Realization is a cold, hard bitchslap. She isn't jealous. She isn't even mildly upset.
"Yeah, uh, I'll be...somewhere else," Camilla says, and beats feet to get away from us.
I take out my phone and press it to my ear, pretending to talk to someone. "Didn't you watch?" Calm. Steady.
"No. Witnesses aren't allowed to watch romantic or intimate moments."
"Nothing romantic or intimate happened."
"Something must have, because the screen went blank after you teased Camilla about her sugar intake."
Screen? And why the hell isn't Kat railing at me? Or telling me she made a big mistake?
"What happened after that?" she asks, completely unaware of my increasing turmoil.
Nothing, that's what. I'd wanted to regret the impulsive gesture but hadn't quite managed it. "Let me get this straight. You expected me to take one look at Raina and turn my full attention to her. You expected me to fall out of love with you." My voice hardens, every word like a dagger. "You don't know me at all, do you?"
The color drains from her face, but she presses on. "You fell in love with me instantly, Frosty. Why can't you fall out of love just as fast? Why can't you fall for someone else the same way? Granted, I'm amazing, but--"
"No. You don't get to praise yourself while you're breaking my fucking heart." Breaking...no. It's already broken. I'm flayed. Shattered. Hell, I'm nothing but jagged pieces of pain.
Tears well in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I was just trying to make you laugh and--"
Forget the groceries. "Camilla," I shout, and it isn't long before she appears at the end of the aisle.
I don't spare Kat another glance as I leave her crying in the middle of the store. I stomp past Camilla, and as hoped, she follows.
In the truck, my darker emotions bubble over. I growl, "This is your fault. If she was still alive, she'd want me."
Camilla scowls at me. "I'll take the blame for a lot of things, but not that. Not another girl's feelings for you."
"If she was alive--"
"Yeah. You said that. But are you sure you're right?"
We were never supposed to end up together, Kat said the second time she appeared to me.
I punch the steering wheel so hard the horn blasts as a piece of plastic goes flying. My already bruised skin tears and my knuckles crack, but I don't care. I hit the wheel again and again and again.
"Look." Camilla's voice is unbearably gentle. "I know you're heartbroken right now--"
"What would you know about heartbreak? You've never even been on a date. None of the guys you've been with liked you enough."
She blanches, and I curse, hating myself more now than ever before. Guilt and regret pummel me, leaving bruises deep, deep inside. I don't like her, but I'm not this guy. I won't be this guy.
"I'm sorry. I had no right to go there."
"Don't worry." There's no emotion in her tone, no emotion on her features, either, but she's rubbing her thumb against the Betrayal tattoo. "I deserve nothing less."
Anyone else, I would have corrected. No one deserves to be dumped on like this. Her, I just can't.
We reach the apartment, and she trudges in behind me. I look around and try to see the place through her eyes. Gritty, dingy. As far from a palatial bachelor pad as possible. I've hung no pictures. My furniture consists of a couch, a TV and a bed.
She picks up the bag she dropped off during her B & E. "I'm taking a shower." Without waiting for permission, she shuts herself inside the bathroom and turns on the water.
I pad into a kitchen small enough to fit inside a Barbie playhouse. And yes, I have, in fact, played with one. Kat used to babysit her cousins, and I used to help, allowing the little princesses to "fix" my hair and paint my nails. But I can't afford to think about the past right now. I'll have another meltdown.
I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and drain half the contents, the liquid cool against my parched throat.
Thud.
I recognize the sound and know Camilla just dropped the soap...in the shower...where she's naked and wet.
I hiss in a breath. I did not just go there. But...
I did go there and now I can't get the picture of her naked and wet out of my head.
Today's blind date clearly screwed me up. Not to mention losing Kat--again. Doesn't help that I'm a young, red-blooded male with more testosterone than most, and Camilla is hotter than hell. There's simply no getting around that fact.
Damn it. She represents everything wrong with my life. Worse, she's a wild card. Is she for real? Or is she looking for the perfect opportunity to betray my group? To punish us for telling her brother she'd sided with Anima?
If I'm being honest, I don't actually think that's the case. She fought hard-core last night, slaying zombies--and tires--without a single moment of hesitation.
My lips twitch at the corners. No one has ever attacked my truck with such adorable menace.
I should not find her adorable.
By the time she emerges, I've tamed my wayward thoughts. But a cloud of steam accompanies her, smelling of roses, pecans and my soap, and...hell. My blood heats. In anger, I tell myself. Only anger. Because I don't like my things on her body. Even my scent. Especially my scent.
Her mass of hair is wet, the ends dripping onto her already-damp tank top, rendering the material transparent. She's wearing short shorts, her legs a mile long, with black and white roses tattooed down one side but not the other. Her feet are bare, her toenails painted princess pink, a complete surprise. I would have guessed black. On her left foot is a tattoo of--is that a dandelion? Yeah. As the seeds float away, they morph into birds. On her other foot is a tattoo of a pink ribbon crisscrossing all the way to her ankle and culminating in a bow. It's the only etching with color and I wonder why--also wonder why my blood boils.
Kat has no tattoos. I never thought I'd like them on a girl, but Camilla, she wears them well. Very well.
"This is five seconds past awkward," she mutters.
Caught sizing up the enemy. I should be flayed alive. "There's not much in the fridge but feel free to take what you want." I shut myself in the bathroom and stay in the shower until the hot water is gone and I'm being pelted by shards of ice, my mind finally back in the right place. Admiring Camilla isn't allowed.
My motions are jerky as I dress in a T-shirt and a pair of sweats. When I step into the hall, the scent of bacon and eggs greets me, and my mouth waters. Camilla is sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of food in front of her and a plate of food in front of the only other chair. Finally, she's eating. And despite my deplorable treatment of her, she continues to respond to me with little gestures of kindness.
I'm more baffled by her every minute of every day.
My stomach rumbles for the first time in months, and I join her at the table to dig in. After a few bites of the best (and only) bacon pancakes I've ever had, I mutter, "Thanks for dinner."
"You're welcome."
"Did you cook for your brother's crew?" Is that how she developed such obvious culinary skill?
She doesn't comment on my uncharacteristic display of curiosity and says, "No. My mom was a chef, and me and my--" A muscle clenches in her jaw. "I used to shadow her in the kitchen."
She and...who? "Was a chef?"
"Still could be. She took off a little over nine years ago. I haven't heard from her since."
Making Camilla far too young to be abandoned by a loved one. But then, was there ever a right age for that kind of betrayal? "I'm sorry."
My odd display of sympathy earns a small smile of gratitude. "What about your parents?" she asks, and a moment later, she sinks deep into her chair, realizing she's asked a personal question I will most likely refuse to answer. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."
I should take the out, but I say, "Both of my parents died when I was six. I've lived with an aunt and uncle until recently." They were decent people, but they had a family of their own and it hadn't included me, the troubled boy whose pa
rents adopted him at the age of three.
"Your parents...did they love you?"
"Yes, but they didn't know how to deal with a kid who saw monsters they couldn't."
Meeting Cole was a bona fide miracle. For the first time in my life, I'd actually felt as though I wasn't alone.
"Losing both of your parents had to suck," she says, "which makes this next part terrible for me to say, but... I kind of wish my dad left with my mom. He wasn't a nice man, and the system would have been a better place for my siblings and me."
Siblings. Plural. And just how not nice are we talking? Mentally, physically or even sexually abusive? I press my lips together to keep from asking. We're getting way personal here. Too personal for two people who only agreed to fight zombies together, each for their own reasons.
I stand, my chair skidding behind me. As I wash my dishes, I say, "If we're going to live together--"
"If? We are."
"--we need to set some ground rules."
"Agreed." She hands me her plate and fork and arches a brow. "I cooked, you clean."
I could refuse, just to be contrary, but I take the dishes and get to scrubbing. I want her to cook again.
"Let me guess," she says. "Rule one. I do what you say when you say."
"Yeah. That sounds good. Let's go with that." I dry my hands and face her. There's only an arm's length of distance between us. It's not enough. Up close I can see the different shades of brown in her eyes, from pale amber to rich sable, and I want to kick my own ass for noticing. I take a step back.
"Rule two," I say. "You will be honest with me at all times about everything. You get caught in a lie and you're out, no questions asked."
"In that case, I'd love to share my honest opinion about you. You have moments of great asshattery, and one day I'll probably disembowel you just for grins and giggles."
"That's fair."
She nudges me out of the way to fill a glass with water. "I can live with those rules."
"Good, but I wasn't done. Rule three," I say. "No more personal conversations."
Her gaze darts away from me, but not before I catch a glint of hurt. "No problem," she says. "We will forever remain strangers."
I frown, not liking that I've hurt her again and not liking that I don't like it. "Rule four. If I want to be alone, you will leave me alone."
Her lips purse as if she's just sucked on a lemon. "That kind of defeats the purpose of my presence."
"And yet it's still a rule."
"One I will not obey," she says.
Girls. Can't live with them--the end. I mean, seriously. There are two ways to argue with them, saying yes and saying no, and neither way works.
While dating Kat, I probably learned more about girls than anyone else on the planet, and yet I still know absolutely nothing about them.
I take the water glass from Camilla and set it aside. Don't want the liquid tossed at my pretty mug as I imprison her against the counter. We were too close before and we are way too close now, but I need her to hear me and understand how serious I am.
Her eyes go wide, but not with fear. I don't know what she's projecting at me, not sure I want to know. Her breaths come fast and shallow.
"Maybe you were able to steamroll your brother's crew. Maybe the guys were intimidated by you or by River, or maybe even both of you, but I'm made of tougher stuff. You step on my toes, and I'll step on yours right back. A girl who willingly gets into the ring with me never receives special treatment. I'll dish to her what I dish to guys."
Up goes her chin. Light shines over her features, paying the bronze of her skin absolute tribute. She's only a bit taller than Kat, but the added inch puts her closer to my face than I'm used to. The smell of roses and pecans is stronger now, the heat of her intense. I like it. I like it too much.
My body is obviously attracted to hers, not caring anything for my thoughts or feelings.
My body is a traitor. And so is Kat. She wanted me to date other girls. To want--crave--other girls. Happy now, kitten?
"Do you understand?" I demand.
"Yes. But Frosty?" Camilla pauses, frowns as if she's just hit a brick wall. "Wait. What's your first name?"
I straighten and latch onto the subject change as if it's a life raft. In a way, it is. "That's delving into personal territory, don't you think?"
"A first name is personal to you? Hardly. I know the first name of my former mailman and believe me, there's nothing personal about our relationship. He's, like, three hundred years old."
"Don't care. I'm not telling you my name."
"Why not? Is it embarrassing? I bet it's embarrassing."
"Give me an example of what you consider embarrassing."
"Dick. Or Dijon."
"I only wish my name was Dijon."
"Because you like to be the condiment in a flesh sandwich?" She smirks up at me. "I remember your 'friend.'" She air quotes the word. "She would have done anything you asked, even a three-way."
"I'm not interested in a three-way. Never have been." Despite my recent behavior, I actually prefer to be in love with my partner. Don't get me wrong. I adore the act of touching and kissing and being together, but I want it to mean something, because I'm vulnerable in those moments--hours--with all my defenses down, and I like to know my girl is right there with me, giving as much as she takes. "What about you?"
"I'm a little too territorial to share."
"Do you have a special friend?" Someone she sleeps with on a regular basis.
Her chin goes up another inch, her cheeks reddening. "That information is personal, and as we agreed, the two of us won't travel that road. Now, if you'll excuse me." She saunters to the couch, claims the remote and flips on the TV, pretending I don't exist.
Damn it. Now I'm more curious about her than ever and slightly annoyed. Is she sleeping with someone on a regular basis? And why the hell do I care so much about the answer?
*
I take the bed once again, forcing Camilla to take the couch. Ungentlemanly, I know, but I have a point to prove to us both. She's nothing to me. Nothing except a means to an end, just like I told her.
As usual, I toss and turn all night. I may have gotten my appetite back, but sleep still eludes me. And that's probably a good thing. I'd only dream about Kat's death, a horror show I've seen so many times the smallest details are forever embedded in my memory.
When the sun rises, I make my way into the living room and see Camilla asleep on the couch. She's sitting up, and she's sweating, her body shaking as if she's having a seizure. I rush to her side, but by the time I reach her, she's sagging to the side, a streak of soot left in her wake.
Soot?
She tosses and turns, and it's obvious she's trapped in a nightmare. I know better than to wake her. I study the tangle of her white-black hair, the rose-tint in her skin, the fragility of her features. She's beauty and she's the beast, rolled into one. There are cuts on her bottom lip, where she chewed just a little too hard. The strap of her tank top has fallen down her shoulder, baring bronzed, mouth-watering skin. She's already kicked off the blanket, revealing the length of her legs. I frown when I notice jagged, raised flesh underneath several of her tattoos. Scars, and lots of them.
The thing is, when scars show on the outside, scars are usually hidden on the inside.
More questions plague me. More questions to stuff inside a mental box.
When she goes still and sighs, a signal she's calming, the dream waning, I leap into action. "Time to wake up." I nudge her knee with my own and her eyelids pop open.
Though she hasn't yet focused, she kicks me in the stomach before hopping to her feet. "Frosty?" Her gaze sweeps over me, from my shirtless chest to my low-slung sweats and bare feet.
"Who else?"
Her frown is deep and intense. "If that's how you wake a girl, no wonder you've had no repeat customers lately. Don't ever jolt me like that again."
My hands curl into fists. "I haven't had any repeat customers b
ecause you killed the only customer I wanted."
"How many times do I have to tell you? I didn't kill--"
I storm to the bedroom, gather clean clothes, then lock myself in the bathroom, where I take another shower to cool down. By the time I step out of the stall, there's a handwritten note perched on my pile of clothes.
Sorry I mule-kicked you.
Camilla snuck in? She would've had to pick the lock and move so quietly my trained senses wouldn't notice.
Well, well. I don't want to be impressed. No, I really don't.
I'm calm as I dress in a plain T-shirt, ripped jeans, combat boots and a few weapons hidden for good measure. I never leave home without a semi-arsenal, at the very least.
I step into the living room to find Camilla dressed in a lacy pink shirt and supershort skirt--short enough to make a guy pray for hundred-mile-per-hour winds. She won't meet my gaze, and I soon learn she won't leave my side, either.
As one week bleeds into two...three...I grow used to my shadow. We even develop a routine. After a silent breakfast, I do any schoolwork currently due, usually finishing up in one to four hours, and she plans Z-battle strategies in a notebook. We then have lunch together--again, neither of us saying a word--and work out. I try not to watch Camilla as she runs the treadmill, parts of her I shouldn't admire bouncing.
We have dinner every night--yet another silent meal. She cooks, I do dishes. Afterward we hunt zombies. So far, there have been no new sightings. Not on our end, and not on Cole's. He and I text each other every night with a progress report. Actually, he texts me all the damn time. All my friends do. What I find on my phone this morning?
Gavin: Giving up the brunettes 4 a tattooed blonde? Sucker! I like a girl who goes 4 the home run rather than the throat.
Bronx: River showed up w/a cage full of Zs so the recruits could get real-world fighting experience. Have U ever seen a kid shit his pants, bro? Once upon a time, I could have said no. Someone bleach my corneas. Please.
Ali: Zombie pickup line! U LOOK SO GOOD I WANT 2 HAVE U OVER 4 DINNER. Hahahaha get it???
I've finally started texting back.
To Gavin: U used 2 B a player--now UR not. Get over it. Also, U suck--& I mean that from the bottom of my heart.
To Bronx: Kids these days R pussies. Wouldn't know a right cross from a left cross. Teach them--& send me vid