Chapter Four Cam
Chapter Four
Cam
I wake to multiple rude-as-hell messages from people who are no longer my friends.
Big D(arius): You brought this on yourself. Sorry man ?
Anup: This is your karma for harassing my son
Jody: Maybe don’t punch people shitass
This, atop the fact that I’m reading them before nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, an hour before I’m supposed to become Mason Gray’s personal escort, means this is setting up the permanent death of my happiness.
I writhe out of my sheets and fumble through my dresser for my sexiest casual clothes.
If I have to be around him, I’ll ensure he regrets his rejection of my perfectly innocent advances.
I opt for a black V-neck sweater that showcases my high-definition collarbone and roll back my sleeves. Bitches love rolled-back sleeves.
As I stumble into the kitchen, the smell of greasy meat wafts through my nose. Dad’s at the stovetop in a T-shirt that exposes the tattoos winding up his wrists, stirring eggs, a flowery apron slung around his neck. “You’re up early,” he notes.
“Study date with the water boy.” I peek over his shoulder.
Sausage patties and bacon pop and sizzle in the pans beside him.
I’m still a growing young chap in need of sustenance, so I can’t reject protein so readily available for the taking.
I reach out to snag some bacon, and Dad whacks me with his spatula. “Ow!” I hiss, reeling back.
“Are you shitting me, Cam?” he demands, his nostrils flaring above his thick beard.
“You’re going to take food out of a burning pan with your bare hands?
” He drives me away from the stovetop with his elbow, grumbling, because I’m apparently the hardest kid in these United States to deal with.
“Really, how will you survive on your own? Who’s going to stop you from stuffing your hands into boiling oil?
Or sweeping broken glass together with your bare foot?
Or tripping over your shoes in the hallway and concussing yourself on the wall? ”
“I’ve only done those things once!” I choke out, throwing my arms into the air with exasperation. “Sorry I’m not some genius Einstein–Benjamin Franklin–Isaac Newton–Leonardo DiCaprio–type ass!”
Dad massages his bushy brows. “Go sit. I’ll bring you breakfast.”
I tromp over to our rounded wooden table, plopping down. Moments later, I’m drooling over a fresh plate of crispy bacon, cheddar scrambled eggs, sausage patties, and buttered toast.
Dad slumps into the seat beside me. “So?” he asks, combing down the scruff around his lips. “Am I forgiven?”
The smell of food has driven me into a drunken stupor, forcing me to reorient myself.
Was I mad at him for something? Probably.
“Sure. Hopefully it’ll get me through whatever suffering Mason is about to inflict.
” I chug my glass of milk—a torture I endure every morning.
If the claim that milk builds strong boners is true, mine are slowly becoming indestructible.
“You’re going to start trying, right?” he asks, watching me tear into a strand of bacon.
I expect he might bring up the scouting opportunity, but of course he doesn’t.
My parents probably don’t want their desperation to show.
“If you fail, you’re repeating senior year.
You’re not getting a job instead of going to college. ”
I shudder at the thought, especially considering I already have one extra year of schooling under my belt from when I was held back in sixth grade.
I’m not ready to go through another fresh start, and then have to do it all again the moment I graduate.
“I’ll try,” I say, chomping into a sausage patty. “But if the water boy gets sassy—”
“You’ll relish it, because it means he’s tolerating your bullshit.” Dad scoops my plate up and brings it to the sink like he hasn’t just roundhouse-kicked me in the neck.
“What bullshit?” I demand.
“Your personality.” He shrugs and adds, “The fake parts. And your abysmal behavior.”
I’ve been gagged. Where is this coming from? I want to throw something pointy at him, but he gives me a sudden, cutting glare that brings my boiling blood down to freezing temperature.
“You hit someone, Cameron James,” he says darkly. “I thought we raised you better. How many times do I have to tell you to drop the macho act you’ve been playing? You pretending to be someone you’re not is hurting others.”
Hearing his voice drop to such a low, irritable tone causes my intestines to twist into painful knots. I’m sure he’s been hanging on to this since last night—waiting for me to cool down before confronting me. And the thing is…
He’s not exactly wrong.
“Sorry,” I mumble. Cam Morelli doesn’t speak softly, but I guess I can be Cameron for the moment. It’s just Dad.
“Use your fists again and you’ll have to do a hell of a lot more than say sorry.” He’s glaring at me with unyielding intensity. “I don’t know what’s got you twisted up lately—”
“That party.”
Dad’s brows quirk. The words slipped out before I could chew on them.
“It…When he hit me, I remembered that party,” I whisper.
Even mentioning it causes my limbs to seize and my chest to pound.
The air thins rapidly in my lungs, but if I don’t persevere and choke it out, Dad is just going to push until I crack open anyway.
“From eighth grade. I realized I didn’t have to take it. Like back then.”
I’m not going to let him question me further. Besides, if I linger, he’ll find new ways to insult me, so I lunge upright, hitch my backpack, and head to the door.
“Thanks for breakfast,” I call to him. “I’ll be back—”
“Do you still think about it? That night in eighth grade.”
I falter, his voice cutting through my attempt at indifference. “Huh?”
“What happened.” Dad’s expression is neutral, his voice level and cool. “How often do you think about it?”
Clearly he’s not willing to let it go. But I’m not going to indulge him when I’m already about to endure the shittiest Saturday in all of history.
“Not often” is all I say, before pushing through the front door.
The gold morning sun is weaving through the trees, though the warmth doesn’t reach my face.
I drop into my car and toss my backpack aside, then plug Mason’s address into my phone.
The route is scenic at least, not that driving along the lake makes my situation more acceptable.
The waves seem extra frothy and gray today—a sure sign of impending doom.
I zigzag through run-down roads caged in by looming trees, then creep through a midsize subdivision.
The sight of similarly colored houses makes me wrinkle my nose.
Places like this, with their perfectly curated lawns and identical slanted rooftops, remind me of the town we narrowly escaped.
I pull into the driveway of a beige house with a porch wrapped around the front, furnished with a swinging bench.
There’s someone sitting on it. A pale middle-aged man in a faded T-shirt, black scruff climbing his cheeks.
A cigarette dangles from his lips, causing wispy smoke to trail into the air.
Frantically, I pull Mason’s number up and call him.
“Good morning, Cameron.”
Even the sound of his sweet, mellow voice makes me want to projectile vomit. “Water boy,” I snap. “I’m here, but there’s a creepy man on your porch.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, “That’s my dad.”
“Tell your dad that blinking is healthy,” I order.
“You’re early. Like twenty minutes early.”
I don’t feel like mentioning that I was desperate to escape my father. “And?” I ask coldly. “What, should I have shown up tardy like some hoolig—”
I choke on the rest of my words, my heart skipping. What am I doing, sounding like a responsible, eager, bright-eyed pupil ready for studying? Cam Morelli should’ve shown up a half hour late. And he sure as hell wouldn’t use the word hooligan.
Thankfully, Mason doesn’t question it. “I’ll see you at our scheduled meeting time,” he says, and I can hear him smiling through the words. “Goodbye.”
I choke on my dismay. “You’re going to make me wait for twenty whole minutes?”
No response. He hung up on me, the bastard.
Thankfully, though, he doesn’t take that long.
Just as I’m considering booking it home (that porch man is giving me shivers), Mason appears at his front door.
He’s wrapped in a turtleneck, scarf, and beanie that blends with his midnight-black hair.
All this combined with his skinny jeans makes it look like he’s trying to haul late autumn into town with sheer willpower.
Is he trying to look as cute as possible to twist the knife into my wound of rejection?
Without a glance at his father, he jogs to my car, then tosses his bag into the back, nearly zipper-slapping me along the way.
“Hello,” he says, a calm, vacant smile toying at his lips.
His eyes are burned pink—from fatigue, maybe?
“I’m flattered you were so excited to see me this morning that you came early. ”
I hiss like a cat. Flattered? Excited? For him? “Just tell me where to go, water boy,” I snap.
“Annie’s Brews.”
I furrow my brows. “Annie’s who?”
His smile flips into a scolding frown. “Cameron Morelli, you uncultured swine.”
“Pardon the fuck?”
“Any coffee-drinking high schooler is lost without Annie,” he says, wagging his slender finger in my face. I resist gnashing my teeth at it. “I don’t know how you’ve survived this long.”
“Never had coffee,” I grumble. Mr. Gray eyes me through the windshield in this “I could charge your car at any moment” way, so I start backing out of the driveway. Until I catch Mason’s expression in my peripherals, twisted with dismay, his brown eyes shot with horror.
“You’ve never had coffee?” he demands.
I sigh, pulling onto the street and heading toward the subdivision exit. “Which way?”
“Left—but, okay, tea? Hot chocolate?”
“Not interested.”