11. The Desperate

ELEVEN

THE DESPERATE

BECCA

I sigh and drop an elbow on the table, massaging my temple.

"Are you going to be okay?" Cam asks, finishing off the stack of pancakes in less than five bites.

"I guess to you, my problems seem foolish."

"Listen, everyone has problems, so you're not alone. What matters is how you overcome them and rise above."

He sounds so—not like the Cam I used to know. He's determined. Hell, he's made it into the professional league. There's a different air about him, a manly one with well-earned swagger. Although the way his hair tumbles wildly over his right eye is exactly what drove me crazy in our younger days.

My lady bits are glad he hasn't changed hairstyles.

Suddenly, his phone buzzes on the table, and I can't help but glance at it before he reaches for it. The name Belinda appears on the screen. He's quick to flip it over.

"Hot date?" I ask, although it's none of my business.

He looks guilty, like he's been caught. "One of my teammates set up a blind date for me. I was going to meet her for drinks tonight. But then all this with you happened and—I'll text her and cancel. I want to make sure you get home safely."

"Cam, I'm fine. I'm not your damn charity case." I scoff, although inside I'm cringing. Of course he'd have a date, and probably a new woman every night of the week without even trying.

"I didn't say you were. Look, Vegas can be?—"

"You've been here a month and you think you know this city? I've been here far longer," I retort.

"And look how far you've come. You must be mighty pleased with yourself for working at a strip club." His sarcasm rips through his tone. Ouch.

"A gentleman's club," I say. He arches a brow and cocks his head. "Fine. So it was a strip joint. Look, I'm going to make it in this world despite whatever you or my parents or anyone thinks. I can do this." I cross my arms, getting mad all over again about everything.

"There she is. That's the fighter I remember. And I don't doubt you'll make something of yourself. You were always a beautiful dancer."

My eyes snap to him and once again I'm taken aback by the look on his face gazing back at me. He thinks I'm beautiful? But just like a passing observation, right? Besides, it's not like he's an expert; he came to only one of my performances, so what would he know?

"Dancing is my passion. It doesn't matter if it's ballet or ballroom, jazz or hip-hop. It's like something I have to do and I can't let anyone stop me."

"That's exactly how I feel about hockey."

This is too much. Cam and I are actually finding common ground with our passionate pursuits. But his phone buzzing again reminds me of the different worlds we live in.

"Go on your date and have fun. You do you. I'll do me." I play it off casually.

He hesitates like he's grappling with the decision. "Are you sure?"

"Totally. I made it this long in Las Vegas without you, haven't I?"

He chews his cheek like he's weighing his options. Watch over his best friend's little sister, or go on a hot date? Tough choice there. I have no doubt which way he'll go.

"I suppose you're right," he finally says. "Well, you have my phone number. Use it if you need anything at all and I'll help you out. But if I hear you've gotten into some trouble and didn't call me, I'll find you and kick your ass." He winks with a grin and stands, straightening, all six feet and sexy four inches of him. Whoever he's meeting tonight is one lucky babe.

I hop up, too, and this is awkward. Do we hug? Shake hands? We used to be enemies and I have no idea what we are now. He avoids the issue by taking out his wallet and tossing some bills on the table.

"See ya," he says with a twerk of his lips.

After watching him walk out the door, I drop back into the booth with a sigh. I stare down at all the food. There's enough here that, if I ration it out, could last me a week.

Rock bottom. That's what this is. It has to be. The worst my life could possibly get.

Then I light on the wad of bills he left. All hundreds. For a meal that probably costs less than fifty bucks.

Did he do that on purpose? I almost want to ball it up and chase after him and throw it in his face. I told him I'm not a charity case. But in my periphery, I spot the waitress heading my way, and I don't have a dime on me. I quickly scoop up the pile and hold it under the table.

"Here ya go, hun. Need some to-go boxes?" She sets the ticket down.

"Please." When she turns her back, I look down at the money in my hand and count it. A thousand frigging dollars.

I pay the bill and leave a decent tip, then box up the food. But all the way home, I scratch at my neck like the money is a noose around it. I could use it to pay rent to Calista, and the rest to have a cushion while I find a job.

Or I could give it all back to Cam. Our roles have completely reversed. He's the rich boy, and I'm the girl down on her luck. Go figure.

But I can't take his hand out. I'll have to call or see him again, and we'll argue over the money. He'll force me to keep it. I'll throw it in his face. Back and forth we'll go, starting a war between us again. We could lose control.

God, I wonder what Cam losing control on top of me in bed would feel like.

"Ugh," I moan, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. My panties soak and I squeeze my thighs together as tightly as possible, seeking relief. Just because I've never had a man inside of me doesn't mean anything. I have a box of toys I use when desperate situations call for it.

I'd say I'm very, very desperate.