Page 22

Chapter Twenty-One

Austen

I toss my keys on the table in the foyer as Savannah strolls past me with a groan.

“That was so lame,” she huffs with annoyance, heading straight for the kitchen.

I sigh as I watch her teeter into the kitchen on her Louboutins, the ones on loan to her from the company closet because I refused to pay over a grand for fucking shoes.

“It wasn’t that bad,” I say as I saunter into the kitchen. She throws open the fridge, grabbing herself an armful of chilled wine and a variety of fruits and cheese.

The lights from the chandeliers make the highlighter on her face sparkle.

“It was fucking dreadful. I, at least, expected the good people to be there,” she says as she opens her wine, not bothering to drink from a glass.

I only see her use a glass when we’re in public, anymore. God forbid anyone find out how utterly miserable she is.

And her misery has nothing to do with me. Not anymore.

“The good people?” I question, grabbing myself a bottle of water.

“Yeah you know, Tommy Stettler, Morgan Perigone, Gia Mercasa…”

I roll my eyes. “Tommy is an asshole, Morgan hasn’t spoken to you in five years—why? I still don’t know—and you don’t even like Gia!”

Savannah pouts as she grabs her bottle of wine, glaring at me.

“That’s not the point, Austen. I told you I didn’t want to go. Told you it would be lame as shit, and I was right. But noooo,” she sing-songs bitterly, casting me a judgmental stare. Those judgy stares used to upset me, but now I barely notice them.

I learned quickly they were just another way for Savannah to manipulate people.

Including me.

“Oh, right. Forgive me for wanting to see my friends,” I bite.

Savannah rolls her eyes. “You don’t have friends, Austen.”

Yeah, whose fucking fault is that?

“I have Mack!” I say, even though I know it’s a shitty excuse. Mack and I hang out once in a while, usually for a game of poker with his coworkers or when my brother’s in town and the three of us can meet up. His physical therapy gig keeps him pretty busy these days.

I’d seen some of my former teammates. But talking to them felt like talking to a brick wall, so I excused myself, went to grab a drink, and then I saw him.

I didn’t even think he’d come, though I hoped he would. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see him. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about him, or what happened between us all the time.

He looks good. Really good, if I’m being honest, but Cameron was always attractive, so I’m not surprised. He looks every bit the GQ model I’ve seen in the pages of magazines and on billboards. And maybe I watched the three movies he was in, even if they weren’t my style and he was only in them for a few scenes.

“Everyone knows you go to these awful things to show everyone up. If my arch nemesis isn’t there, who the hell am I supposed to show up?” She takes a swig of her drink. “That’s the only point of going.”

I shake my head.

There’s no point in arguing with her, so I don’t waste my breath.

“Uh huh.” I take a drink of my water.

Savannah grabs her snacks and drinks and heads for her room.

I don’t bother to say good night, or ask her to stay.

What’s the point? She wouldn’t, even if I wanted her to.

Once the door closes, only then do I let out a sigh of relief and head into my office.

I grab a sketchpad and a graphite pencil and collapse in my leather chair, needing to shake out the stress and nerves of tonight.

I never intended on taking up drawing as a hobby, and if you would have told me in high school, that I’d spend my days cooped up in my office drawing, I’d have thought you were kidding.

But in that first year, after Savannah and I got married, it was all I could do to relieve my tension, my stress.

Sex never worked, no matter how bad I wanted it to. And I wanted it to. I tried. I tried to seduce my wife, to be romantic. Somehow, Savannah took this as an insult, and as such we agreed it was probably best to just… not. Now we only have sex on our anniversary. Once a year. Well, it was once a year.

It’s been me and my hand for the last two years now, which apparently is just par for the course for a married guy in this town, I guess. At least that’s what the men in this town seem to think when they get wasted at the country club every weekend after their golf outings.Drawing makes me feel like there is something I can control, and maybe stupidly, it makes me feel like I still have a part of him here, even if he isn’t.

I sketch out the lines of a face, a neck, some broad shoulders. My watch glints in the low light as I lick my lips, trying to fill in all the details.

The shoulders turn broader, the hair darker, and before I know it, I’m staring at a sketched out image of Cameron and his bitter scowl, with a wine glass in his hand.

It’s been years since I’ve seen him. Seven to be exact.

There were so many times I wanted to call him. To tell him about a dumb work story, or to vent about a fight Savannah and I had—because we always fight—to tell him about the fantastic recipe I learned that I know he’d love.

But mostly, I just want to tell him how fucking sorry I am that I hurt him.

I shade in some shadows around him, my hands needing something to do to keep from spiraling.

His words echo in my brain. I’m not some convenience you can pick up when you’re bored.

Is that what he thinks of me?

I suppose I can see why he would think that, given our history. But I never thought of him as some convenience or something so easily discarded.

I did what I did to protect him, too. At least, I thought that I was protecting him, but I guess I was protecting myself.

Because I was scared. I was young. Stupid. And my stupidity cost me the one thing in my life I loved and needed the most.

Cameron. My best friend.

I glance up at the frame on my wall, the photo of us in front of the Vegas sign. It’s the last photo I have of us because he never stayed around long enough to be photographed with the wedding party.

Maybe I should call him?

Maybe not. He seemed pretty pissed.

I slide my phone out from my pocket as I set down my sketchpad and pencil, hovering over his number.

Does he even have the same number? I wonder. People do change their numbers, and he could’ve done as much if he really was that pissed at me. Even if it is still the same number, he might recognize it and not answer. Or he might not recognize it, if he deleted it, and think I’m a damn spammer or something.

I could call the hotel, maybe. See if they can connect me to his room…

Then I remember his irritated tone on the phone. He’d yelled at them about some sort of inconvenience, about not having a room, which means he might have had to find other lodging options.

There aren’t that many hotels in Ashbourne, so I’m sure it wouldn’t take long to figure out where he’s staying.

I twist my lips as I realize I sound like a fucking stalker. Groaning, I set the phone down, shaking my head.

I’m not a fucking stalker, I just—

I just want us to be like we used to be.

I want my best friend back.

The phone lights up with notifications. I grab the phone, relenting if only to quiet my brain from over-analyzing possibilities. I call every hotel within reach, and none of them have a Cameron Scott to connect me to. Which means he’s not staying in a hotel, most likely.

He’s staying with his mom, which means he’s desperate.

Why didn’t he just say something? I wonder. I would’ve gladly thrown his ass in my Escalade and set him up with everything he needs. Not because I feel bad, but because it’s Cam.

I would give him my left nut if he needed it, even if he fucking hates me now.

I stare at that photo, of his bright smile, his pristine grey eyes gazing at me from behind framed glass.

It’s my favorite photo because I’m not looking at the camera. I’m staring at him, on the end, with the biggest, cheesiest grin because at that moment I was so thrilled he was there. With me.

I can still remember walking into our hotel room and finding his things gone. The way everything around me shattered because I knew he left—because of me.

I had the option to chase him then, but I didn’t. Because I was scared of wanting to chase him, of wanting to catch him.

But I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.

I’m not going to let Cameron slip through my fingers, and I’m not going to let him hate me forever.

So I make a vow to earn his forgiveness and to repair what I’ve broken.

I’ll swing by his mom’s in the morning and try to catch him. I’ll ask him to dinner—what man can refuse a steak dinner, anyway— and we’ll talk, and I’ll tell him I’m sorry.

I’ll tell him that I want to fix this. That I miss him. I miss him so fucking much.

I get up from my desk, assuring myself it’s a solid plan.

I walk past Savannah’s room just as she shuts the light off.

“Good night,” I tell her, but she doesn’t answer. She never does.

When I get into my bedroom—the primary bedroom, which I’d kept when Savannah decided she couldn’t sleep with me anymore on the account she said I ‘move around too much’ —I take my time undressing. With each layer, the assurance and confidence in my decision grows.

When I take off my watch—the one I wear everyday— I look at the glittering face and find the courage I need.

When I wake up, I feel better than I have in years. I slept like the dead, but I rise every morning at the same time, no alarm needed. Six a.m., rain or shine.

I head for the shower, taking my time as I let the water heat up. My cock twitches, knowing this is the best part of the day, because usually I don’t have time otherwise.

I slide my hand over my cock, relishing in the feel of my touch.

It doesn’t take long, and I barely have to think anymore. I try to keep a clear head when I’m masturbating, because if I don’t, my mind wanders to places I don’t want it to go.

Like Vegas.

So instead of focusing on the thoughts, I focus on my breath, on my strokes, on the relief that is waiting for me.

“So fucking close,” I hiss as I snap my hips forward, fucking my fist with a steady rhythm.

Two pumps and I’m there, groaning out my release and nearly collapsing against the black marble wall. My cum streaks along the marble veins, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I finish up with my shower, dress myself, and head out into the kitchen to ready myself a cup of coffee.

I go about my routine, setting the coffee pot and grabbing myself some eggs and vegetables to make an omelet. Moving about with precision, I get lost in my task. It’s the same every morning.

When I have flipped my omelet onto my plate and the coffee pot goes off, Savannah’s voice breaks my motion.

“Hey,” she says apathetically.

Not good morning or anything remotely welcoming. Just hey. Like she’s talking to an employee and not her husband.

“Good morning,” I say, trying not to let her sour my mood. If I did, I’d be mad all the time.

She leans her long arms across the counter. Her makeup is perfect, hair pulled back in a loose golden ponytail.

“You’re getting those packages, right? At the post office? You said you’d pick them up yesterday, and—”

I sigh. Of course she needs something. My brother and Mack have often said I should just say no, that I shouldn’t give into her like I do. But a part of me, a small part, still wants to do what she asks because I’m not an asshole, and she’s my wife. Even if she doesn’t treat me like her husband.

“Yeah, of course,” I say with a smile, though it’s not genuine. “I have some errands to do before I clock in today, so I’ll swing by.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Okay, thanks.”

“You’ll let me know when you land, right?” I ask.

She looks at me in question. “It’ll be like three a.m. our time. You’ll be asleep.”

I sigh. “Still. You’re flying to another country. It would be nice to know you’re okay.”

She rolls her eyes. “Ugh. Fine. I’ll text you.”

I nod as she grabs her suitcases, rolling them out the door to go catch her ride, since she refuses to let me drop her off at the airport.

I grab my travel mug and head for the door, taking a deep breath as the sun peeks out from the clouds, knowing what I’m about to do.

Here goes nothing.