“That’s the fun in it,” she laughs.
I shake my head. “I must have missed the class where they teach girls to dress like clowns and call it fun. Besides, it’s just me and Camden, we don’t have to impress anyone.” I tell Chloe a lot of things, but I don’t tell her about what goes on between Camden and I. She wouldn’t understand our need for rough sex. Camden and I are a different kind of breed, we seek pleasure through pain. We don’t perceive pain like others.
“Here, wear this.” Chloe tosses a slouchy red shirt and a black skirt at me. Holding them up I inspect them further.
“Maybe to the shirt, hell no to she skirt.” I toss the black tube top she calls a skirt back at her.
“Oh my god, you’re going to be the lady that wears yoga pants on your wedding day, aren’t you?” She purses her lips, one hand on her hip.
“Maybe,” I laugh.
“Try the damn skirt on, it’s really soft material.” She tosses the black skirt back at me.
“It’s not me,” I protest.
“I know you don’t know how to wear things like this so let me teach you.” Ripping it from my hands she holds the waist of the skirt open. Normally I’d get mad at someone talking to me like that, but she might be on to something. I really don’t know anything about dressing up. “You put both feet in at once, and pull it to your waste.” Sarcasm thick in her voice she holds the skirt open, waiting for me to step in as if she’s dressing a child.
“Give me that.” I tug it from her grip, and glare at her. She’s right, the material is soft. Maybe it will be comfortable.
Placing both my feet in I pull it up. It fits snugly along my waist, but holy hell the side of it cuts up past the knee. I gulp, unsure if I have the legs for this. I’ve been gaining a lot of muscle lately.
Grabbing the shirt, I put it on and turn to look in the mirror. This is not me. I look tense. I look insecure, and that can’t be sexy.
“You look hot!” Chloe slaps at my ass.
“I don’t know,” I reply softly.
“Trust me, you look great.” Chloe bounces on my bed in excitement.
The doorbell rings and we both freeze, my heart skipping a beat.
Chloe runs to the window, peeking through the blinds. This feels like my first date with Camden all over again.
“He’s here!” she whispers loudly.
“Dad is sleeping, and Journey isn’t here. Will you go let him in?”
Nodding she races out of the room.
I glance back at the mirror, the dreaded shirt and skirt looking back at me. I turn around and bend over, the skirt rides up, the cut going up my thigh.
“Oh my god, I can’t wear this,” I whisper to myself. I want men to see me as an equal, as a challenge. In this, I’m screaming ‘slip two fingers in when I bend over boys’.
Quickly I tug the shirt over my head, the material getting caught on my hair. Then I pull the skirt off so fast I swear it rips. I grab my jeans and shuffle them on and literally sigh at the comfort they bring. Bending down I grab my black racer back shirt and pull it on. Turning, I look back in the mirror and already feel more at ease. My pink sports bra peeks through in spots, but it still covers me more than that skirt and shirt did.
This is who I am, and if anyone will understand that, it’s Camden. If not, then maybe I’ll just be single for the rest of my life. This is a good test to see if Camden is still the boy I loved four years ago, or if fame has struck him into another person.
He has so many girls that doll themselves up with the most expensive furs and perfume. He needs to know now that I’m not them. I’m still Tate.
Stepping out of the room, I literally hear Chloe gasp in shock when she sees I changed back into my clothes. I smile at her mortification.
My eyes sweep to the door, finding Camden wearing a gray suit with a purple tie. I do a double take. He’s. Wearing. A. Fucking. Suit.
My stomach knots as I look down at myself. My bravado fleeing. I’m such an asshole for not dressing up! My back breaks out in a nervous sweat as my heart skips a beat.
“Shit,” Camden mutters under his breath.
“I’m sorry. I just—” The words get caught in my mouth trying to explain why I didn’t dress up.
He rips the suit jacket off, tugs on his tie before taking it off.
“Camden you don’t have to take—” He holds his finger up, ushering me to wait a minute.
Pulling the cuff links from his sleeves he rolls them up, and swipes his hands through his hair. In black slacks, a white dress shirt, and just fucked hair, Camden looks good enough to eat. Call me crazy, but I’d rather have my men rough around the edges than prim and proper. I’d take a man in gray sweats with that just worked out sweaty glow, over a man in a suit with soft hands any day.