Hiding Things

By S.C. Wynne

Mason Downing is good at a lot of things, but math isn't one of them. What he is good at is hiding the fact that he's a poor kid on a full scholarship at elite Bragson University—though he won't be there for long if he can't get his grades up.

 

Carter Lantor is the embodiment of all that Mason pretends to be: rich, confident, and smart. But when Carter is handpicked to be Mason's new math tutor, Mason learns that he's not the only one hiding things. Soon, Carter's picture-perfect façade begins to crack under the pressure of his father's expectations and his own unhappiness.

 

 Together, Mason and Carter must teach each other that no matter how much they question their place in the world, they should never question their love for each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.C. Wynne
• Release date: Mar 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215718322

S.C. Wynne

S.C. Wynne has been writing MM romance and mystery since 2013. She’s a Lambda winner, and lives in California with her wonderful husband, two quirky kids, and a loony rescue pup named Ditto. www.scwynne.com

Book preview

Hiding Things

By S.C. Wynne

Thank you Faith, for believing in this story. Love you baby, baby.

Chapter One

Mason

"A tutor?" I recoiled as if Ms. Grand had just told me I was getting a root canal.

Yepper doodle, kiddo.

But I’m doing awesome in every class but Precalculus. And by the way, why do I need to know about a Cartesian product when I’m an art history major? It wasn’t just that I sucked at math, I hated it too. I was sick to death of all the whining about how America’s youth was behind the rest of the world in math. I mean, we didn’t all need to be rocket scientists. There were other skills in the world to be appreciated. You didn’t see Jackson Pollock worrying about not being good enough in math.

Ms. Grand pushed her obsidian-tinted glasses farther up on her nose and sighed. You’re preaching to the choir. But if you’ll notice, it isn’t the choir director who runs things around here. You have to pull that grade up, or you’ll be on academic probation and in danger of losing your scholarship.

This is bullshit.

Mason, first off, watch the language. She cocked one brow. Second, this is how it is, so you need to accept it.

I can’t afford a goddamned—gosh-darned tutor. I had to borrow money from my roommate to buy my books this semester. I felt sick to my stomach. This was bad. Really bad. I was basically screwed.

Ms. Grand sighed. "If this were a larger university, there would be study groups to help you. But Dean Whitaker prefers the students work independently on things like this. He feels it builds character. The Dean is very big on character."

I knew she was correct. But I’d picked Bragson University because my father had gone here. Being on the same campus helped me feel connected to him still. However, sometimes the stress of keeping up appearances made me wish I’d been less sentimental and gone to a school in a cheaper area. The scholarship paid for the class fees as well as room and board. But there were other things I needed, like the books and things not found in the cafeteria.

What about the money your parents left you?

She was referring to my meager inheritance as if it had amounted to much. It hadn’t. It’s already allocated to books, school supplies, and new underwear. I considered if I could cut the food out and then decided it was probably a bad idea. Probably better to go commando rather than not eat.

She tapped her pencil on the desktop as she watched me. Maybe you could get a part-time job? When she saw my horrified expression, she quickly added, Just temporarily to pay for a tutor? We’re only talking about improving that one class.

I slumped and shook my head. I was lucky if I got three hours sleep a night as it was. How was I supposed to fit in a job? I’m already taking a full load. I’m afraid my grades will slip in all my other classes too if I have to get a job.

Mason, it won’t matter what you’re doing in your other classes if you don’t bring the Precalc grade up, and you aren’t going to be able to do that without some help from a tutor. I’d help you, but I have trouble balancing my checkbook. Think about it, a part-time job might be the answer to your prayers.

I gave up asking God for anything a long time ago, Ms. Grand. I hated it when I sounded bitter, but every now and then, it slipped into my voice like a cancer. My dad had always been an upbeat guy, and look where that got him.

Her expression softened, and she leaned forward. I know life has handed you a raw deal, but your parents would have wanted you to finish college. You can’t give up because you hit a bump in the road.

"A bump? More like a pile of cement pylons that has ripped out the bottom of my bus. My school bus, to be more precise. I sighed. And I never said I was giving up. I’m simply saying I don’t see how I can swing a tutor and still keep my sanity."

Aww, Mason, don’t be discouraged. Her mouth tilted downward.

Sorry. I can’t help it. She was a nice person, and I felt guilty making her feel bad. But I was panicked over what to do.

I’d worked hard, so fucking hard to get here after my parents died two years ago. I’m from the little dusty town of Abron, Texas, and after my mom and dad were killed, it hit me like a comet that Abron wasn’t the sort of place I wanted to pull my last breath. So I’d studied and pushed myself to my limit, miraculously landing a full scholarship to my dad’s alma mater, the prestigious Bragson University here in Los Angeles. Not bad for a broke-ass kid from the Lone Star State.

And now it’s all for nothing because I stink at math?

I took a deep breath and tried to think of a way out of this mess. Where would I even find a job on this short notice? This was one of those times when being an antisocial art major didn’t work in my favor.

Well, you didn’t hear this from me. She paused and craned her neck to look around at the door to her office, which was slightly ajar, then lowered her voice and continued. One of the shuttle drivers got canned yesterday for getting a DUI.

I squinted at her, confused as to why she was sharing that information. Uh… I’m sorry. That’s awful.

No. She laughed. Oh, yeah, I guess you can’t read my mind. I’m saying there’s an opening.

Yeah?

Would you be interested?

Um… I leaned back in my chair, surprised at the offer. The hard metal cut into my shoulder blades, but I was more bothered by her suggestion. She thought this was the answer to my problems? To become a shuttle driver, carting rich kids around campus all day while they blabbered on their cell phones about their first-world problems? I already felt like an outsider. Being a bus driver wasn’t going to help that any.

I don’t want to be a driver, I grumbled, rubbing my tired eyes and wishing this was all a bad dream. I’ve tried hard to fit in and look like I have money like everyone else. If I become their chauffeur, I’ll be an even bigger social outcast.

I’ve told you a million times there isn’t any need for you to feel the way you do. Plenty of middle-class kids are here on scholarships, like you. I don’t see them hiding who they really are.

In other words, just be yourself, and everyone will love you for it?

Wrong.

She didn’t get it. Her generation never did. I’ll be judged. Mark my words. I’ve seen it before back in Texas.

That was high school. Everybody is judging everybody in high school.

I don’t see much difference to be honest. There are plenty of snooty people here. You don’t see it because you’re a counselor. They would never do it to you.

Well, not to your face.

You’re not giving them a chance. You need to take your walls down, Mason.

Oh, heck no, I growled. "God, my life sucks."

Ms. Grand didn’t seem to appreciate my crappy attitude. She smacked her book closed and folded her hands on the desk. In that case, you have four weeks until the next final. Sorry to say, if you don’t ace it, you’re probably toast.

If she was pissed at me, I couldn’t blame her. It couldn’t be easy counseling ungrateful students day in, day out. I studied her as I struggled with my ego about having to take such a menial job. She was pretty in a plain, academic sort of way, with boyishly short blonde hair and large brown eyes. She was probably in her forties, and I assumed there was no Mr. Grand because she didn’t wear a ring. Also there were far too many empty Chinese takeout containers staggered around her cluttered little office to signal wedded bliss.

I cleared my throat and swallowed my pride. What does it pay?

She cocked a brow at me. Pardon?

I gave her a grudging smile. Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be ungrateful. It’s just something about my life going down the toilet has me in a bad mood.

She stared at me blankly while chewing the end of her pencil. I believe it’s $16.50 an hour.

I nodded, surprised. That’s actually better than I thought. Maybe I could pay for the tutoring and buy two pairs of underwear.

"The shift that opened up is from six in the evening until ten. That would probably work around your classes