Page 110 of Full Tilt
And I’ve never wanted anything more than to hold him again and tell him exactly how proud I am.
Fuck, I can’t wait.
23
Camden
The bellover the door jingles as I step into Black Salt Ink, the sound oddly comforting despite the nerves buzzing just beneath my skin.
Christy looks up from the front desk, her knowing grin already in place. “You’re early,” she says, her voice pitched low with amusement. “That alias you gave me was shit, by the way.”
I smirk and step fully into the shop, the air thick with antiseptic and the low hum of something warm and familiar. “Figured it wouldn’t fool you.”
She flicks her gaze towards the back, chin lifting. “He’s in his room. Head down. Completely oblivious.”
Perfect.
I nod, give her a grateful look, and move past the waiting area, every step somehow quieter than usual—despite the pounding of my heart. I haven’t seen him in nearly two weeks, and somehow, that feels both ridiculous and monumental. The US tour was short by professional standards. But in Brent-time? It’s felt like a fucking decade.
I pause at the threshold of his workroom.
The door’s open, the late-morning light slanting in through the frosted window and catching in the strands of his messydark hair. He’s seated at his drafting desk, sleeves pushed up, head tilted slightly as he sketches something I can’t see. His lip ring catches the light every time he draws it between his teeth, something he does when he’s really focused. He’s wearing a charcoal T-shirt that clings lovingly to the planes of his back, stretched just enough that I catch the outline of his shoulder blades when he moves.
God, I missed him.
There’s a tenderness in the moment, the way his brow is furrowed in concentration, the pencil in his hand moving with quick, practiced ease. It’s a side of him I’ve only recently come to know—the artist at work, utterly absorbed and stunningly unaware of how beautiful he looks when he’s thinking.
I lean against the doorframe, letting the seconds stretch.
This—being here, watching him in his element—is worth every lie I told to get here early. I haven’t even told my brother I landed this morning, let alone Brent. But the way my chest swells just standing in this doorway, the way my mouth aches from holding back a grin… it was the right call.
Finally, he senses something. Maybe the shift in light. Or just that inexplicable gut feeling that someone’s watching.
He glances up, blinking once, then twice, like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing.
“Cam?” His voice is soft, rough with surprise.
I shrug one shoulder, unable to keep the grin off my face. “Thought I’d drop in. You know, get some work done. Figured I’d go with a fake name and everything. Keep you on your toes.”
Brent’s chair scrapes back as he rises, that dazed look on his face melting into something warmer. Something breathtaking. “You absolute bastard,” he says—but he’s smiling like he might kiss me into next week.
I open my arms just in time to catch him.
He collides into me, arms banding around my back, the scent of ink and soap and Brent flooding my senses. His unshaven face lightly scrapes my jaw as he buries his face against my neck, and I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since the plane took off from Atlanta.
“Missed me?” I murmur, voice low, amused.
“Like hell,” he says against my throat, his hands splaying across my back, fingers digging in like he’s making sure I’m really here. “You’re early.”
“Couldn’t stay away.” I run my fingers through the back of his hair, letting them tangle in those dark strands. “Three weeks before training starts. I plan to spend every damn second I can with you.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes roving over my face like he’s committing every line to memory. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve booked the day off.”
“Would’ve ruined the surprise.”
Brent’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s pretending to be annoyed, but the curve of his mouth betrays him. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
I kiss him.
