Cameron #2
His normally calm and assessing gaze is frantic and startled, spotting me immediately as he approaches with quick, large steps.
“Cameron,” he calls, and something in his tone makes my heart stutter. “Are you alright?”
I stand to greet him. “Yeah, I’m fine, I…” My voice trails off as his eyes land on my cheek, widening slightly before they narrow.
“What is this, then?” he asks, voice deadly quiet.
I know better than to lie to him, so I don’t go with nothing this time. Instead, I turn my cheek away and sigh.
“I just… ran into some trouble.”
“Ran into some trouble,” Atticus mimics. “That is very vague.”
His fingers grip my chin lightly, turning me back to face him, but I can’t meet his eyes. Not when I look so pathetic.
“Yeah. I had a fight. But it’s over now, and I just didn’t want to… to be alone.” Admitting it is embarrassing, but if I lie, it’ll only upset him.
Atticus doesn’t deserve to be lied to, anyway.
He sighs. “You’re not going to give me a name, are you?”
I shake my head as well as I can in his grasp, still avoiding those piercing hazel eyes.
“Alright,” he concedes. Then, his fingertips brush over the sore spot on my cheek, and he doesn’t pull back as I wince softly. “But I won’t let you wallow all alone tonight.”
“I wasn’t wallowing,” I mutter, and as I finally meet his gaze, his eyes have softened.
“Liar,” he murmurs, still gently grazing over my skin with his fingers.
“So… then what should we do?” I ask, looking around the darkening street. “We can’t, uh… we can’t go to my house. And Checker’s might get angry if we’re not ordering.”
I’m not hungry, and I’m broke. The last time we went Cassie was going to pay, only for Atticus to step in. I don’t really want him to spend more money on me, treating me as a charity case.
“You’ll come with me,” Atticus says confidently, like it’s the only option available.
“T-to Chastain Castle?” I gasp, staring up at him in shock.
Other than delivery men and their personal help, I don’t think very many people have gone to Chastain Castle. They’re very private people.
“Ah, no,” Atticus answers awkwardly. “We have a little house in town. It’s vacant right now, but the staff keeps it up to par. We can hang out there for the night.”
Oh. Of course they have two houses; why wouldn’t they? And why was I dumb enough to think I was so special as to go back to his actual house, where his family is?
“Okay,” I whisper.
Something I can’t understand passes through Atticus’s eyes, but it makes his expression softer, and he leans down to kiss me gently on the forehead, brushing my hair back.
“Come on, Cam,” he says quietly. “Let’s go.”
The house is nice. It’s not big and flashy the way I expected it to be, a simple two-bedroom with a beautiful kitchen and large living room.
As Atticus guides me inside, I toe my boots off at the door, suddenly self-conscious as I realize I’m still in my uniform.
It’s nothing crazy, just jeans and a maroon half-button-up with a flimsy collar. Orford Auto Repair is printed on the right breast.
But I’m covered in motor oil and most likely smell of sweat, so I’m embarrassed nonetheless.
“Would it be alright if I shower? I’ll put these clothes back on; I just want to wash away the dirt.” As I ask, Atticus is turning the living room TV on.
His eyes find mine, then they slowly drag down my body as he takes me in fully for the first time. He begins to grin.
“Covered in oil?” he questions, his tone teasing.
I roll my eyes, my sock-covered feet padding over to where he stands. “Yes, so I’d like to shower.”
“Can I watch?” Atticus negotiates, and I swear I choke on my own spit.
“Can you what?”
But he just laughs, pointing a finger toward the hall to the right. “The shower is in there; feel free to use one of the robes instead of putting on your dirty clothes again.”
I follow his direction, shutting the door behind myself and stripping off my clothes. They lie in a dirty pile as I start the water, letting it turn scalding before I step in.
As the water flows over me, soaking my hair and drenching my skin, I sigh.
My stomach is aching and the hot water is stinging my cheek, but it’s relaxing my muscles, and that’s all I care about. After my long day at work—rotating tires and changing oil—I really wanted to unwind at the gym and get a full night’s rest.
Instead, I’m forming dark bruises and hiding out in Atticus Chastain’s—what, guesthouse?
I don’t understand why Mom is so high-strung. I mean, I understand her grief; I feel it too, and I barely knew the guy. Dad, I mean. But I don’t understand why she makes it her personal mission to hurt me.
Well, I suppose it’s because I remind her of him, but that’s not fair. I didn’t choose my genetics.
I spend the next few minutes dwelling and throwing myself the world’s most pathetic pity party. If I could hide in here, concealing my shame for the rest of the night, I would.
But Atticus is just outside this door, waiting for me. I have a feeling that if I did lock myself away, he’d just bust down the door to find me.
And for some reason, this makes me smile.
I turn off the water after thoroughly scrubbing my hair and body, then find the stack of robes Atticus had mentioned before I got into the shower in the cupboard.
They’re soft and white and expensive, just as I thought they would be. With the band wrapped securely around my waist, I exit the bathroom, leaving my clothes in a neat pile.
I find Atticus lounging on the couch, his eyes trained on some action movie on the TV. As I enter, his gaze darts to me, and his eyes narrow.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you.”
Without a word, he extends a hand toward me, as if he’s offering me a place to lie. But with his upper body taking up one side and his leg thrown up on the other, there isn’t much room.
I eye the recliner in the corner, but Atticus clears his throat, as if warning me against it. So instead, I walk in his direction, placing my hand in his.
One second I’m standing before him, uncertain and slightly aroused, and the next I’m being tugged down until I’ve fallen on top of him, my face pressed to his neck.
Atticus laughs as a loud shout leaves me, his arms wrapping around my waist.
“Scared, sweetheart?” he coos, large palms spread over the small of my back and pressing lightly until my hips are firmly pressed to his.
“N-no,” I mumble, embarrassed by the sound that escaped me.
It seems that around Atticus, I’m always embarrassed.
“Mhm,” he hums, but it doesn’t sound as if he believes me. “Just get comfortable. Fast & Furious is on.”
Fast & Furious? What are we, divorced dads? But I say nothing, only untucking my face to be able to see the TV screen as Atticus begins to rub soft, soothing circles on my back.
Slowly, I untense, my body relaxing over the length of his as explosions blare and engines roar from the speakers. Within minutes, I’m like putty in his hands, hardly focusing on the movie as I listen to the steady drum of his heartbeat.
“You like this movie?” Atticus murmurs into my hair. “I picked it because it has cars.”
Oh. Cars… because I work at an auto shop.
A small chuckle leaves me, and he must feel the vibrations through my chest because his arms tighten, and I can feel his responding smile as he presses his face against the crown of my head.
“I like it,” I tell him. I don’t really care for the movie, but I care about the reason it’s on, and that’s enough.
It’s nice here, with him. All the stress of the day is melting away, and I’m stuck in a mindless fog. One where I’m not asked to pick a movie or figure out where to sit. Atticus does that for me, making my decisions and lying me down, poised and perfect.
My eyelids begin to droop, growing heavier the longer he rubs at my back, and I don’t even flinch as he pulls my robe up enough to slip his hand onto my bare skin, kneading away.
It’s soft. It’s safe.
No drunk guys or hurtful mothers can get me here—not with Atticus guarding me like a vicious dog.
I feel the press of his warm lips against my temple, and he mutters, “Good night, sweetheart,” as I slip into the darkness.
Completely and utterly defenseless.