Chapter 13
Cam
Luckiest guy around - caption from Cam’s social media post – a video of Sadie jumping into his arms after he bowls a strike, April 4th
“I had a hair appointment the morning after my breakup,” she answers, tucking the pink strands behind her ears. “I’d had the same hairstyle since high school, and it can be such a pain to deal with when it’s long.”
I give her a skeptical look.
Something passes behind Sadie’s soft brown eyes as she blinks up at me, her lips tipping into a soft smile. “I needed a good change. I lost the security of a relationship, my friends, my home, and my city, all at once.”
A smile full of pride for her turns my lips. “I can understand that.”
“Short hair seemed a lot freer, too, and I was right,” she says, her face brightening as she shakes her head side to side—the cropped pink tips swinging up to brush her chin. “The pink was a spur of the moment decision, but it’s my favorite part now. It’s so happy.”
“It suits you,” I agree, brushing my thumb across the brightly colored tips again.
“I actually considered getting a tattoo.” She drags her teeth across her plump lower lip as she tracks my movements and then drops her eyes to my lips.
Lowering my voice, I ask, “You’re just about ready, aren’t you?”
Maybe I’m an asshole, but I enjoy the hell out of the way her throat works on a swallow before she asks, “For what?”
“For your first tattoo,” I say, fighting a smirk. “What would you have gotten?”
Her eyes narrow for just a second before she answers, “A whisk,” running her finger along the outside of her right forearm. “Right here.”
I let the back of my fingers follow the path up her arm. “That would be perfect for you.”
“Even if it isn’t that, I definitely want a baking tattoo.”
“Or two?” I ask.
“Or two,” she giggles, leaning into the pillows and my arm behind her. “But I don’t think I want the first two to both be about baking.”
“ First two?” My brows lift in surprise. “You’re gonna send it, aren’t you?” I ask.
Her shoulders rise with her proud giggle. “Maybe it’s just because I spend so much time looking at you these days, but I have a feeling I’m really going to like having tattoos.”
I’m too hung up on “spend so much time looking at you” to think of a response. Her eyes drop to my lips in the same way I’ve seen a few times already tonight. At first, I thought it was coincidence. But as she licks them, I’m starting to believe she wants me to kiss her as badly as I want to kiss her. I manage to resist, saying, “Your turn,” and softly squeezing her shoulder.
Either the touch or my words shake her focus, and her eyes drop from my lips to my bare torso. “Is that Betty?” she asks, fingertips dancing along my lower ribs where a representation of my best friend’s blue pit bull is tattooed.
“Hell yeah,” I answer, suppressing a groan as she continues running teasing traces around my ribs, up and down the edge of my obliques. “Up until you, she was the most important woman in my life.”
Her breath catches, pausing her movements for just a second, before she asks, “Is that really why you got it?”
“Partly.” I nod. “I do love Betty.”
“She’s the best.”
“She really is,” I agree. “The tattoo is for Luke more than anything, though. He doesn’t want any, but I still wanted something that honored him. He’s more than my best friend. He’s my brother— my family .”
“Aww.” A smile warms her face. “You two are really cute together.”
“Cute?”
“Yes, cute ,” she insists, her hand now resting at my hip. Looking up, she asks, “Would you ever get a tattoo with me?”
“Say the word, and I’ll make the appointment.”
“You don’t even know what we’d get,” she says—as if my immediate answer means I’m not taking her seriously.
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out.” I hold her gaze. “I’ll be proud to have matching tattoos with you.”
Her lips roll together as her cheeks warm with a blush. “Okay,” she answers.
“Can’t wait,” I say. My eyes snag on some long-healed scars on the side of her leg. Having a good idea what they’re from, I decide not to ask. Instead, mimicking the way her fingertips have been mapping my tattoos, I run my fingertips across the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks. “Tell me about your freckles.”
“My freckles?” Pink hair brushes her shoulders as her head tilts. “They exist—not sure what else to say about them.”
“What’s your favorite memory with them?” I ask.
She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. “My dad loved my freckles when I was little. He’d always say the best kids have freckles.”
I tap her nose. “I like them, too.”
“I like yours,” she giggles, tapping my nose in the same place.
“There was a short time as a kid when I didn’t like the way I looked,” I say, running my hand over my face. “Got picked on for being pale, freckled, and redheaded.”
Sadie’s brows and lips tip down. “I hate that.”
“It’s okay,” I say, hoping she understands I truly mean it. “I figured out quickly I couldn’t change any of that, so I decided to own it. I used to get the gnarliest sunburns, though. Never remembered to wear sunscreen as a kid. Luke’s mom has these giant aloe vera plants in her front yard, and she’d cut off a piece and rub raw gooey aloe all over me—straight from the plant.”
“You two were always inseparable, weren’t you?” Sadie asks.
“Yup, I was at their house way more than my own growing up. I’m an only child, and my parents are older. They gave me a lot of freedom.” A smile forms with the memories. “Darlene Pine is a hell of a woman—loves the shit out of her kids. She has her issues—wasn’t always able to take care of them the way she wanted. If you ask Skye, Luke did a lot more raising her than Darlene did. But she gives everything she can to her kids, and from the first day I showed up on her porch looking for Luke—she’s included me in that.”
“So that’s why you say Skye’s like a little sister to you?” Sadie asks.
“Yeah, I’ve known her since she was two or three. Luke and I would bring Skye along to everything, take turns keeping an eye on her. I’d even babysit when Luke had dates in high school and Darlene wasn’t up to taking care of her.” Something undecipherable passes Sadie’s face at that last comment, and she drops her hand to my wrist. I lower my voice, “Don’t tell her I said this, but I think she’s turned out to be pretty awesome.”
“You and Skye are even cuter than you and Luke.” Sadie snorts a laugh. “Do you have a tattoo with her, too?”
“Yup,” I answer on a low chuckle, “I took her on her eighteenth birthday. I don’t think Luke has ever been more pissed at me than he was then, and I even—” cutting myself off from telling her I crashed and ruined his first motorcycle, I say, “I’ve been a pain in his ass for a long time.”
“Which one is it?” she asks, searching my torso and arms.
“Down here,” I say, pulling my pant leg up to reveal my right calf.
“She wanted exact matching tattoos in the same place.” Rolling my foot to the side, I show her my Skye tattoo—on the inside of my ankle, there’s a bundle of orange poppy flowers in a finer line weight than most of my other tattoos. It’s underneath the front tire of a giraffe doing a wheelie on my shin whose neck goes all the way up to my knee.
“Why those flowers?” she asks, shifting forward to get a closer look.
“They’re poppies, the California state flower, and when Skye was little, I used to fuck with her and tell her it was illegal to pick them.” Sadie tilts her head, tsking. “One time she was sneaking around the yard—didn’t realize Luke and I were watching—and she picked one. I played siren sounds from my phone, and Luke ran out of the bushes and scooped her up to hide her from the cops .”
“ Not the fuzz ,” Sadie giggles under her breath, then shifts immediately to scolding me, “What a couple of assholes. She wanted a tattoo about that?”
“Eventually, it became a thing we tease each other about. They’re still her favorite flower, so the tattoo is a way for her to have them without the cops coming to arrest her.”
Sadie’s dimples appear as her whole face lights up in a smile. “That’s really sweet.”
“It’s just family.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re not very good at taking compliments either, Cam.”
“No idea what you’re talking about.” I shrug. “Got another tattoo you want to ask about, or are you gonna explain why you always have purple nails on one hand and pink on the other?”
She tries to hide her flinch behind a shake of her head. “You go. Tell me about the tortoise and the hare,” she says, smoothing pink-painted fingertips over the brightly-colored, old-school style tortoise and hare that race each other across the outside of my left forearm.
“I always liked the story,” I say, bringing my arm down between us, so she can inspect it further. So, she’ll start touching me again.
She does—tracing lines around the outline of the oak-colored hare and olive-green tortoise.
“The hare seems like the clear winner,” I say, watching her face as she watches her fingers trace around my arm. “And he would have been if he had any respect for his opponent. But he doesn’t think the tortoise is a real threat, so the hare lets off the gas. He rests. The tortoise keeps his head down and works slow and steady the whole way. He wins because he never gave up. But also because the hare fucked up. In the tattoo, neither of them is winning. There’s no finish line because things don’t always turn out the same as the original fable.”
She flips my arm over, confirming my statement. “I hadn’t even noticed.”
“The story is full of racing lessons, but it applies to regular life too. It’s not over ‘til it’s over. Never get too cocky. Never give up—even if it seems like you can’t win. Focus on your own progress. You ever heard the phrase ‘ slow is smooth, smooth is fast’?”
She nods.
“It’s true—good racing advice and good life advice. When I get you out on the go-kart track, I want you to remember it.”
“ When ?” she giggles, dropping her mouth open, pretending to look offended. “You’re assuming I’m willing to race go-karts.”
“I know you well enough.”
Her eyes narrow, and she tries and fails to draw her lips into a frown. “ Dammit, Cameron. You’re right. I do want to try it.”
“Good, because I already reserved a track.”
“You did?” she tries to look offended again before burying her face in my chest as she snorts a laugh. “I can’t even be mad at you. I love not planning things. That’s magnificent.”
“Everyone’s coming,” I say. “Luke, Allie, Bea, Rhett, and Devon.”
“ Everyone? Not just us two?”
I nudge her shoulder. “You have to have people to race.”
“Now I’m nervous.”
My heart races when she buries her face in my chest again. Running a hand down her back, I say, “You don’t need to be. You’re going to be a great racer. Plus, you and I are getting there an hour before everyone else, so you have time to practice.”
“Isn’t that cheating?”
“Nope,” I say, releasing her as I pick up her left hand—the one with purple nails. “Why did you get uncomfortable when I asked about your nail polish?”
“I did not—” She starts to deny, but stops herself, taking a deep breath. “Okay, I did. Because it’s dumb.”
“Doubt that.”
She draws her knees up, but instead of holding them tight to her chest, she drops them across my thighs—leaning her head on my shoulder. “It makes me feel dumb is a more accurate way to say it.”
I’m not always a great listener, but it’s easier with Sadie. I want to know her so badly. Pulling her closer, I rub my hand up and down her biceps and wait for her to continue.
“I have a really hard time with left and right,” she says, staring at her lap. “For some reason, it doesn’t stay in my brain. I can’t seem to learn or memorize it. I have an innate understanding for up and down, but left and right changes depending on which way I’m facing.” She finally looks back at me. “If someone says take a left up here , I have to think really hard to figure out which way that is, and half the time I end up getting it wrong anyway.”
I had no idea. Why does she feel like she has to hide that?
She holds her hands up in front of us with every finger tucked in but her index and thumb on each hand—making a field goal shape. “This is the easiest way for me to tell.” She wiggles the extended fingers on her left hand. “See? The left hand makes an actual capital L , but the right hand doesn’t. So, if I hold my hands up like this, I know which is which, but that’s embarrassing. Most people know their left from right. It’s so basic .”
She’s not dumb. “Was there someone who made you feel bad because of that?” I ask, avoiding her ex’s name.
Her chest lifts on a sad laugh. “Yup, so I started painting my nails like this.” She holds her hands up closer so I can see.
“Pink and purple?” I ask.
“Lavender, for L , or Left,” she wiggles her left fingers. “And rose, for R , or Right,” she says, wiggling her right. “Sometimes I do rose gold on the right if I’m feeling fancy.”
“That’s clever ,” I say, rubbing my thumb over the smooth polish of her rose hand. “You don’t have to do it anymore if you don’t want. I doubt anyone in your life now would give you a hard time for making Ls with your fingers.” The fact that her ex did has my blood boiling.
“It works pretty well, actually,” she says, “and I like having a signature thing like that. Maybe someday I’ll get L and R tattoos instead.”
“Or you could just use my tattoos,” I say, tucking her into my side and bringing my hands out in front of us. “There’s already the R from braaap on my right hand.”
“Ooh,” she giggles, tapping the lightning bolts tattooed on the back of my left hand. “ L for lightning. Too bad it only works when we’re facing the same way.”
“You can always come sit in my lap when you need to check them,” I offer.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She blushes, looking down.
She stares at the text on her shirt for a second before leaning forward and scanning my body again. “Do you have a Race Naked tattoo anywhere?”
“None you can find with my pants on.”
Her eyes go wide as her hands go to her mouth. “Is it on your ass?” she whispers through her fingers.
“Not quite,” I say, enjoying the hell out of her bashful reaction. “You want to see it?”
A naughty smile curves her lips. “I do.”
All she asked to see is the tattoo, so I fold the blanket to cover my lap, but not the side of my leg before sliding my pants down to expose the tattoo. On the outside of my right leg, all the way at the top of my thigh, almost to my hip, there’s a pin-up girl wearing a Race Naked t-shirt.
“She’s so pretty,” Sadie gasps, reaching out to trace the lines with her fingertips, but pulling her hand back at the last second. “I’m sorry. That feels more personal. Is it okay if—”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You can touch me.” I leave out the “anywhere and anyway you want” half of that sentence, but the thought ricochets around my mind as she traces the lines of the tattoo—pointed toes, shapely legs, cheeky shorts, half-moon shapes of the imaginary woman’s breasts that peak out under the pink t-shirt, Race Naked lettering, dimpled cheeks, and finally over the blonde space buns.
“But the girl in the video had black hair,” Sadie says, breaking the meditative way I’d focused on her touch.
“It’s not supposed to be the girl from the video,” I say, surprised she remembers.
“But that’s pretty much what she was wearing. Only her shirt didn’t say Race Naked of course because that hadn’t happened yet.”
I can’t remember the last time I explained this tattoo to anyone, and I know I’ve never admitted the next part. “The reference photo I used was actually of a girl who dressed up as the girl from the video for Halloween that year. She’d made a shirt that said Show Me Your Willie , but I liked Race Naked better for the tattoo.”
Sadie’s face goes blank, swallowing thickly as she stares at the pin-up on my thigh. “Was she a friend of yours?” she asks.
“Never met her,” I say, wondering if the photo is still taped on the wall in the back of my trailer. “She tagged me online. A lot of people had costumes based on the video that year.”
“She was blonde, and she had a pink Show Me Your Willie shirt?” she asks.
My eyes narrow. I know I just told her those exact details. “Yeah, if I remember correctly, it was wet, too. She was holding two red plastic cups like the girl in the video. Maybe she spilled one.”
She tilts her head, brow furrowed, glancing back and forth between the tattoo and me.
After she opens and closes her mouth a few times without saying anything, I ask, “You alright?” as I pull my pants back up.
“Yeah,” she says, drawing the single syllable out until it sounds like a question more than an answer. She returns to her place next to me at the head of the bed and presses herself back in under my arm.
Trying to figure out what’s just come over her, I search her face and find her eyes dropping to my lips. She wants me to kiss her. I am dying to kiss her. She’s in my bed, snuggled in under my arm, watching me—and I am struggling to find a reason not to.
“You should probably kiss me,” her voice comes out so quietly, I’m half convinced I imagined it. Did I imagine it? “I mean, it’s a good idea,” she continues. “Well, maybe not—but, yes—no—” as she stumbles over her words to explain it away, I realize she did say it. She told me to kiss her. “It’s just that everyone knows we’re— thinks we’re dating—eventually it’ll happen, and I think it’s better—”
With a light grip under her chin, I tilt her face up to meet mine, halting her rambling. I’ll never understand how we went from her asking about my pinup tattoo to asking me to kiss her, but I’ll just take it as further proof I’m a lucky motherfucker.
“I think it’s a great idea,” I speak into the quiet between us, drawing her in until my lips find hers. Sadie is sunshine, and her kiss is just as bright and warm as the rest of her—lighting a fire inside me.
She was trying to make the excuse that we should kiss once before we have to do it in front of anyone else. But this is not some trial run. This is me finally taking the chance to rain affection on the girl of my dreams. Drawing her closer with a hand at her low back, my tongue meets the first taste of hers.
I keep thinking she’ll pull back, say it’s enough, but she doesn’t. Instead, a quiet moan passes her lips as she rolls her body against mine and digs her fingernails into my shoulders. Her lips and tongue move in tandem with mine, as hungry for me as I’ve been for her.
I’ve passed up a dozen opportunities to kiss her—times I could have gotten away with it in front of other people with the excuse that we’re supposed to look like we’re dating. But that wouldn’t have been right. She deserves better.
Needing to feel more of her, I grip her lush hips and slide her gorgeous body over mine until she’s straddling me. The motion breaks our kiss, but we’re both leaning in for more without a second thought. Her lips are even softer than they looked, and she tastes even sweeter than I expected. I could drink her up all night.
Letting my hands slide from her thighs to revel in the curves of her ass, I use the hold to line her up over my rigid cock. By now, the blanket has slid down so that only the thin fabric of her panties and my pajamas separate me from her heat. Rocking against her, I sink my teeth into her lower lip.
She cries out softly into my mouth, and I am done for. “Cam,” she gasps, pulling back and panting for breath through swollen lips.
My chest rises and falls as I search her face. She can’t possibly think this is only a test to make sure we aren’t awkward when we have to kiss in front of our friends. She can’t.
Everything else with us could be questioned, but this moment is real.
After a few seconds, her lips tip into a sly smile I’ve never seen on her before. She braces herself with hands on my chest, and my cock throbs when she nibbles her bottom lip and rocks herself against me in a long hard stroke. I knew she’d be amazing like this. She rocks against me again—once, twice, then picks up a slow, sensual, teasing rhythm.
Breathing out a curse, I dig my fingertips into the plump skin of her ass and pull her down more firmly against me as she continues. I watch her—in awe that this woman is doing this with me . “You should probably kiss me,” I repeat her words from before.
Her movements still.
Fuck.
“This is um—I should probably—we probably shouldn’t,” she’s back to rambling excuses. I hate that she’s pulled away, but more than that I hate that she’s feeling anxious.
Releasing my hold on her, I bring my arms back to cross behind my head.
Another gasp escapes her as she’s removing herself from my lap, this one much less delicious than the last.
Looking down, I see that her movements have drawn my pants down, exposing the tip of my cock and the tattoo above it on my upper pelvis. Ride It Like You Stole It . I drop my hand to fix the waistband, discovering she’s also wet enough to leave a damp spot behind. Not sure—and honestly not caring—which of those three things had her gasping, I say, “You’re welcome to anytime.”