! It feels amazing. You can vote here if you'd like: twilighteclipseawards . blogspot . com . au/

I know some readers will be sad that this was an outtake and not a futuretake. I am too. And, frankly, I wish I had all the time in the world to write more Masen, but I just don't. And until I have that time, I cannot force anything new. But I will tell you that I have an outline and a scene written that belongs to their future. I hope to share it with you eventually.

Until then, if I feel the urge to write Masen, outtakes is what you'll get. And they'll most likely be based on photos like the one posted on my blog which inspired this piece (along with Modernsafari1, who wanted Bella to tease Masen with some sex appeal). Oh, and did y'all see the newest RPatz pic, where he was eating an apple and holding his skateboard? Yeah, wish I could manip the crap out of his shoes to make them Vans. Alas, I cannot.

Thanks for reading. I'll keep you updated on my blog as always. Or you can find me on Twitter and harass me about Bieber. Whatever.

And, one last thing, if you followed Take What You Want and enjoyed it, Dirtyflirtward's Bella is also up for Best Bella on the same award site. Until next time . . . *shrugs*.