TWENTY-TWO
Before Mount Vesuvius can erupt, I quickly put a finger over Cam’s lips and set Michael straight. “He’s not an idiot. He’s actually a really great guy.”
Michael makes a gentle noise of disbelief. “You only think that because you’re nice, Joellen. Believe me, the man is an absolute animal.”
Cam’s eyes blaze at me. He’s got such a gnarly death grip on the phone, I expect it to crumple into dust at any moment.
“How would you know? You’ve never met him!”
There’s a moment of silence on the end of the line, then Michael clears his throat. “No, I haven’t. But if even half of what is printed about him is true—”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
Cam looks satisfied that I’m sticking up for him, but I can tell he still wants to break something. I curse myself for this idea and motion that he should hang up. Lips thinned, he shakes his head.
Wonderful.
“You seem rather defensive of him.”
I hear the subtext, the not-so-subtle invitation to shove Cam off a cliff and reassure Michael I’ve only got eyes for him. For some reason it really irritates me.
“I suppose I am. He’s my . . . friend.”
Cam and I stare at each other with a weird, unspoken tension building between us, while Michael breathes loudly on the other end of the phone.
“Really? You’d befriend a man who got a teenage girl pregnant and denies any responsibility whatsoever?”
My stomach drops. My mouth hangs open. I stare at Cam in horror.
Cam abruptly hits the “End” button on the portable phone. Then he removes the phone from my hand and returns it to the cradle on the wall, disconnecting my call with Michael. He turns back to me with a hard jaw and lowered brows, his eyes black with anger. “Do you believe him?”
“First of all, why the hell did you hang up?”
“He’ll call back in ten seconds. Do you?”
I think of the strip poker party the first night we met, of the anonymous woman he picked up in a bar and had sex with standing up against Kellen’s apartment door, of Michael telling me Cam’s nickname. Prince Pantydropper.
It sickens me to think some of the panties he’s dropped have belonged to underage girls.
I fold my arms over my chest and say stiffly, “It’s not really any of my business, is it?”
Cam takes one step toward me, so now we’re only a foot apart. Seething, he says between gritted teeth, “Then why’re you judgin’ me for it without even knowin’ the truth?”
The phone rings. We both ignore it.
“I’m not judging you.”
“Bullshit.”
We glare at each other as the phone continues to ring.
“So is it true?”
Cam’s no is hard and final, and he doesn’t blink when he says it. I’m relieved but don’t understand why.
“So what is the truth?”
The phone rings on and on.
“Are you gonna get that?”
“I’m talking to you right now. I’ll talk to him later.”
Cam’s jaw works. He’s silent until the phone stops ringing, his whole body tense, the cords sticking out in his neck. He draws in a slow breath, flexes his hands open, and releases the breath. I can tell he’s trying to calm himself but not having much success.
He’s huge and angry, but I’m not the least bit afraid of him. No matter what else might be true, that he’d never hurt me is a truth I’m completely certain of.
After a long time, he asks quietly, “Does it really matter, Joellen?”
There’s another question hidden inside that question, but I don’t know what it is. “Yes, of course it matters.”
His reply is instantaneous. “Why?”
“Because . . .” I flail around for an explanation, not really understanding it myself. “Because we’re friends.”
His laugh is short and bitter. “Your ability to lie to yourself is remarkable, lass.”
I’m hurt, defensive, and angered by his words and his tone, which indicate he thinks I’m a complete idiot. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He leans in closer, so close we’re nose to nose. He says with soft vehemence, “It means we’ll never be friends.”
He spins on his heel and stalks away, leaving me red faced with fury and humiliation as my front door slams shut behind him.
That night I don’t sleep. While Mr. Bingley snores and twitches on my chest, chasing mice in his dreams, I stare at the ceiling, going over everything that’s happened since I met Cam. Every conversation, every morning jog, every stupid dinner.
In the end I decide he’s right. We’re not friends. I’m a project he’s using to amuse himself while he’s on holiday, and he’s a means to an end for me. The end being Michael, but most likely I’ve screwed that pooch six ways to Sunday. He didn’t call back except the one time after Cam hung up.
In the morning, I rise in the dark and put on my exercise clothes with a new resolve. If Michael truly is interested, one strange phone call shouldn’t be able to kill that off. And if he’s not, better to find out now than waste any more years of my life. I’ll tell him the phone cut off because the power went down in my building and let the chips lie where they may.
When I open my door to head out for a jog, I’m surprised to find Cam in the hallway, already warming up. He didn’t knock, so I figured he’d gone without me.
“Oh. Hey.”
He silently hands me a bottle of his green goo, then continues stretching. I watch him for a moment, unsure of what to say or do, but ultimately decide I won’t be able to do anything if we don’t clear the air.
“I get it. What you meant when you said we’d never be friends. And I’m cool with it.”
He stops and looks at me. In his usual sweats and hoodie, he still somehow seems unfamiliar. It must be the wall between us that wasn’t there before.
“I mean, I’d rather be friends than not, but if you prefer we keep it businesslike, that’s fine with me. You’re going to be living here for a while longer, and it would be easier if we can be civil to each other. I really don’t want to have to deal with your rap music again. Also I’d still like your help with the Michael thing, if you’re still up for it.”
His silence lasts an uncomfortably long time. “You’re sure that’s what you want?”
Why is he standing so still? “Which part?”
“Michael. He’s what you want?”
His eyes are hooded, inscrutable, just like the expression on his face.
“Yes.”
He nods, his eyes shuttering like shades over storm windows. “All right, lass, drink up. Let’s get goin’.”
We jog in silence. It’s horrible. All the light bantering is gone, all the easy conversation is dead and buried six feet under. I long to say something to make it better but don’t know exactly how it got so bad in the first place.
Back at the apartment, he leaves me at the door with a word of advice.
“If you talk to pretty boy today, don’t reassure him.”
“About what?”
“About anything. Me, the ‘other competition’ he mentioned, how your not-date went. Just play it off like none of it matters. It’ll drive him crazy. Okay?”
“Okay. And thanks.”
He stares at me, unsmiling. “You’re welcome.” He goes inside his apartment and closes the door.
I shower, dress, and head to work, my thoughts preoccupied with Cam and the look on his face when he asked me if I was sure Michael is what I want.
When I get to work, there’s a note on my desk, slipped under my keyboard so only one corner is showing. It’s in a sealed envelope with my name printed on the outside. Curious, I tear into it before even removing my coat.
I’m sorry I upset you. Last night didn’t go at all how I’d hoped. I hope you can forgive me for being such an ass. It’s been so long since I’ve dated, it seems I’ve forgotten how.
M.
His cell phone number is written beneath.
Exhaling a slow breath, I slip the note back into its envelope and put it into my handbag. Then I sit in my chair and stare at my dark computer screen, arguing with myself about whether or not to send Michael an email or give him a call.
Ultimately, I decide to follow Cam’s advice and play it off like it doesn’t matter. I bury myself in work for the next few hours, until my desk phone rings.
“Joellen Bixby speaking.”
“This mornin’ sucked.”
Cam’s voice is curt with tension, but I’m instantly relieved. “Last night, too. I couldn’t sleep.”
There’s a fraught pause, then he exhales. “Me neither.”
“Are you still mad at me?”
“I was never mad at you, lass,” he says quietly. “You bloody hardheaded woman.”
Thank God, we’re making up. I’m giddy. “Good, because if I had to listen to your music again, I’d throw myself out a window.”
He chuckles. “That’s a little dramatic, don’tcha think?”
“Plus I owe you two more home-cooked meals.”
“Is that right? You’ve been countin’?”
His voice is classic McGregor I-know-you’re-in-love-with-me smug. “So have you,” I shoot back playfully, “and don’t even try to deny it, prancer. My meat loaf is the best part of your day.”
“Aye, lass. Your loaf is almost as good as your pie.”
I smile, twirling the phone cord between my fingers. “Speaking of my pie, any requests for your last two meals?”
Cam’s voice changes, goes a little rough. “Well of course I want that pie, lassie. I love that pie. Sweetest thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”
Heat flashes over my entire body. An image of his face when he broke the kiss on the couch floats into my head, and I squirm in my chair. A new subject is in order or I’ll need to change my panties.
“There’s a picture of us on the internet. A celebrity gossip site.”
He curses under his breath. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, and you don’t have to be sorry. I think it’s raised my cred around the office. The girl who sits next to me is treating me like I’m Beyoncé. And a couple of the guys in accounting said hi to me on the elevator. I think next they’re going to ask me to get your autograph.”
Cam sighs. “It’s not me the guys from accounting are interested in, you wee daft bugger.”
That makes me feel good. If I had a mirror in front of me, I’d be preening into it, petting my hair like a horse’s mane. “You’re very good for my ego, you know that?”
He snorts. “Well, you’re shit for mine, so at least one of us is happy.”
He’s unhappy? I don’t want him to be unhappy, especially not because of me.
“Don’t forget I called you beautiful, prancer.” When he doesn’t respond, I hurry on, worried he’s thinking I was lying. “I meant it, too. You’re like this big, gorgeous, mountain of a man, who also happens to have a great sense of humor and an excellent vocabulary. You’re a catch.”
His continued silence terrifies me. Just when I’m about to ask him if he’s still there, he says, “Sounds like I deserve a sonnet. We’ll call it ‘Mountain Man.’ What rhymes with enormous muscles?”
I laugh, relieved I didn’t just stick my foot into my mouth. “I already wrote you one. But it wasn’t about your muscles, it was about your eyes.”
As soon as it’s out, I want to commit seppuku with the metal letter opener in the pen cup next to the computer. I close my eyes and bang my head softly against my desk.
Cam lets me off the hook with an easy laugh. “Sure, lass.”
He doesn’t believe me. Thank God. Because what possible reason could I have to be writing sonnets about his eyes? There isn’t one. Not a rational one, anyway. It just . . . happened. I can’t be held responsible for the doings of my muse!
“Why’re you breathin’ funny?” asks Cam when I don’t say anything. “That pesky intestinal gas botherin’ you again? You want me to stop by the store and pick you up a few pairs of your charcoal panties?”
“Ha.” I swallow loudly, trying to get myself together.
“Wait.” He’s quiet for a beat. “Don’t tell me you really did write me a sonnet.”
My groan is the sound of someone watching a casket being lowered into the ground.
“Lassie. You know what happens if you lie to me.”
God, that dark promise in his voice. Why the hell do I like that so much? “Yes, I know what happens, prancer. You’ll take me over your knee.”
“That’s right.”
“But . . . if I just don’t admit something, that’s not lying.”
“It’s a lie of omission. It is lyin’.”
“God, it’s like you’re looking for an excuse to spank me!”
“I’d like an excuse to do a lot of bad things to you, darlin’. You have no idea.”
The tone of his voice . . . oh my. Low, gruff, and deadly serious, it sets quite a few of my nerve endings atingle. Okay, all my nerve endings.
It must be all those stupid tingles that make me say what I say next.
“Like what?” I hold my breath, waiting for his answer, but his mercurial mood switches from dark and smoldering to light and bantering with the blink of an eye.
“Ach, wouldn’t you like to know! Don’t you have work to be doin’, you slacker?”
“Hey, you’re the one who called me.”
“Aye, I did. And now I’m gonna hang up. Don’t forget—pie tonight, darlin’.” His voice drops. “And I want it extra hot.”
Then he’s gone. I set the phone back in the cradle, surprised to see my hand trembling.