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“What if the audience likes him?” His words shut me up quickly. It wasn’t what he said, though, but the way he said it. Shattered. Devastated. “What if they like him so much they decide to write him back into the show?”
I shifted to the edge of the chair and let my hands hang between my legs. “What happened with Raul? The real Raul.”
Camillo’s ears burned red. “He wasn’t very kind.”
“You weren’t forthcoming about that in your book.”
His gaze shifted back to mine. “You read that chapter?”
“I read all the chapters,” I reminded him. “I actually do know how to read.”
“I—right. Yes. I wasn’t implying—” He stopped abruptly and took a long moment of tense silence. Grabbing his legs, he heaved them up onto the cushion and began adjusting his position.
I could tell it wasn’t for comfort though. The expression he was trying to hide and the tension in his body betrayed his attempt at being casual. I knew it too intimately to miss the signs: he was teetering on the verge of pain. He was stuck in his trauma. Trapped by memories he’d tried to bury because they hurt too much to think about.
Those were the thoughts that crept through the walls people like us built, manifesting in nightmares we couldn’t control.
And now, he had to decide if he wanted to watch those play out in real time for the sake of authenticity or if he wanted to let a shitty man like the real Raul watch it and pat himself on the back for being less of a monster than he truly was.
“The real story is embarrassing,” Camillo eventually said. He glanced at the door, then back at me. “This cannot leave thisroom. Only one other person knows about this, so if it gets out, I’ll know it’s you.”
I nodded, then stopped because I didn’t trust that the room was safe. “Are you allowed to ditch your guards?”
He stared. “Ditch my guards?”
“Go for a drink at mine,” I said.
“Aleric, listen. I’m trying to get along with you, but?—”
“I’m not trying to fuck you,” I said, throwing up my hands. “But if there are things you’d like me to know so I can make this whole thing bearable for you, it might be better to tell them to me where we’re sure there aren’t any ears around.”
Realization dawned on him. “Do you think anyone knows, ah, what we did?”
“One PA who wants to keep his job and your guard,” I told him honestly.
He paled a bit. “Ah.”
“I’m an expert at denial. They won’t get anything out of me. But I don’t trust anyone in this industry, so if this information is so important that you left it out of your own autobiography, this might not be the best place to say it out loud.”
He sat completely still except for a few spasms in his legs. Then he shoved them back to the floor. “Where do you live?”
“High Street and Seventh.”
He wrinkled his nose, which meant he knew the area. “Ah.”
“My parents didn’t invest money the way they were supposed to,” I told him. The humiliation was keenly sharp, made worse by the way he looked guilty because he knew he was judging me.
“I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s perfectly fine.”
“Actually, it isn’t. The elevator’s broken, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want me to carry you.” How long before I stopped making these mistakes with him?
Instead of getting angry, his lips softened. Not quite into a smile, but it was better than his sneer. “I know a place.”
I had no idea what that meant, but I decided right there that if this was all of Prince Camillo I was going to be allowed to have outside of our contracted jobs, then I was going to take it. My heart was battered, bruised, and rejected, but in spite of the pain, it was also still the most foolish part of me.
And I didn’t see that changing anytime soon.
Eleven