Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

Athena

I didn't know it was possible to have this much sex. It's glorious.

And yes, I'm sore.

"Here you go, cupcake," Cam murmurs, leaning in to settle a plate in front of me. A steaming hot cinnamon roll is on it—of course—but this time he's added fruit.

"Trying to corrupt me?"

He kisses the top of my head. "I like you corrupt."

"Considering what you did to me this morning to wake me up, I think you're the corrupt one."

A chuckle. "Well, eat your fruit and you too can be corrupt."

I grin, shake my head, but pick up a slice of apple and start chomping. "Happy?"

"If you're happy," he murmurs, sitting next to me and settling one big warm palm on my thigh. My pussy clenches, remembering the pleasure that hand can give me, but my heart clenches harder.

I am happy.

Which makes the panic inside me grow, threatening to send me mountain-goating across the river.

I take a breath, manage to I shove it down, to inhale, exhale, and just…

Well, fuck, why can't I just be happy for the moment?

My phone buzzes on that thought and I glance down, see a familiar number on the screen.

Not work—because when I wasn't being fucked into oblivion the last few days, I've been glued to my laptop and liaising with my team and working my way through a bunch of new data and financial records that just came in.

It doesn't make sense, but I'm getting closer.

I squeeze the side of my phone, stopping the buzzing, but when Cam says, "I'll step out so you can answer that," something inside me shifts.

He knows that work stuff is confidential, that I can't talk freely with someone not on the case.

But he doesn't know who's on the other end of the call.

And…I want to take the universe's sign—my past coming in to remind me of all the things I can't do—and back the fuck up, distance myself from this vulnerability.

Want to avoid, fucking avoid all of this shit.

Only, I don't want to lose the warm hand on my thigh, the gentle man at my side. I want to eat my cinnamon roll while it's hot and joke about choking down the "healthy" apple slices.

So…I snag his wrist, hold him in place, and then I swipe a finger across the screen, hit the button for speaker.

It takes a second for the call to connect, but then it does, the background noise telling me enough.

She's up to her usual antics.

"Hi, Mom," I say quietly and feel Cam jerk next to me, feel his gaze searching out mine.

But I just keep my eyes on my phone and exhale.

"I need some money."

He jerks again, but I…relax. I know how to deal with this shit, know how to cope with it— ha —okay, so I know how to box it up and shove it down and move forward.

"You know I won't give you any money," I remind her.

"I need it for rehab."

Another old page from the playbook, which is why I counter with the same thing I've told her a hundred times, "You know that I'll pay the facility for it directly if you go."

A long pause, the cacophony of noise seeming to rise up and take over.

"I need it for food."

"You know I'll send a grocery delivery to your apartment."

"I don't live there anymore."

Of course not.

"You know I'll arrange for you to pick up some food nearby wherever you are. What do you feel like?"

Another pause.

And then I feel the mood shift, that tautness in the air that any kid from an abusive household feels—the razor's edge of anger, having crossed the point of no return.

"Just wire me the money, you fucking selfish bitch!" she snaps and I feel Cam jerk next to me.

Guilt churns—he hasn't seen this side of a mother, and I know I'm fucked up for exposing him to it.

But…

His hand stays where it is.

And some deep seated wound in my heart begins to knit itself closed.

I inhale, exhale. "You know that I won't," I tell her evenly. "Same as you know that you won't change my mind, no matter how much you yell."

Cam's fingers tense.

"Now," I go on, "would you like me to order you takeout from somewhere?"

"Always a useless selfish pain in my ass," she shouts. "What would it take for you to send me a hundred bucks? Nothing!"

I close my eyes. "Everything," I say quietly.

"Your father would be so disappointed in you."

I open them again. "He made his disappointment clear while he was alive."

Cam's grip tightens then loosens, as though he's worried he'll hurt me.

As though he's worried I could feel anything except for icy cold right now.

"So, you aren't going to send me my money?"

"Goodbye, Mom," I say by way of answer. "I wish you well. If you change your mind about rehab or the food, please let me know."

"Athena Phillips"—there's desperation in her voice now—"don't you fucking dare hang up on?—"

I hit the button and disconnect the call.

The silence that's left behind in its wake is terrible.

Then Cam curses quietly and gets up.

My heart sinks as I stare down at my phone, watching her call back, listening to it buzz.

I showed him.

I made him see.

And now he's going to leave.

The call cuts off.

Starts up again.

I reach for my phone but a big hand takes it from me, rejects the call and turns the whole thing off.

I blink.

Look up to see that he hasn't left.

That he's here—right next to me.

"Come here, cupcake."

Before I can so much as turn my head, Cam's tugging me out of the chair, wrapping me tightly in his arms. One hand sinks into my hair, the other rubs lightly up and down my back.

"I—"

"Shh," he says quietly. "I don't need an explanation."

"She's terrible," I whisper.

"Yes."

That he agrees without preamble does something to me—cracks through the ice, I guess. Though any hope of shielding myself from him has already splintered and melted into nothing these last few days.

There are so many reasons for me to keep my distance—not the least of which includes that fucked-up phone call—but…

I can't seem to locate any.

Reasons and self-control and distance.

Not with him hugging me tightly.

The words just…

Keep flowing.

"My dad wasn't any better," I admit.

"That doesn't mean that you're a bad person."

"You knew my upbringing was troubled," I say. "But it's one thing to know and another to experience."

"And yet," he says again, "That doesn't mean you're a bad person."

I exhale, want to shake my head and disagree, just on principle, but with his arms around me, I'm able to…

I don't know, just sit in the moment.

Think that maybe…he's right.

"Enough, cupcake," he says gently. "Don't waste your energy coming up with an excuse to fight that fact." He strokes a hand up and down my back, holding me tightly against his hard chest. "Just let me hold you."

So…

I do.

For long moments, I sit in this fantasy and let him hold me.

And pretend my mom isn't my mom, that my dad wasn't my dad.

And that I'm good.

That I'm not damaged and frozen over and destined to fuck up every wonderful thing in my life.

I just…let him hold me.

Eventually, though, I start getting antsy and slip out of his embrace. "I could use some whisky."

His mouth twitches, but his eyes tell me that he knows precisely what he thinks of my avoidance—it's bullshit.

"Kudos on letting me hold you for"—a glance at his watch—"four minutes and twenty-two seconds." A beat. "And we're out of whisky."

I scowl.

"Damn," I mutter.

"But we do have more—" His arms tighten around me, and he doesn't let me escape as he walks us backward and reaches for?—

I hear a crinkle.

"—gummy worms."

I still.

He leans back enough to meet my eyes while holding up the bag. "Want to get your frustrations out on these tiny, innocent faces?"

My heart thuds hard.

Because he noticed that?

Then my pulse settles, my panic fades.

Because…of course he had.