Please don’t leave me, not again. I couldn’t bear it a second time. She hugged the words to her breast, knew he’d hear them, prayed he wouldn’t acknowledge them.
The fear was the worst. She’d never been so overwhelmed by it, not even when she was younger, before Cameron saved her. Fear of being unloved, unwanted, unneeded. Fear of dying. A sudden, horrible vision of Bud Traynor, fist raised, eyes bloodshot, rose relentlessly in her head.
“You aren’t Wendy, Max, and Bud Traynor isn’t your uncle. Your uncle’s dead, and he can’t hurt you anymore. Nobody, especially not Bud Traynor, will ever hurt you like that again. You don’t have to be alone to ensure that.”
Max whirled, searching for him, gunning for him in the darkness of her one room apartment. “You’re dead, Cameron. And I am alone.”
“You’ve chosen that with your temporary jobs, your temporary men, and your temporary cat. You can’t even hack having a cell phone, for Christ’s sake. Your whole life is temporary, and you’ll lose it if you don’t listen to someone. To Witt.”
She didn’t need a damn cell phone. If Sunny wanted her, she could leave a message and Max would call her back when it was convenient. But a cell phone wasn’t his big point. Max jammed her hands on her hips. “Is that what this is all about? Witt? Are you pushing me off on him? Big cop, big protector? Is that why you made me think he was the one fucking me on that swing?”
“I keep telling you that was your fantasy, not mine. You think you don’t need a man. But you do need someone.”
“Goddamn it, I’ve taken care of myself since I was eight years old.”
“You were a wreck when I found you.”
“I was a college graduate.”
“You weren’t living. You were going through the motions.”
“And you rescued me,” she scoffed, the ache behind her eyes slid down into her chest, tightened around her heart.
“I loved you for who you were.”
“A slut and a tramp.”
“That’s what your uncle called you. I never did.”
She rode right over his plea. “I was your great mission in life. So much so that you can’t even leave me alone in death.” She slapped her hands to her sides, turned on her heel, her stride eating up the small length of the room. “God, you sound like Nick talking about his wife. She was mistreated. She needed him. He had to save her,” she mimicked.
“You did need me.”
Cameron’s truth, the truth, cut to the core. She’d been so needy.
She stabbed a finger in the air at the spot his voice came from, hated him for being right. “I was your Eliza Doolittle. Your protégé. Your masterpiece.”
“You were my lover. My heart. My soul.”
“Then why did you die on me?” she shouted, fists slashing at the air, heart cleaved in two.
“I didn’t want to, baby. I wanted to be there forever.”
“Well, you can’t be.” She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t cry.
“You’re right. I thought I was protecting you by staying, helping you through the worst of it. What my murderers did to you after—”
“Don’t you say it. Don’t you ever say it.” She turned her back on his voice, turned again when it surrounded her.
“You’ve never wanted to talk about it.”
The room was too small to pace. She turned in circles, her anger spiraling down along the same route. “I know exactly what they did. I saw the gun. I saw the blood. I saw them kill you.”
“And I saw what they did to you when I couldn’t stop them. I watched when they dragged you out of that store and into their car. I never left you. And afterwards I talked to you as you lay there, naked, beaten, and raped, in the park where they dumped you. Until the sun came up. Until the joggers found you.”
A litany of words, his voice and his warmth keeping her alive. She remembered that much. The rest? Most of the time she could pretend there was nothing else to remember except his loving presence.
Most of the time. If he didn’t make her think about it.
“Cameron, stop. Please.” She could squeeze her hands to her head, but that wouldn’t keep him out. His voice was inside her.
“I stayed to make sure you didn’t lose your will to live. And since then, there’s always been a reason why it hasn’t been the right time to leave. But it’s been too long. You’ve become what you were when I first found you, trailing from man to man, leaving behind bits and pieces of yourself. You’re lost again, Max. You’ve stored up so much stuff, I can’t even see you through it anymore.”
“My stuff.” She reverted to anger as her final defense. “That’s what you always said. Max, get over your childhood stuff. Max, I can’t deal with your stuff. Max, I need a couple of days to myself because your stuff drives me crazy. It’s always been my stuff, Cameron”—she jabbed a finger at her chest—“never yours. Well, I’ll deal with my stuff in my own way.”