Right. The whole “disown her for betraying the crew” thing.
“And what do you mean, what’s the deal with her?” he snaps. “Why do you even care?”
“Ali had a vision.” Cole leans back, drapes his arms on the edge of the booth. “Her first on her own. In it, Camilla stops some woman from shooting Frosty, saving his life.”
“It’s why they’ve been hanging out. A lot,” Gavin offers helpfully.
River drums his fingers against the table and glares at me. “How will she stop the shooter? What happens to her afterward? What, exactly, does Gavin mean by hanging out? And how do you know the vision will come true? The ones Ali’s had with other people have been proven. But one on her own? No. The fact that it came to her in a different way must mean it, too, is different. Perhaps even changeable.”
I kick myself for not asking those very questions. In my defense, I’d been too wrapped up in hate for Camilla and my love for Kat to care. “Cole. Answer the man.”
“You’re right,” Cole says. “It is different. For the first time, Ali saw two versions of the same vision. In the first, without Camilla, Frosty dies. In the second, with Camilla, Frosty lives. As for how it goes down, all I know is exactly what I told you. A woman aims a gun at Frosty and Camilla stops her from shooting him. How? I don’t know. Ali says Camilla and the woman have zero contact.” He flicks me a “sorry, man” smile. “Now, if you want the down-and-dirty about Frosty and Camilla hanging out, you have my stamp of approval to interrogate Frosty.”
“Nothing’s happened,” I offer without being pressed. Because it’s true. “And don’t worry. Nothing will.” Perhaps I sound a little less confident now—River returns to glaring.
The waitress arrives with our food, the scent of different spices wafting around the table. I lose interest in conversation. Everyone does. We devour our hamburgers like the savages we are.
Afterward, we talk a little longer before deciding to call it quits and head home.
“Stay in touch,” Cole says as I climb behind the wheel of my truck. The shots of vodka have long since worn off; I’m good to go. “I mean it.”
“I’ll come see you tomorrow. Tour the new place.”
“Good. You don’t, and I’ll hunt you down.” He reaches in to grind his knuckles into my scalp then strides to his Jeep.
I’m strangely excited to see Camilla, and I make the drive faster than I should. I just want to check on her, to assure myself she’s okay. Because I’m a nice guy. Probably the nicest ever.
Once there, I slow my roll and quietly step inside, not wanting to wake her if she’s sleeping. I know how little sleep she actually gets. When I close the door, hinges squeak. Damn it.
A shadow moves from the corner and the next thing I know, I’m being tackled to the floor. The lights are off, but I would recognize Camilla’s scent anywhere—roses, pecans and the musk of my shampoo—as she pins me to the floor.
“It’s me,” I tell her, going lax.
“I know.” She swings at me, nailing me in my already sore jaw. “You want punch therapy, well, get ready. There’s more where that came from.”
She got the drop on me. She freaking got the drop on me.
I grab hold of her waist and flip her to her back, our lower bodies unwittingly rubbing together. Gritting my teeth, I maneuver to my knees. Our gazes lock...and it isn’t long before the tension I experienced at the club returns, thickening the air.
Pale hair spills around her shoulders. Her lips are parted, as if begging for a kiss. My kiss.
“Get off me,” she says without any heat.
Or stay right where I am...
No. Hell, no. I jump to my feet, looking anywhere but her direction. “You’re better, I see. That’s good. That’s real good. Now let’s get some sleep.”
“Sleep? It’s almost noon.”
“Thanks for the update.” I stride into my room. For once, I don’t bother with the lock.
I snooze the rest of the day. A mistake. By the time night arrives, I’m wide-awake. I stare at the ceiling until the butt crack of dawn, finally rising to shower and dress. My plan for the day? Avoid Camilla. We could use some time apart. But she’s stretched out in front of the door, drenched in sweat and tossing and turning. There are scratches all over her arms.
I close the distance—or try to. The little witch set a trip wire in my path. Not seeing it until too late, I pitch forward, land with a thud and a curse.
She jolts upright with a .22 extended and cocked.
“Careful,” I say. “It’s just me.”
“I know that...now.” She’s panting as she lowers the weapon. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving.” I stand slowly, not wanting to spook her further.
“Just let me—”