Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

Athena

I regret the words the moment they slip out of my mouth.

Stupid to admit them aloud.

That's an inside thought, something that should remain buried.

But once I start, I can't stop.

"He had kids, Cam," I whisper. "And a wife. And—" My voice breaks and I slam my lids closed, hating that I can feel dampness clinging to the bases of my lashes. "I'm me."

He tsks and the sound is so out of Martha's playbook that I still for a moment. But then he's cupping my jaw, tilting my head up. "Open your eyes, cupcake."

I don't like orders.

Or endearments.

But I can't resist him, not like this, not right now, not…well, maybe not ever .

And I can't process how dangerous that thought is with his arms around me, his warm spicy scent in my nose, his hard body pressed to mine. Cam is…well, he's not that lanky college kid anymore.

He's a man and?—

For better or worse, my body is very aware of that.

"Athena, baby"—he strokes a finger down my cheek—"open your eyes."

And…I do.

I find myself staring into Cam's hazel gaze, lost in the swirling greens and golds and grays. They're beautiful, like an abstract painting I can stare at for hours and hours.

But it's the emotions swirling within his eyes that steal my breath, that stop me from pulling away.

"You've said it before," he tells me gently. "Made it clear you think that your life is less valuable than someone else's because of your upbringing or the woman you've become."

I inhale.

Because I know I do that.

I know that some part of me feels that.

"You're a good person."

And though my initial instinct is to demure, to make some joke in order to ignore the feelings that sends spinning through me, I bite it back. I'm not worthless. I do good work. I try my best. I've made something of my life when no one— no one —thought that would happen, but?—

"Tommy was better," I say softly. "And his family deserved to have him in their lives."

Cam's eyes flash with anger. "And we don't deserve to have you?"

My heart leaps, surging up into the back of my throat. "Cam."

"We love you, Ats. You're part of our family—even if sometimes you try not to be."

God. Why does that slice through me?

Because it's true?

I exhale. "I don't try to do it, you know?"

His thumb brushes over my bottom lip. "I know."

"And I'm closer to you guys than I've ever been to anyone in my life."

His eyes soften. "I know that too." He leans in, rests his forehead against mine for a moment. "Same as I know that Lex would have been tearing himself apart if you'd put yourself between him and the bullet. Same as I know that Tommy would have felt the same too. You guys do the job you do because you care about people, and"—he lifts his head, thumb brushing along my bottom lip again—"if Tommy was an asshole, you wouldn't be tearing yourself apart like this."

I still for a second.

Then start laughing.

"What the fuck, Cam?" I say, shoving at his chest.

He grins, and fuck if I don't want to kiss him. To taste that smile. To distract myself from the hurt. To…

Give in.

I can't.

He chuckles, but doesn't let me go, just tugs at a curl. "You know it's true."

I scowl.

He tugs another curl, his smile gentle, his voice soft. "Just like you know as well as I do that someone telling you the truth doesn't make it any easier to bear."

Any trace of amusement fades. "I'm really sorry about your injury."

He touches the back of his knuckles to my cheek, silently acknowledging me. "And I'm really sorry about Tommy."

"I keep hearing my mom's voice in my head," I admit. "The one who took great pleasure in telling me I wasn't worth anything."

"I keep thinking about the empty rooms in my house and how they won't be filled with my kids." He sighs. "And then I hear Coach telling me to pull my fucking weight."

"Dammit," I whisper.

"I know," he mutters. "We're a fucking pair, aren't we?"

"I could really use that whisky now."

He releases me then snags two mugs from the cabinet, picks up the bottle, and pours generously into both of them. "How about I do you one better? Whisky"—he passes over one of the cups—" and battling some dragons and orcs?"

I groan softly and start to peel open my lids.

Then immediately stop when my head all but screams in protest.

Whisky—far too much of it.

For a second, I just lay prone, eyes closed, waiting for the rolling wave of pain to chill the fuck out. When it eventually does, I move slower this time, slitting them open just the slightest bit.

Ugh. That's not fun.

There's barely any light in the room, but it still jabs at my eyeballs as I try to gain my bearings. There's a ceiling above me, something soft—presumably a bed, if I'm using my superior deductive reasoning skills—below me. Ands there's a faint glimmering of light, as though there's a lamp on in another room.

I'm hot, I suddenly realize, and my back may be cushioned on something soft, but my side is pressed, crammed really, against something rock-solid.

Heat. Hard .

My eyes fly open again, and I ignore the jab of pain this time when I realize where I am and?—

Who I'm with.

Cam's arms are wrapped tightly around me, one beneath my shoulders, the other around my middle, one big, hot palm resting on my hip.

His breathing is slow and steady and ruffling the hair by my ear.

I struggle to keep my breathing steady, especially with every muscle in my body taut, every instinct telling me to get the fuck out.

Right now.

"Athena."

For a second, I panic, thinking he's awake, thinking he's found me here in his bed, and?—

A sigh, his arms tightening, drawing me closer?—

Holy fucking shit.

He's hard—and yeah, I know I've thought that already in the last two minutes.

But…he's hard.

And pressed into my hip and throbbing and?—

I slip free of his hold before I do something stupid. Like reach down, wrap my fingers around his cock, and start stroking.

Sweet baby Jesus.

My headache increases as I stumble away from the bed, mostly because I realize I'm not wearing pants.

Or a shirt—or not my shirt.

I'm covered in Cam's tee, the cotton skating over my curves, hanging to mid-thigh. No bra. No underwear. Just…

A shirt.

And he's…

I avert my eyes again.

Naked. No. Okay, almost naked. That lickable ass is barely covered in a pair of tiny boxer briefs.

"Athena," he murmurs, and I know I need to get the hell out of here.

The talk last night, drinking and playing video games—I could accept both of those. But waking up like this?

No. Fucking no.

I don't bother looking for my clothes, just steal a pair of sweats that I cinch tight around my waist and socks that dwarf my feet from the bag in the corner. I have other stuff in the car, including a jacket. These are just to get me decent. I'll return them another time.

I exhale, slip out into the hall, and move to my shoes by the door. My purse is on the counter, along with my cell, and I snag both after I shove my feet into my boots. Then I'm slipping out into the early morning.

It's still mostly dark, and the rain's falling fast and furiously.

I bleep my car's locks, yank open the door, plunk into the driver's seat, and turn on the engine. A breath to steady myself before I start to back up.

"Fuck!" I hiss, slamming on the brakes, skidding in the wet earth, horror blooming in my middle as I take in the scene captured by the backup camera.

The bridge that spans the river…

Is gone.