Page 10 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Brent

Two days. That’s how long it’s been since I kissed Camden Crawford against a brick wall like I had a goddamn death wish.

Two days since he kissed me back like he wanted to taste what made me tick.

Two days since we sat in the shop afterwards, pretending we weren’t both completely wrecked—me sketching like I hadn’t just kissed a man who could knock me flat with a single shoulder feint, and him watching me like I hadn’t just blown through half his boundaries without a second thought.

And also—minor detail—two days since I accidentally sent him a voice message of me jacking off to the memory of said kiss.

Yeah. Fucking stellar move.

Here’s how that went, in case you’re imagining something sexy and cinematic: I got home, still buzzing.

Should’ve had a cold shower. Should’ve done anything else.

Instead, I got hard the second I walked through my flat door.

All it took was remembering the sound he made when I pressed him to the wall.

That soft, surprised inhale. That little grunt when I tugged his bottom lip.

So, naturally, I dropped onto my bed and reached for my phone. Innocent enough, right? Scroll through our message thread, get my rocks off like a normal, desperate idiot. What I didn’t account for: I cannot, under any circumstance, multitask.

At some point during the proceedings—probably when I muttered his name like a depraved voicemail from hell—I must’ve hit Record.

Did I notice?

No. Because I was two seconds from coming and thought the slight vibration from my phone was some phantom pleasure wave from the gods.

It was not.

It was Messenger asking if I’d like to send my two-minute-and-twelve-second sexcapade to Camden Crawford. And with my fingers slicked in lube and my brain short-circuited, I didn’t hit Delete. I hit Send.

Because clearly, I should never be allowed near technology during orgasm.

I think I made a choked, panicked dolphin noise. Then I fumbled to Unsend it like the coward I am, only to realise he’d already opened it.

What followed were a series of world-class humiliations:

Me: Please delete that.

Me: I meant to send it to… the void. Not you.

Me: Oh God. Camden. I’m so sorry.

Me: That wasn’t for you. Obviously.

Me: Can we pretend I’ve never touched my dick?

Okay, those may not be the exact things I texted, but I can’t look at them to remind myself. The whole thing is just too humiliating.

Needless to say, he did not respond.

For two full days, I sent a few more half-hearted apologies, even considered mailing him a bouquet of “I have no impulse control” flowers. Eventually, I stopped texting entirely. I’m now operating under the “ignore it until death claims you” school of coping.

Which brings me to now—sitting in the studio, two days deep into mortification, sketchpad in front of me, phone on silent like it might explode if I so much as breathe near it.

I’m not proud. I’ve handled humiliation better than I’ve handled this. But to be fair… humiliation never involved me moaning a man’s name into a voice memo by accident.

I drag a hand down my face. Maybe he’s forgotten. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s moved to Antarctica. Whatever the reason, Camden’s been radio silent since that night—and somehow, that’s worse than any punch to the face I ever took wrangling with my brothers.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the sketch of his tattoo-in-progress. And yeah… I miss him. Even if he probably thinks I’m a walking cautionary tale about mixing lube and mobile devices. Even if I deserve it.

Still.

Goddamn.

I hope he texts back.

Camden Crawford, local rugby god, guardian of his inner sanctum, has ghosted me so hard I feel like I’ve been benched from his entire emotional league.

Sure, I’ve been ghosted before. It comes with the territory of adulthood.

Sometimes after a first date, sometimes after a night of sweaty limbs and bad decisions.

I don’t usually get sucker-punched by it.

And now, apparently, I’m the proud owner of a growing collection of unanswered messages, a dangerously overworked design sketch, and a complex emotional attachment to a man I’ve kissed once.

Awesome.

To top it off, Tank’s last day was yesterday. He hugged me, said something vague and encouraging about “owning the space,” and then buggered off to Canada like this place isn’t held together with duct tape and good intentions.

So it’s real now. It’s mine.

Black Salt Ink is mine.

And while that’s what I wanted—hell, what I worked for—it’s also suddenly a lot.

Bookings to manage. Equipment to maintain.

A damn thermostat that seems to have two settings: surface of the sun or Arctic Circle.

And apparently, I’ve already managed to screw it all up by running off one of the few high-profile clients we’ve got.

I moved here thinking this would be it. The place I put down roots. The life I build for myself instead of waiting for something back in the States to call me home. I miss my family—some days more than others—but this? This was supposed to be my next chapter.

Right now, though, it’s hard not to wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

Still, I’ve never been a quitter. Not when I left home at eighteen, not when I apprenticed for a man who didn’t believe in second chances, and not now. Especially not now.

So I suck in a breath, push my hair out of my face, and get back to it. If Camden’s ghosting me, then fine. I’ll wait him out. Let him come to me.

Or at least… try. But still, Camden isn’t just hot. He’s a great canvas. The kind of guy who knows what he wants, respects the art, and isn’t full of crap. I was genuinely excited to work with him. Still am.

But instead, I’ve been obsessively tweaking the sketch for his sleeve design like it’s going to sprout legs and walk out the door without me. I’ve reworked the shading, cleaned up the linework, and adjusted the elbow flow three times, even though I know the first version was fine.

Carrie keeps throwing looks at me like I’m leaking emotional damage all over the front counter. And Flick? He’s trying to bribe me into beer o’clock every twenty minutes. I don’t have the heart to tell either of them I’m just… waiting.

Waiting for my phone to buzz.

Waiting for a grumpy message.

Waiting for someone who kissed me like he meant it, then walked away like it was a mistake.

And I hate that it stings. Because it wasn’t even a real thing.

Right?

Right.

The day crawls. There’s no client in the chair and no distraction in sight.

It’s just me, a lukewarm coffee, and a mountain of intake files that somehow never shrinks no matter how many I go through.

The shop is quiet, with Carrie humming at the front while Flick taps his foot to whatever’s coming through his headphones.

It’s the slow kind of day that drags every loose thought up to the surface. Which, of course, means I’ve spent far too long wondering if Camden’s going to text back. Still nothing.

I’m flipping through appointment notes from two months ago, trying not to obsess over the sketch I’ve already reworked to death, when my phone rings.

I lunge for it like it’s a lifeline—too quick, too hopeful—and end up juggling the thing as it nearly flies from my hand.

Flick snorts from his station, not even bothering to hide his laughter. “Smooth.”

I shoot him a withering look, even as I answer the call and check the screen.

Cosmo.

I sigh. “Of course.”

Cosmo is my youngest brother. The surprise child. The chaos child. My parents had four of us already—three boys and a girl— and then boom, surprise baby number five rolls in like a nuclear glitter bomb.

And they called him Cosmo.

They thought it was hilarious. He still thinks it is.

“Hey, little man,” I say as I press the phone to my ear and drop back into the office chair.

“Yo,” he says, voice too loud and full of unearned energy. “What’s up, ink god?”

“I will hang up.”

“You won’t. I’m the only one keeping you from dying alone in your shop surrounded by empty Red Bull cans and crushed dreams.”

I rub a hand over my face. “What do you want?”

“I’m just finishing exams. Thought I’d call my favourite brother.”

“I’m the only brother who answers your calls.”

“And yet… still the favourite.”

I smile despite myself. And truthfully, I miss the shit out of him and the rest of my family.

We talk for a bit—him rambling about a paper he bullshitted his way through, an ice hockey team drama I only half understand, a guy he maybe kissed or maybe dreamt about, unclear—but eventually he pauses.

“You sound weird.”

“Thanks?”

“No, like… not bad. Just off. You okay?”

I pause. And then—because apparently my mouth is running emotional updates without consulting me—I say, “I kissed someone.”

Cosmo makes a long ooooooohhh sound, like I’ve just admitted to robbing a bank with a supermodel.

“I didn’t mean to,” I add.

“Wait, what? Was it, like, an accidental kiss? Did you trip and fall on their face?”

“No,” I groan. “I mean I didn’t plan it. It just happened. Heat of the moment. And now… I think I got ghosted.”

He’s quiet for a second, which for Cosmo is suspicious. “Damn,” he says at last. “Was it, like, good?”

I close my eyes and lean my head back. “It was… a lot.”

There’s a beat of silence before he drops his wisdom, delivered with all the grace of someone who gets most of his life advice from memes and YouTube shorts.

“Life is too short, man. Like, you remember that gorilla? The one in captivity for, like, twenty years? They released him back to the wild and he died in a day.”

I frown. “What the hell?—”

“Don’t be the gorilla, Brent.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You stay locked up in a zoo of your own overthinking, you’re gonna miss the jungle. Or die in it. I dunno. Metaphors aren’t my strength.”

I’m laughing before I can stop myself, the sound catching in my chest. It’s ridiculous. It’s so Cosmo, and somehow it helps, even as a pang of homesickness squeezes inside my chest. “Thanks, philosopher child.”

“Anytime. Just don’t die in the wild, man.”

“I’ll try not to.”

He hangs up with a cheery “Go make out with someone!” and leaves me sitting here, smiling at my phone like a fool.

Don’t be the gorilla.

Fuck.

Easier said than done.

After Cosmo’s gone, I stare at the phone in my hand, thumb hovering over the thread of messages I have with Camden. The last one I sent was twelve hours ago. Maybe more. I scroll up, reread the one with the dumb flirty feather joke, and wince.

God, Brent, really?

Still… there’s nothing aggressive. Nothing pushy. Just a guy trying to hold a thread between him and someone he maybe shouldn’t have kissed. But definitely wanted to.

I tap out a new message. Professional. Neat.

Me: Hey—no pressure, but wanted to check in. Design’s looking strong, and I’m happy to go over it whenever you’re ready. Studio’s quiet tonight if you want to pop by. If not, no worries. Just let me know what works.

I hesitate for a beat, then hit Send. The second I do, the bell over the door chimes. I glance up, already halfway to rolling my eyes because, of course, someone walks in with sixty seconds to spare before we lock the place?—

Then I almost swallow my goddamn tongue.

Camden.

Big, broad-shouldered, and looking like someone just dared him to walk into traffic.

His brows are drawn, his mouth in that tight line I now know means he’s two seconds away from bolting.

His hands are shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, his thick brown hair covered by a beanie, and he looks about as comfortable as a man wading through a minefield barefoot.

Flick glances over from his station, one brow already on the rise. Carrie pauses behind the desk, eyes flicking between us.

Camden’s standing just inside the doorway, as if he’d been there— waiting —when the message came through. His hood’s still up, shadowing his face, but I don’t miss the tightness in his posture. Like he’s still not sure if he should be here. Like he’s halfway out the door even as he stands in it.

I clear my throat and force my voice to stay even despite my heart burning at inferno levels. “Hey. You, uh… you came.”

He nods once. Short. Sharp. “You said it was quiet.”

I blink. “I only just sent that,” I say carefully.

He shrugs, eyes flicking around the shop but never quite meeting mine. “Figured you’d be here.”

“I am.”

Then I turn to Flick. “You and Carrie can head out. I’ve got it.” Christy is already long gone—only working part-time at reception. The rest of the time we fend for ourselves.

Flick raises both eyebrows now, but he doesn’t say anything. Just flicks his gaze between the two of us, grabs his bag, and offers me a low, amused “Night, boss.”

“See ya,” I mumble.

Carrie mouths, “Good luck,” as she passes me and makes a clean exit.

The moment the door closes and the latch clicks, the silence drops like a curtain. It’s thick and tense. I’d like to say it’s thick with chemistry, but that’s probably wishful thinking.

We stand here, awkwardly facing each other with all the grace of two teenagers at their first school dance. We both open our mouths at the same time.

“I—”

“You—”

I smile, trying to cut the tension. “You go.”

Camden hesitates. His eyes flick towards the floor, then back up to me. His mouth twitches—not a smile, not quite. And then he says, “I’m sorry.”

I blink.

“About the other night,” he adds quickly. “I shouldn’t have left like that. I… I handled it badly.”

My stomach sinks a little, just enough to feel it. I manage a quiet laugh. “You know I kissed you , right?”

He looks at me—really looks this time—but doesn’t answer. He just shrugs one shoulder, almost helplessly.

I nod, trying to make this easy for him. Trying not to let my own disappointment show. “It’s fine. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I didn’t mean to disappear on you,” he says, and it sounds like he’s forcing the words through gravel.

“But you did.”

“I know.”

We stand here in this moment, too many things unsaid and one too many already out in the open. Then he clears his throat and shifts his weight. “I’d like to move forward with the sleeve.”

Ah. Right. Of course.

My chest squeezes tight, but I give him the easiest smile I can muster. “Sure. I’ve actually been tweaking the designs. Want to take a look?”

He nods, stepping further into the studio, eyes flicking to the station we sat at last time. He heads that way without being told. Professional. Straight to business. I follow, pulling the sketchbook from the desk.

And that’s it, then. The kiss is a memory. The gorilla’s back in the cage. But if this is what he wants—distance, control, clean lines between what happened and what will—then I’ll give it to him.

Even if I kind of hate it.