Page 22 of Full Out Fiend

So much for my indulgent, secret one-night stand.

I had no choice but to grab my clothes and hightail it out of Fielding’s house. I left without saying goodbye—I was crunched for time, and after what we had just shared, there was no way he’d let me take off so easily. A clean break was my only escape.

I hate that he’ll come out of the bathroom and think I ran off on him. But not as much as I hate the idea of Anthony tracking this location and sending someone to get me.

Because he would.

Alleged free pass or not, my ex-fiancé would take shit to the extreme. My parents and all our friends are already involved, and that’s embarrassing enough. I refuse to let him shame me or make me feel like I did something wrong.

I lift my fingertips to my lips, then brush them along the hollow of my throat, remembering. Squeezing my thighs together, I savor the ache that’s already blossomed there. I regret nothing. But I don’t want this experienced to be tainted in any way.

Anthony doesn’t get a say in what happened tonight—what I do is no longer his business. Now I just have to work up the courage to let him know that.

Approaching headlights bring me back to reality. Serena slows her car to a stop at the end of the driveway and rolls down the passenger side window, smirking with her tongue in her cheek as she assesses me.

“Was it worth it?” she asks as I slide into the car. She puts her SUV in drive before I even get the door closed.

“So damn worth it,” I admit, bewilderment and an emotion that feels a lot like joy washing over me as I sink into the leather seat and remember all the little things that made this night one of the best of my life.

Chapter 14

Fielding

“Okay,superKeegan.Whatchagot for me tonight?”

The eight-year-old grins—is it still a grin if half the teeth are missing from the smile?—before syncing the iPad to his continuous glucose monitor.

He scrunches up his nose as he stares at the device.

“One-twenty-one and steady,” he declares triumphantly, flipping the device around to show me the screen. I update his chart and high five him before he skips away.

“Next!” I holler, even though there’s only one other child hovering by the door of the first aid cabin.

She shuffles into the room, shoulders slumped, then plops onto the cot with an exasperated sigh.

Sophie Meadows. She’s been in here every day, sometimes more than once. I mindlessly grab for her chart, which I keep on my desk instead of refiling each night. I fight back a smile as she sighs again, louder this time.

“I have thirty-seven mosquito bites, and my whole body feels like it has a heartbeat!”

“Hold up. Did you say thirty-seven? Like three-seven?”

Her eyes go wide as she nods.

“Ohno. You’re just three bites shy of the legal limit, kid. The maximum number of mosquito bites a kid can have at any given time is—hold on, let me double-check my research”—I hold up a random pad of paper from my desk—“forty. Yep. I knew it. You’re practically an outlaw.”

“What do I do?” she whispers frantically.

“Our options are limited, I’m afraid.” I let out a long sigh as I scan her chart and shake my head. She’s a third-year camper—a frequent flyer in the first aid tent—with artificial red dye listed as her only allergy. I didn’t even know such an allergy existed until I started this job—but I’ve got three kids with dye allergies, one of which also has a diagnosis for ADHD and a strongly worded email from their mom about the grave consequences we face if her child eats anything containing Red 40.

“First things first. Let’s clean and treat the bug bites. Then tomorrow you have to promise me you’ll use the bug spray your”—another quick scan of her chart—“grandma packed for you.”

The number one rule at Camp New Hope has nothing to do with actual camping. It was drilled into our heads over and over again at volunteer training: never assume you know a child’s family situation, and double-check, then triple-check before you mention their parents.

Easy enough to remember, honestly. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old man-child with an emotionally absent father and a dead mom. I don’t want anyone asking about my parents, either.

When I turn my attention back to Sophie, she’s pouting and hasn’t actually responded.

“Can you promise me that, kiddo?” I prompt.