“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried,” he says. “I’m just curious.”
“Thanks for lunch.” I walk to the trash, dumping my tray before heading for the door.
“Anytime,” Cameron calls after me. And it sounds like an offer.
When I get outside, the sun is shining. I’m glad because that means Cameron won’t see me walking in the rain and I can spare myself the humiliation.
I’m just about to step off the curb into the parking lot when a white truck cuts across the lane and pulls up, nearly close enough to hit me. I jump back and gasp.
“Slutton,” Patrick calls, leaning out the driver’s side window. My heart begins to race as I look from side to side, trying to decide if I should start walking or go back inside.
“Get in the truck,” Patrick calls, shifting into park.
“Fuck off,” I say, but my wrist tingles where he grabbed me at the mall. I can still see the hate in his expression when he pulled me over the table.
“You owe me an apology.” He’s smiling, but his eyes are sinister. My gaze travels to his hand where it lies on the steering wheel. Even from here I can see the dark pink-and-purple scar. I wonder if it still hurts and if that’s why he’s such a raving asshole.
“Drop dead,” I tell him, and start walking. I just need to stay away from him.
The engine of the truck revs so loudly it makes me jump. Panic breaks across my chest.
“I said, get in,” Patrick calls.
Yeah, right. So I can end up in a ditch somewhere? I don’t think so. I begin to walk faster, but no matter how quickly I go, his truck speeds up to stay at my side. My face is on fire, and my stomach is threatening to throw up the chicken nuggets I just ate.
What is he going to do to me? I stop and turn, walking back the way I came. Patrick brakes violently, thrown off by my movement. I listen as he tries to turn around. I know it’ll be hard because the parking lot is narrow and Patrick drives something big to make up for a less-than-impressive package.
Relief washes over me when Cameron steps out of McDonald’s, sipping from his drink and completely oblivious to my terror.
“Cameron,” I call, jogging toward him. He turns to me, looking surprised at first, but then smiling.
“Change your mind about walking?”
The engine revs again, and my heart races. I’m afraid Patrick will grab me and throw me into his truck. That I’ll become a story on the ten o’clock news.
The white truck is next to me again, but I don’t look over. I keep my gaze trained on Cameron, and he glances over at the truck suspiciously. Patrick slows, but I walk faster.
“You will apologize,” he yells out the open passenger window. “I’ll be seeing you around, Slutton.”
He peels out with a loud squeal, and I stop walking, catching my breath. If it weren’t for that grab at the mall, I would have told him all the different ways he could fuck himself, but now I don’t. He’s pissed, and he wants revenge. And to be honest . . . I don’t know what to do about it. It makes me feel helpless.
“Who the hell was that?” Cameron asks when I reach him. He looks unnerved but in an “it’s not really my business but I don’t like it at all” sort of way.
“Him?” I say as if I hadn’t noticed a guy harassing me. Cameron narrows his eyes and sips from his drink. I look away. “Don’t know.”
“Can I drive you home now?” Cameron asks.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I hate myself for taking the ride, but I know Patrick might look for me. And I don’t want to be available for street-side kidnapping.
“Of course I don’t mind,” Cameron says, walking to the trash can and tossing his soda in. “I wouldn’t have fucking offered in the first place if I did.”
I close my eyes for a second, wanting to stop the panic in my chest. I open them before Cameron notices. I let Patrick get inside my head. He’s such a douchebag and I let him intimidate me.
Cameron begins walking to his car, and I watch after him, wondering if he’ll look back at me, but he doesn’t. He’s not going to keep asking. I put my head down and follow behind him.
When I stop at the passenger door, our eyes meet as we both look over the roof of the car. His face is serious and beautiful. He smiles softly, as if he knows more about my situation than he’ll say. Then he ducks down and gets into the driver’s seat.
* * *
We drive quietly for a while. I’m used to driving with Travis and Retha, and with them it’s rarely silent.
“Why don’t you listen to the radio?” I ask Cameron.
He looks at me, then back at the road. “You want the radio on?”
“I just asked why you don’t listen to it.”
“I listen to it all the time.”
“Not when I’m in here you don’t.”
He laughs. “Sutton, if you want to listen to the radio, turn it on.”
“I don’t want to,” I say, shrugging. “I just thought it was strange.”
“Strange?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Yes, I’m a total weirdo who hates music in the car.”
“Fine.” I glance out the window, watching as the neighborhood becomes increasingly shabby. Shame sweeps over me again.
Cameron clears his throat, and I know that throat clearing is always the beginning of an awkward moment.
“Want to go somewhere?” he asks. I turn and find him staring out the windshield, looking more nervous than he sounds.
“I already went somewhere with you, remember?”
“I remember,” he says casually. “But I thought you might be curious to see where I live.”
“And why would you think that?” I realize that I sort of am. And I can’t believe he’d even think of taking me there.
“Well, are you?” His lips have a small curve as he continues not to look at me.
Outside the window, the houses seem empty and desperate. Evan has a dentist appointment and won’t be home until after six. My father will be at work—maybe. There’s no one home but the ghost of my mother.
“I shouldn’t,” I say, continuing to watch the neighborhood. I try to think of all the reasons I have to say no, but I don’t have any. “Will you take me home after?” I ask, turning to him.
“No. You’ll have to walk.” Cameron looks sideways at me and laughs. “Yes, Savannah. I will take you home whenever you want.”
I nod and go back to watching the passing houses.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When we turn onto his street, I’m already completely uncomfortable. I’ve never been to this part of town, not even for a doctor’s appointment. This is where celebrities would live if there were any around here. I feel unworthy.
Cameron pulls into a driveway that ends with three garage doors and is attached to a huge house with two-story windows. Cameron cuts the engine.
“Your house?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“It’s nice,” I say as if I’m not at all impressed. I lean forward to look up at it through the windshield. “A bit on the small side.”
“I don’t hear that often,” he says. When I look over he laughs like he’s not just talking about his house. “Are we going inside?” he asks.
I sweep my eyes over the brick front, wondering why he brought me here, wondering why I agreed.
“Sure,” I say, because he was right. I am curious to see where he lives.
Cameron gets out, but I stay in my seat a moment longer, watching him walk around the car and up to the front door. He doesn’t turn around, and I like the ease with which he moves. He belongs here, in a place like this. I don’t.
He leaves the front door open as he walks in, so I figure I might as well follow him. When I get out of the car, I glance around the neighborhood. An old lady walking by with two puffy white dogs waves at me. I freeze. Does she think I live here? Does she really not know her neighbors? I wave back.
“Sutton?” Cameron sings from ins
ide the house. “You’re letting all the heat out.”
I decide to take him up on this adventure, and I walk down the pathway and inside the house.
Holy shit. It’s nice. I close the door and look around at the dark wood floors, leather furniture, and gray painted walls. I feel underdressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I should probably take my shoes off. I hesitate because my socks don’t match, but I don’t want to be rude. I carefully place my sneakers behind the door.
Cameron walks out from what I assume is the kitchen, holding two cans of soda. He looks happy that I’m here, and now that I’m inside his warm house, I sort of feel that way, too. But I don’t want him to know.
“I like your furniture,” I say. Dumb.
“Uh . . . thanks.” He hands me a Coke. Cameron looks down at my mismatched red and blue socks but doesn’t mention them. “Do you want to see the rest of the house?” he asks.
“Showing off?”
“I have a heated pool.” Cameron’s grinning. He can tell that I don’t give a shit that he has a pool, even a heated one. He’s making fun of himself and I think it’s sweet.
“Wow,” I say, popping the top of my can. “Is it inground?”
“Uh, it’s indoor.”
First of all, I didn’t even know that was possible. “Does it have a slide?” I ask.
“Nope,” he replies. “My parents didn’t want to look pretentious.”
I laugh, and Cameron sips from his soda as we stand in his entryway. And just before it gets really uncomfortable, he motions to the hallway behind me. “You want to see my bedroom?” he asks.
I’m struck with a combination of desire and anger. Sure, I know I’m probably not the first girl he brought to lunch and then back to his bed. But it doesn’t mean I want to be one of them. I don’t need that sort of drama. I have enough of that with my current ex.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Cameron says, taking another sip of his Coke. “I’m not putting the moves on you. My room is more comfortable than out here.” He nods to the immaculate living room. “I’m just being polite,” he adds.
I don’t doubt his sincerity, but I still don’t understand it. “Why?” I ask him.
He furrows his brow. “Why not?”
“Because.”
“You are very articulate in your arguments, you know that?”
“Fuck off.”
“Sutton,” he warns. “Remember to manage the anger.”
It’s a pretty good comeback, and my distrust eases. “Fine,” I tell him, and exhale dramatically. “Show me your stupid room.”
“Oh, now it’s stupid?”
“Shut up. Just show me.”
He bites his lip, spinning in his bright white athletic socks, and walks down the hall. I follow him, eyeing the artwork and family pictures on the wall. He’s an only child. And it makes me remember what it was like when I was the only child in my family. My mom was around. My dad was sober. But I didn’t have Evan, so I’d take now over then any day.
Cameron opens a door near the end of a short hall and steps aside for me to walk in first. He stares at the side of my face as I move past him. I stop as soon as I enter. His room is nicer than any bedroom I’ve seen before. I really shouldn’t be here.
He closes the door, and I look back at him, alarmed. We’re alone in his room with the door shut and no one home. This is clearly hookup territory. I’m not prepared for that. Not with him. Not with someone like him.
I begin to walk around, looking at all of his stuff. The papers on his dresser, a watch, postcards from California.
“You can sit down,” Cameron says, motioning toward the bed. Nice try.
I raise my eyebrows at him, and he chuckles to himself.
“Do you give everyone this hard of a time or am I special? Because I’m only suggesting you sit, instead of pacing my room like a caged lion. But if that’s a dick thing to say, then I’m—”
I sit down on his bed, and he snaps his mouth shut. I’m not sure of the answer to his question. Most people I tell off deserve it. As for him being special . . . I don’t think it matters.
Of course, his bed is the ultimate in comfort. Like one of those pillowy ones. I put my soda on his side table, and when I look at Cameron, he smiles. “What?” I ask. He’s leaning against his dresser, his hair pushed back behind his ears.
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
We’re both quiet, and I don’t even know where to start with talking to him. I feel so thrown in his place, so not in control. Seeing someone’s bedroom for the first time is . . . intimate. Just thinking the word makes me blush.
“So can I sit next to you, or will you think I’m hitting on you, Miss Everybody Wants Me?” Cameron asks.
“It depends. Are you hitting on me?”
“No,” he says. “I’m really not.”
There’s a sliver of disappointment, and I look down at my lap. “It’s your house,” I say.
“You’re being so defensive,” Cameron says. “I’m not the enemy. You don’t have to fight with me.” The bed shifts next to me, and although he’s not touching me, I can feel the warmth from his body. I swallow hard.
“Maybe I only know how to fight.”
“And maybe I’m fighting on the same side as you.”
I like him. I do. And even though he’s giving off the vibe that he likes me back, it doesn’t mean anything. Patrick used to tell me that he loved me in one breath and then tell me to “not look so poor” in the next. He’d whisper sweet words into my ear and put his hand down my pants, only to make me walk home because he was going out with his friends. I wasn’t exactly the best judge of character back then. I can’t be stupid like that again. Even though I know Cameron is cool, sweet even, I’m the one who will end up getting hurt. I’m the one with too much to lose.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Cameron says, sounding amused. Can he tell he makes me nervous?
“That’s because you talk too much,” I say.
“Only to you.”
My face tingles. I can feel myself beginning to completely overanalyze the situation. Why does he talk to me? Why me?
“You’re quiet again,” Cameron says.
I have to say something to break this tension. He’s within touching distance. “So . . .” I start. “You’re super rich.” It comes out like an accusation rather than a statement.
“No,” he says. “But my parents are.”
I turn and find him smiling down at his expensive-looking rug.
“Are they assholes?” I ask.
“Who?” He laughs. “My parents?” He sounds surprised by the question.
I guess they’re not. “Never mind,” I say quickly.
“No, it’s okay,” Cameron says, touching my hand. It’s an innocent gesture, but I can’t help pulling away and folding my hands on my lap.
“They’re good people,” Cameron adds. “Especially my mom.”
I don’t know why, but this makes me even more attracted to him. Something about the way his voice softens when he mentions his mom. I wish I could feel like that about my mom.
I want to know more about him. I want to understand him the way I do my friends. “Cameron,” I say, looking sideways at him. “Why did you really trash the school?”
“It’s a long, tragic story—”
“I’m serious. I want to know.”
He turns suddenly to me, running his gaze over my face. I lick my lips as if anticipating him kissing me.
“I was mad,” he says instead. “I was . . . pissed off and mad.”
“Why?”
“Because I hated them. Langston Prep,” he says. “I didn’t belong there.”
“You do drive a BMW.” I know of Langston. It has a campus with trees and private sports teams. Having a nice car is a prerequisite.
“I wasn’t like them,” he says. “They were fake, and I’m not like that.”
Cameron isn’t calm and smiling. His eyes are narrowed and his lips are pulled up in a sneer. I sh
ift a little closer to him, sort of fascinated by his anger.
“You could’ve done your thing and gone home,” I say. “That’s what I do now.”
“See, that’s the problem,” he says. “School’s not my thing, especially there. I hated it—sitting and listening to useless shit all day. I didn’t want to go anymore.
“But my dad . . . he wouldn’t let me drop out. He kept giving the school money to let me stay, even though I hardly showed up. The dean couldn’t stand me. So then I had all these pricks telling me how grateful I should be that I was still allowed to attend. Like I owed them something when my dad was the one paying for their library.”
Cameron rakes his fingers through his hair as I wonder what the going rate for a library is. He shakes his head.
“When I started hanging out with the ‘scholarship kids,’ as they liked to call them, the administration dragged me into a meeting. Talking about bad influences. Telling me that I was looking for trouble.”
“Were you?” I like that he doesn’t care. I like that he’s not sorry.
He nods. “Maybe a little. But they had no right to tell me who to hang out with. They even rearranged my schedule. It was total bullshit. Then the dean, or as I called him to his face, Captain Douchebag, said if he saw me with Marcus and them again, he’d suspend me.”
“Could he do that?”
“He did.”
That’s unfair. Why do they have the right to tell Cameron who he can be friends with? Then I realize that I’d be one of the people he was supposed to stay away from.
“So you got suspended?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“Bastards,” I say. His eyes are intense, and we’re both breathing quickly.
“Bastards,” he repeats softly as if he thinks it’s cool that I said it.
If I lean toward him, will he kiss me? He’s looking at me like he might. But maybe it would just turn into one of those really awkward, slow-motion moments of horror. A hug-kiss. A misunderstanding of signals. Oh, hell. I’m overanalyzing again.
“Then what happened?” I ask, trying to get him talking again. “What made you decide to trash the school?”
“I wanted out. I tried to tell my dad, have him yank his money from the place. But he wouldn’t. He was convinced it was a good school. But screw that. I got my bad influences and we broke in.”