“Give me a second. I’ll be right back.” I put the cab on hold while I head up to Cameron’s house, not sure if I’ll be staying and worried finding another cab in this ritzy neighborhood will be impossible.
I’ve had little time to concoct my speech beyond the forward “What the fuck?” Flutters explode in my belly as I make my way up the drive. The smell of fresh cut grass from the golf course and warm desert air does nothing to soothe my nerves. There are no exterior lights on. I wonder if he’s even home? What if he’s at D’lilah’s house? Visions of what they could be doing together flicker through my mind a second before I squash them. No, I’m not going there.
Once to the door, I see through the front window into the living room. I lean over and peer inside, nearly falling backwards at the image that slams me in the chest.
Cameron’s shirtless and standing just a few feet away from where D’lilah’s seated on the couch. They’re talking, or she’s talking and he’s listening. My eyes lock on her blouse that is gaping off one shoulder. She gets up and sashays to him. Her hand rests against his chest and his on her hips. I swallow the thick ball of emotion that clogs my throat. I spin around, my back pressed against the door, breath coming in harder and being chased from my chest by the power of my racing heart.
How did I not see this coming? I was always a toy to him. His Doll. A plaything to keep him occupied until he and D’lilah could reconcile. No one would ever choose me over a supermodel. My own mother chose her life over her daughters. My father chose addiction. And Vince, well he was never in it for me. I wasn’t good enough then, and nothing has changed.
Cameron’s voice filters from behind the door. Is he headed this way? I sneak one last peek, panicked that he’ll walk out the door, but gasp at what I see. Cameron strides into the hallway toward his bedroom with D’lilah on his heels.
I struggle to catch my breath and race back to the waiting cab. “Go, please!”
The driver jumps, but luckily my outburst has the cab rolling forward. “Where?”
“Anywhere but here.”
Fuck! It happened again. I can’t believe I put myself in this position again. I actually thought Cameron was different. I groan and lean my forehead against the grimy window of the cab. Isn’t that what I think of every man who’s ever destroyed me?
I’m sick; my stomach threatens to unload. I hate him. I hate all of them, every fucking one.
Or do I hate myself?
I mumble my address, and it seems as if lifetimes pass before I’m finally in my bedroom, stripping off my dress and pulling on an old pair of sweatpants and a tank top. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair back. I move through it all by rote until I fall in defeat to my bed.
The familiar burn of tears wells in my eyes, but I will not cry again over a man. I’d worked so hard to build up my barrier, and Cameron broke it down that first night we met in less than an hour. That shit won’t happen again.
I’ll make sure of it.
Twenty-Nine
Eve
At first I thought I was dreaming. The repetitive knock could’ve been the water pipes from my elderly neighbor’s bath time, but it’s the middle of the night. I lie still and focus to hear what it is that woke me up.
Knock, knock.
There it is again. It takes a few seconds for my brain to catch up to realize someone is knocking on my front door. My pulse speeds so much I can hear it thumping in my ears.
Cameron?
It has to be. Whoever is knocking is doing it softly enough to not wake up the neighborhood, but firm enough to get my attention. It has to be him.
I rip the covers off and stumble to the door as if my body is acting on its own accord. If he’s here to see me in the middle of the night, maybe I misinterpreted everything I saw in his living room. He wouldn’t come over in the middle of the night to break up with me, not with D’lilah still warming his bed.
I pull open the door. “Cameron, what’re you—”
“Nope. Not Cameron.” There’s man I’ve never seen before leaning against the doorframe.
I hurry to slam it closed, but don’t make it in time before he blocks it with his foot.
“Now that’s no way to treat a guest. I suppose you learned your manners from your father.” The last word comes out on a snarl. His seedy gaze traces the curves of my body.
“If you’re looking for my dad”—the shake in my voice is unmistakable—“he’s not here.”
“I know he’s not here. Just got finished having a very unpleasant conversation with him where he gave up this address.” His lips curl back over yellowing teeth. From the looks of him, I’d say this guy has seen his fair share of the inside of every casino in Vegas. Stale cigarette smoke wafts off his body in nauseating waves, coming not from his clothes but emanating from his skin. Hell, even the dirty brown and gray color of his hair matches that of smoke.
“Oh, you’re friends with my dad?” I need to think, devise a plan. My thoughts jumble, and I struggle to think through my fear.