Chapter 26
I am a man who gets what I want.
I am not a man who’s used to losing.
I’ve lost a handful of football matches, tickets to Coldplay once, and a bet with Vi over how much food her dog, Bruce, could consume in thirty seconds.
This isn’t a proud list.
Now I can add Indie Porter to it, file it away, and move the hell on.
She’s a different calibre of the birds I shag, so that’s why I’m still smarting over the whole ordeal.
I guess rejection wounds even the most confident of footballers.
So in the interest of moving on and gaining back some of my “Camden Harris, knicker-dropping smirk” mojo back, I let my brother drag me out tonight.
“I still can’t believe you bagged your doctor!” Tanner takes a long drink of his beer, then puts it back up to his eye socket. With the other eye open and on me, he adds, “I did not take her for the monopoly squirt and split type. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred pounds.”
“If you don’t knock it off, I’ll give you a matching set,” I growl through clenched teeth, balling my fist up beside me. “I’m not kidding, Tan. Leave it.”
“That info was well worth the shiner,” he states, happily rolling the condensation-soaked beer bottle on his eye.
I take a drink of my own beer, mentally junk-punching myself for the eighteenth time tonight for telling him about Indie and me. Or at least telling him a tiny version of it. I’m not about to tell him she was a fucking virgin. I’d never hear the end of it.
I’m not proud of spilling the beans. But I am a bloke, and ever since he got back from their match last week, he hasn’t stopped bragging about the threesome he had on the road.
It’s not uncommon for him to brag about his conquests, but for the past ten days I’d been slowly dying on the inside over this Indie thing. I was holding on by a thread.
Then today, after my MRI, he started talking about having a threesome with Indie and her coworker, Belle, who apparently chatted with him in the waiting room while I was suffering through a little piece of redheaded hell.
My possessiveness got the better of me. I blurted out that I’d screwed Dr. Porter because I knew he’d shut up then.
You see, my brothers and I have an understanding about women. We call it the Bacon Sandwich Rule. If I lick a bacon sandwich, that means it’s mine and they can’t touch it. Ever.
We apply this same well-thought-out and highly-sensitive philosophy to women, and it’s worked well for us…until today.
The punch went a little something like this:
Tanner starts, “You fucked the redhead?”
“Stop.”
“What was it like?”
“Stop.”
“Were her tits big? They look big.”
“Stop.”
“Was she wild? She looks like a screamer.”
“Stop.”
“Did she suck you off? God, I bet she gives good head.”
“Stop.”
“How were her nipples? Pink or pale pink?”
“Stop.”
“Did she call out my name when she came?”
PUNCH.
I know it was probably a bit dramatic, but bloody hell, Tanner can be a sod. This isn’t the first time we’ve rowed over a girl; however, it is the first time I’ve punched him over one. It evidently still didn’t teach him because he won’t stop running his mouth.
Regardless, I didn’t punch him because I’m still pining over Indie.
After our talk today, I know that ship has sailed.
Whatever fucked-up thoughts my mind was having over her are well and dead now.
I truly think she is incapable of feeling.
She’s got her head in the sand so far, she wouldn’t see a connection with someone if her glasses were binoculars.
She set me up so perfectly, though, like a master heartbreaker. When we fucked on that chair…I had hope. But after it was over and I realised she was just saying goodbye, I knew I was doomed.
After that, all sorts of self-doubt began creeping into my mind.
Hell, if I can get it in my head that I care more about her than I do about football, my mind is fucked.
Maybe tonight is just what I need to get my shit straight again because it’s time for Camden Harris to stop acting like he’s on his man-period.
“Hello, boys. Fancy seeing you here!” a voice says from behind me, and I snap my head around to see who it is.
Nothing could have prepared me for who stands before me.
“Dr. Ryan,” Tanner leers. “Nice to see you again.”
“Call me Belle,” she says with a giggle.
“I prefer Dr. Ryan if it’s all the same to you. And hello to you, too, Dr. Porter.”
Indie’s eyes haven’t left mine the entire time.
She’s staring at me with a sort of shocked, embarrassed half smile—one that makes me wish I could read her mind.
I know I just saw her today, but seeing her now, under the moonlight, dressed in street clothes with her hair down…
well, she looks like the woman I used to know.
Not the one I forced myself to make peace with earlier today.
Belle jabs Indie in the ribs with her elbow.
“Ouch,” Indie says through clenched teeth. “Hi, Tanner.” She looks at me. “Hi, Cam.”
“Hello,” I reply. “Is seeing you here really just a coincidence?” If so, the fates are cruel, cruel bastards.
Her brows lift. “I have a feeling this isn’t a coincidence.”
She looks at Belle and Tanner, who both smile knowingly.
“I’m a huge fan of Irish Way,” Tanner says, breaking the tension with a comment about the band. “And I just happened to run into Belle today, and she had the inside scoop on where I could score some tickets.”
“We love Old George,” Belle adds, walking over and sitting down on the bench beside Tanner’s feet. “This is our hangout spot, and it’s fun when bands play here.”
Tanner begins small talk with Belle while Indie remains standing here, staring at me awkwardly. She shifts from one foot to the other as she plays with the frame of her glasses.
I could tell Tanner we need to leave. I could leave by myself. I could go to the bar and get a drink, go to the loo, go to another pub, go hit on a different girl, go crazy!
But I don’t.
“Can we go talk for a minute?” I ask, sliding off of the table, not waiting for her response.
Tanner watches me like he thinks I’m going to go take her to the toilet and fuck her.
Indie looks at Belle and gets a silent nod of approval.
When she turns to walk away, my hand instantly goes to the small of her back.
I hear her sharp intake of breath, so I pull my hand back and clench my fist, wishing Tanner’s face was nearby again.
Indie Porter likes space…and, fuck, I wish I didn’t want to be inside of her right now.
She stops by a thick cluster of ivy, away from the crowd of people, and turns around to face me. She crosses her arms over her chest. The warm bulbs cast a halo around her head and it all seems ironic.
“Do we have a problem that I don’t know about?” I ask, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jeans. They’re one of my tightest pair, but today I noticed that my stitches are completely dissolved, so this is the first time I’ve been able to wear them in two weeks.
Her gaze slides down my abs and lingers somewhere around my legs. “What makes you think we have a problem?”
“Because you look like someone kicked your puppy.”
“I’ve never had a puppy.” She glowers before my meaning finally dawns on her. “I’m fine.”
I nod. “Good. We can be around each other, can’t we?” I ask out loud, wondering the same thing myself.
“I guess so. Does your brother know about us?” She looks down and I can see the shame blanket her. As much as I don’t want to, I take it personal.
“He knows, but don’t worry about him. He’s a sod but he’s a decent sod.” I watch her face and register the tension knitted between her brows. I can’t help myself as my hand reaches out and lifts her chin. I pin her with a serious look. “He won’t judge you, Indie.”
She exhales when she sees the sincerity in my expression. “Good. So are you really just out for a fun night with your brother, or is this where your book club meets?”
My brows lift at her little attempt at a joke. It feels like the Indie I grew to like. “Book Club meets on Sundays,” I wink. “What about you? Tequila Sunrise night I take it?”
Her eyes flash with a tiny level of anguish over how well we know each other. Our late-night pillow talk saw to that. “I’m off for four days this time,” she replies.
I want to ask her what her plans were for tonight—if she really was going to try to find her number two—but I bite my tongue.
“Let’s go try and have some fun.” I toss an arm around her shoulders and exhale when she doesn’t tense this time. She actually tucks into me a bit, and the familiar scent of lemons and freshly washed hair makes my heart pound.
The four of us commandeer the corner picnic table that is now littered with empty beer bottles and a pizza we all shared. The band is loud, but not so loud that you can’t hear each other talk. It’s also not so soft that you feel like you have to fill the awkward silences with chatter.
It’s the perfect spot because there’s less lighting back here and, so far, my brother and I have gone relatively unnoticed, aside from a couple blokes who wanted to talk football in the loo.
It’s always the loo where they get ya. Dick in hand, minding your own business, and bam. “You’re a Harris, aren’t you?”
The ones that get me in the loo never know which Harris I am.
They just generalise and try to play it off that I’m a twin so that’s why they couldn’t tell.
Tanner and I haven’t looked alike all season, but whatever.
People are in love with the idea of us all on one team, playing for the hearts of East London.
If I become a Gunner and break up our trio, the Bethnal fans will be devastated. But I can’t think about that right now.