Page 87 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
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.
