Page 68 of Full Tilt
“Get out,” I snap. “Now.”
Carrie pokes her head out from the back. “Everything okay?”
“No,” I say. “This guy needs to go.”
She takes one look at the man and steps forwards, voice hard. “You heard him. Out. We don’t tolerate harassment here.”
One of our regulars—a mountain of a guy with sleeves from wrist to neck—steps into the reception area just in time to loom effectively. The guy finally gets the message and slinks out, muttering something under his breath.
As the door shuts behind him, I sag against the counter, heart pounding.
Carrie watches me, eyebrows drawn. “That… was definitely a journalist, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “Or some shit-stirring fan trying to sell a story.”
She places a hand on my shoulder. “Camden okay with being public?”
“No,” I murmur, throat tight. “He’s not. And I think I just screwed everything up.”
The studio feels too quiet after that.
Even with Carrie murmuring to a client who came in thirty minutes ago at her station and the hum of machines being cleaned, there’s something off-kilter about the air. I try to shake it. Try to pretend that bastard hadn’t shown up, hadn’t looked me in the eye and asked if I usually fuck my clients. As if Camden is some conquest, some goddamn feather in my cap.
I scrub a hand down my face and unlock my phone again.
Still nothing from Cam.
I tried to call him five minutes ago. It rang out. That could mean a dozen things—he’s in his meeting, he’s in the lockerroom, he’s ignoring calls. None of them sit right. Not after that stunt.
I type a message fast.
Me: Hey. Tried to call. Please call me when you can.
I hesitate, then keep typing.
Me: Just a heads-up, someone came by the shop asking questions. About you. About us. I told him to fuck off, but I think he might be press. He dropped your name.
I don’t hit Send right away. I read it through twice. My thumb hovers. Then I send it.
Fuck.
There’s a sting behind my eyes I’m not proud of. A mix of fury and shame and fear, all tangled into a pit that’s taken up residence in my chest. I don’t do this. I don’t let people in easily, not in ways that matter. And now someone’s trying to weaponise it.
I glance towards the hallway where my next client is due in ten minutes.
Carrie steps out from her station and gives me a look that says she knows I’m not okay. I offer a faint smile—reassuring, or maybe just resigned—and return to the reception desk. I’ve got a few sketches I can run through, some linework options I need to prep.
My hands move, but my head’s not in it.
So I do the only thing I can: I flick off silent mode and set my phone faceup beside my sketchpad. Against every instinct, against every professional bone in my body, I keep it there. Open. Ready.
Because if Camden calls, I’ll drop everything. Because he needs to know before someone else twists this into something it’s not. Because he deserves to hear it from me. Because?—
Because I fucking care.
And I don’t know if that makes this better or worse. But I do know I’m not backing down. Not from this.
Not from him.
