Page 99 of Hot Damn
“I should go?—”
“Don’t start that again. I want you here. Ineedyou here.”
Beckett doesn’t give me time to comment on his words before he leaves the room and closes the door behind him.
As much as I want to ponder what he said, why he said it, the relief the steaming shower offers is my priority. Pulling my shampoo and conditioner from my bag, I strip out of the shirt Beckett must have put on me at some point and hop under the warm spray.
The moan that leaves me is loud and I’m not surprised when Whitney knocks on the door.
“Cami? Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”
I smile. She’s so perceptive. Normally I’d say yes and not mean it, but I can’t lie to Whitney. “I’m a little shaky. But I think if I sit on the floor, I can wash my hair.”
“Oh, screw that!”
The next thing I know, Whitney is not only in the bathroom, she’s in the shower with me. Her clothes are soaked in seconds and I’m so weak and muddled that I don’t protest when she helps me sit on the floor and grabs the handheld shower head and switches the water flow to it.
“Tilt your head back so I can wet your hair, then pass me the shampoo.”
What strength I had on first waking is quickly draining away and I have to admit I’d never have been able to do this on my own. I’m not even sure if I’ll be able to stand once she’s done.
“Thank you.”
“You took care of me. More than once. It’s only fair I take care of you in return.”
“Hmm…” The warm water, the press of her fingers through my hair, the care she’s showing me, it all makes me want to cry.
I’m not an emotional person. Not prone to tears. But right now I’m helpless to stop them from falling.
“It’s okay. We’ll take care of you.”
Whitney’s words make the tears flow faster and neither of us says another word while she finishes washing my hair.
And when she’s satisfied I’m clean, she helps me stand and dries me off and dresses me like a child before helping me back to Beckett’s bed.
Beckett
“She asleep again?” I lean against the doorframe and watch Whit as she sits on the edge of my bed and stares at Cami.
“Yeah. I think showering wore her out.” She doesn’t take her eyes off Cami when she asks, “You think she’ll still want to hang around us when she works out it’s all my fault?”
“What?” Pushing off the doorway, I stride over to my bed. “None of this is your fault. Why would you even think that?”
Glancing up, her tear-filled eyes meet mine. “Everything started when I posted that picture.”
“Oh, Whitbee. No. This is not on you. And Cami does not blame you for what happened to her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s not who she is.”
“I don’t want her to hate me.”
The quiver of her bottom lip has me reaching out and tugging her to her feet. Pulling her into me, I press her face to my chest like I did when she was little. “Shh…”
