“Maybe you were able to steamroll your brother’s crew. Maybe the guys were intimidated by you or by River, or maybe even both of you, but I’m made of tougher stuff. You step on my toes, and I’ll step on yours right back. A girl who willingly gets into the ring with me never receives special treatment. I’ll dish to her what I dish to guys.”
Up goes her chin. Light shines over her features, paying the bronze of her skin absolute tribute. She’s only a bit taller than Kat, but the added inch puts her closer to my face than I’m used to. The smell of roses and pecans is stronger now, the heat of her intense. I like it. I like it too much.
My body is obviously attracted to hers, not caring anything for my thoughts or feelings.
My body is a traitor. And so is Kat. She wanted me to date other girls. To want—crave—other girls. Happy now, kitten?
“Do you understand?” I demand.
“Yes. But Frosty?” Camilla pauses, frowns as if she’s just hit a brick wall. “Wait. What’s your first name?”
I straighten and latch onto the subject change as if it’s a life raft. In a way, it is. “That’s delving into personal territory, don’t you think?”
“A first name is personal to you? Hardly. I know the first name of my former mailman and believe me, there’s nothing personal about our relationship. He’s, like, three hundred years old.”
“Don’t care. I’m not telling you my name.”
“Why not? Is it embarrassing? I bet it’s embarrassing.”
“Give me an example of what you consider embarrassing.”
“Dick. Or Dijon.”
“I only wish my name was Dijon.”
“Because you like to be the condiment in a flesh sandwich?” She smirks up at me. “I remember your ‘friend.’” She air quotes the word. “She would have done anything you asked, even a three-way.”
“I’m not interested in a three-way. Never have been.” Despite my recent behavior, I actually prefer to be in love with my partner. Don’t get me wrong. I adore the act of touching and kissing and being together, but I want it to mean something, because I’m vulnerable in those moments—hours—with all my defenses down, and I like to know my girl is right there with me, giving as much as she takes. “What about you?”
“I’m a little too territorial to share.”
“Do you have a special friend?” Someone she sleeps with on a regular basis.
Her chin goes up another inch, her cheeks reddening. “That information is personal, and as we agreed, the two of us won’t travel that road. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She saunters to the couch, claims the remote and flips on the TV, pretending I don’t exist.
Damn it. Now I’m more curious about her than ever and slightly annoyed. Is she sleeping with someone on a regular basis? And why the hell do I care so much about the answer?
*
I take the bed once again, forcing Camilla to take the couch. Ungentlemanly, I know, but I have a point to prove to us both. She’s nothing to me. Nothing except a means to an end, just like I told her.
As usual, I toss and turn all night. I may have gotten my appetite back, but sleep still eludes me. And that’s probably a good thing. I’d only dream about Kat’s death, a horror show I’ve seen so many times the smallest details are forever embedded in my memory.
When the sun rises, I make my way into the living room and see Camilla asleep on the couch. She’s sitting up, and she’s sweating, her body shaking as if she’s having a seizure. I rush to her side, but by the time I reach her, she’s sagging to the side, a streak of soot left in her wake.
Soot?
She tosses and turns, and it’s obvious she’s trapped in a nightmare. I know better than to wake her. I study the tangle of her white-black hair, the rose-tint in her skin, the fragility of her features. She’s beauty and she’s the beast, rolled into one. There are cuts on her bottom lip, where she chewed just a little too hard. The strap of her tank top has fallen down her shoulder, baring bronzed, mouth-watering skin. She’s already kicked off the blanket, revealing the length of her legs. I frown when I notice jagged, raised flesh underneath several of her tattoos. Scars, and lots of them.
The thing is, when scars show on the outside, scars are usually hidden on the inside.
More questions plague me. More questions to stuff inside a mental box.
When she goes still and sighs, a signal she’s calming, the dream waning, I leap into action. “Time to wake up.” I nudge her knee with my own and her eyelids pop open.
Though she hasn’t yet focused, she kicks me in the stomach before hopping to her feet. “Frosty?” Her gaze sweeps over me, from my shirtless chest to my low-slung sweats and bare feet.
“Who else?”
Her frown is deep and intense. “If that’s how you wake a girl, no wonder you’ve had no repeat customers lately. Don’t ever jolt me like that again.”
My hands curl into fists. “I haven’t had any repeat customers because you killed the only customer I wanted.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t kill—”
I storm to the bedroom, gather clean clothes, then lock myself in the bathroom, where I take another shower to cool down. By the time I step out of the stall, there’s a handwritten note perched on my pile of clothes.