Chapter 15 Camden
CAMDEN
It has been a weird week. Between trying to sneak around behind Paisley’s back, planning the big surprise for her birthday, I also contended with constant reminders of Nadine and that night I came home from Tampa to find her asleep on the couch.
She was so warm and sleepy and smelled so good. She doesn’t wear perfume, but whatever it is—a mixture of her soap, tea, cotton, and mornings in bed—her scent is addictive. It haunts me. Lingers in my senses and mind. Slowly making me lose it.
Especially when my sister informs me of where Nadine has been spending so much time.
“An hour every day,” she signs in between bites of breakfast. “She said this guy has been helping her.”
“What do you mean a guy has been helping her for an hour at the gym every day?”
She pauses with the spoon of her Fruity Pebbles halfway to her mouth and stares at me like I have two heads.
“What did she say about him?” I sign, and my sister pops the cereal into her mouth, shrugging.
“Not much.” And then a moment later, she gasps and signs, “Oh my god! You like her! You like Nadine.”
“I do not.” I huff.
“Then why are you being weird?”
“Because I don’t want anyone harassing her.”
“He’s not harassing her,” Paisley signs. “It seems like she likes him.”
“Likes him?” Like likes him?
At the realization that I’ve turned into a middle-schooler, I push my breakfast potatoes and slice of quiche away. It’s my favorite, packed with turkey sausage, cheese, and veggies, but I’ve lost my appetite for the chef-made breakfast.
“What about Valerie?” Paisley asks, and I sink back against my chair.
“What about her?”
“Are you still with her?”
I scroll idly through my cell phone, finding the last text messages exchanged with her. Nice game with an attached photo of her tits. She loves when we win. She loves being on the arm of a winner.
I didn’t use to mind.
Never really cared about having a relationship with much more substance beyond the image.
It’s not above me to admit I liked the status of dating a model.
I think any twelve-year-old boy who has wet dreams of his favorite model or actress would take advantage of the position I’m currently in.
She was in the right place and right time for me.
And I highly doubt Valerie thinks of me any different.
She likes going to games, when the camera pans to her for the jumbotron.
She enjoys posting photos of us on her social media.
My notoriety brings her more fame and paychecks with every job booked.
She went from being a voluptuous runway model before we were dating to a voluptuous actress in cheap thrillers who runs around in white tops with no bra, tits bouncing all over the screen.
If Baywatch were still a thing, she would have been great in it.
But I’m not really interested in the facade anymore and didn’t respond to her messages, aside from Thanks.
Because I have a not-nanny nanny falling asleep on my couch and making friends with some guy in the gym.
“Are you almost done?” I sign to Paisley. “We’re going to be late.”
“You’re grouchy in the morning,” she signs back then slurps down the milk from her bowl.
I don’t have many days that I’m able to take her to school, but our Fridays before home games start late, so Nadine has the mornings off.
My sister finishes up her breakfast and grabs her things before we head to the parking garage. It’s not until we’re walking to the car that I sign, “What time does she usually go to the gym?”
Paisley rolls her eyes with a snicker. “The afternoons, I think.”
Great. Might make sure to be home in time to check it out.
After a focus on special teams and a quick team meeting, I skip out on the late lunch most of the players are taking in the cafeteria and practically sprint out of the complex.
By the time I storm into the condo’s gym, my pulse is hammering and my gaze immediately homes in on where some blond asshole has one hand on Nadine’s back and the other on her hip as she does reverse flys.
He smiles as if it’s no big deal. As if there is nothing wrong with touching her like that.
As if it’s totally appropriate to be “training” her alone, so no one could intervene if his hands continued to find other places on her body.
But I’m glad there will be no witnesses when I rip this motherfucker’s spine straight out of his body.
“Hey,” I say a lot louder than I need to. “What’s up?”
Nadine freezes, eyes shooting to where I stand by the leg press as the soon-to-be dead man flattens his palm between her shoulder blades, sliding the other down her right arm to help her set the weight on the floor, then he grins at me. It’s unnerving how he’s so comfortable touching her.
“Camden Long, nice to meet you.” He strolls over to me, leaving Nadine by herself. I don’t take my eyes off her as she holds my gaze in the reflection of the mirror in front of her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I got out early.” I ignore the sack of shit’s hand when he extends it to me. “What are you doing?”
“Working out.” She gestures to herself as if it should be obvious. In bike shorts and a loose tank top that shows off her sports bra, she has half of her hair up in a little ponytail on the top of her head that makes me want to smile, along with bright-white New Balances.
She’s so fucking cute.
And this guy has had his hands all over her.
“Hey,” he says at my side. “I’m Brendan.”
Finally, I turn to this human who looks like a penis. I can’t say exactly why, if it’s the odd bowl cut or the shape of his head, but he looks like a penis, and I want to break his fingers.
“You working out with my girl here?”
His eyes widen. “Oh, uh… I didn’t…”
“Camden,” Nadine hisses. “What are you doing?”
“Nadine works with my sister,” I explain to this so-called personal trainer.
“Did you know that?” It’s a rhetorical question, but he opens his mouth as if to answer, eyes flicking toward the woman digging her claws into my forearm.
I don’t let him speak, holding up my hand.
“I need to make sure no one is going to take advantage of her.”
He lifts his hands in innocence. “Hey, no, I—”
“There’s no one else here right now,” I point out as Nadine attempts to physically push me out of the way.
“What is your problem?”
I let her ram my side and fold my arms across my chest, staring down Brendan. If that’s even his real name. “Do you normally work one-on-one in an empty gym?”
“Usually—”
“Because isn’t there some policy against that?”
He shakes his head, shoulders up by his ears, obviously thrown off by my presence. Good. “There are cameras everywhere. There is no need—”
“To be putting your hands on a client,” I finish for him, and he goes scarlet.
He stutters out a few syllables before finally stepping away, mumbling an excuse. “I’m gonna go use the restroom. You got her?” he asks me, barely glancing at Nadine. “Okay, great. I’ll, uh, yeah…”
He scampers off, leaving me with a tiny raging bull.
“You have some fucking nerve, coming in here like that.” She pushes at my chest, and when I don’t move, she growls. “You are the worst!”
“No, you’re lucky I came in here when I did. One more minute and his hand would have been on your ass.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He has never treated me inappropriately.”
I swat her hands away when she shoves at me again. “He doesn’t need to be touching you like that.”
“He’s training me.”
“He’s pawing at you.”
“I’ll give you pawing.” She grits her teeth, yet again trying to take me down, but I’ve got over a foot and probably one hundred pounds on her.
I catch her hands, holding them tightly between mine and tow her into me.
She seethes, cheeks flushed, with tiny baby hairs sticking to her temples.
“You had no right to come in here swinging your dick around.”
I can’t help it. I let a smile loose. Feisty thing.
“If I really came in here swinging my dick around, then maybe your smart mouth would be quiet for once.” She has no quick-witted response, so I take the opportunity to tell her, “If you want to work out with someone, I’ll hire them. Somebody much better than that prick.”
“You’re the prick.” The fight has mostly drained out of her, though I still don’t release her hands. Instead, I press them against my pecs, her fingers butting up against my collarbone. Her fingernails are painted a dark orange. She and Paisley have standing weekly nail appointments, on my dime.
Makes me think I should ask her to get my favorite color—the same blue as her eyes—or maybe Founders colors.
But with her still huffing and puffing, I figure I’ll stick with one request at a time. “It would make me feel better if you worked with a professional.”
“Brendan is a professional.”
“Brendan was staring at your ass when I walked in.”
“Was not.”
“He’s not here to actually help you.”
She eventually breaks and straight up laughs in my face. “You are…” She loses her smile. “You’re serious.”
I nod, letting her go when she tugs, and I can’t make out the series of emotions that crosses her features. A mixture of confusion and acquiescence, maybe.
That she can tell how serious I am. How knowing another man had his hands on her made me want to tear down the whole building. How having her in my life, in my home every day, sleeping down the hall every weekend, has made me no better than an animal.
Over these past few months, I have felt different, more focused and less concerned with finding my latest fix of adrenaline. Because this, right here, having Nadine in front of me, her lips parted, chest rising with each breath, nipples pebbled beneath her top, is my adrenaline.
No race or car, drink or drug, paycheck or ring could make me feel as alive as she does.
And I don’t want to give her up to anything or anyone.
She licks her lips and brushes her hand over her hair, her throat lifting on a swallow as her gaze coasts around the empty gym. “I don’t know what you’re doing here.”