But Cameron wasn’t having it. He stood and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jane.” Then he walked away, leaving everyone else staring at the spot where he used to be.
Elise sat back down with Jane and the other girls and stage-whispered, “See? He is that bad.”
* * *
“What the hell is your problem?” Jay asked as he returned to the condo a couple hours later.
Cam was watching TV. Well, okay, he was half-watching TV while reading reviews on Amazon of Jane’s Cloudless Cave books, but whatever. “I might ask the same of you, dear brother.”
“When did you dump Christie?”
It never occurred to his brother that perhaps Cam was the dumpee. But Cam wasn’t about to correct him. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.” Because it really wasn’t.
“You stay with her while you’re overseas and then dump her the minute you’re back?”
Yeah, that was about enough of this conversation. If Jay hadn’t gotten that message when Cam left the bar earlier, he would just have to keep delivering it. He stood, mock-saluted his brother, and headed for the hallway.
“Have you called Mom yet?” Jay called after him.
Cam sighed and turned around. “Mom doesn’t want to hear from me. I’ll see her soon enough.”
“Are you kidding me? She’s been texting me incessantly, asking about you.”
That gave Cameron pause. When he was deployed, his mother had sent him cards on Christmas and his birthday, but that was the extent of it. Not that he blamed her. His fuck-ups had caused her disappointment after disappointment. He had caused her disappointment after disappointment. Because he was pretty much indistinguishable from his fuck-ups at this point.
He started to turn back toward the hallway when Jay said, “You forgot your phone.” He strode over to where Cam had been sitting and picked up the phone—and of course saw the pile of papers underneath it that Cam had been perusing earlier. Aww, shit. He tilted his head to the ceiling. He so didn’t want to have this conversation right now.
“Are these…financial aid forms?” Jay started pawing through the pile of what was indeed info on financial aid at a couple local universities. Cam had been looking into attending Lakehead University in Thunder Bay after his last deployment—which of course hadn’t been scheduled to end as early as it had. You couldn’t become an officer in the Canadian Forces without a university degree. He hadn’t told anyone about his plan.
When his military career came crashing to a premature halt, he’d assumed that was the end of that. But today, after hanging off the CN Tower with Jane, and hearing her echo back his “Sometimes you have to open your eyes and jump” advice, he’d had a moment of bravado and thought, what the hell? Why not do it anyway? Since Thunder Bay was no longer home, he had gathered info from the three universities in Toronto. Just to look. Just out of curiosity.
Of course, he had been deluded. Besides the tuition problem—yes, he had money saved, but the cost of living in Toronto was astronomical compared to what it would have been sharing an apartment in Thunder Bay. Anyway, what had he thought? That he could show up on a regular campus, a big twenty-seven-year-old punk with a GED, and fit in with the freshman class who all had dreams and aspirations bigger than his? He’d been thinking he’d study history, but he already knew the most important lesson, didn’t he?
History always repeats itself.
Jay finished ruffling through the papers and lifted a surprised gaze to Cam. “Are you thinking of…going to university?” The incredulity in his tone told Cam everything he needed to know.
“No,” he said. “No, I am not.” He turned and headed for the guest room. Time for bed. Alone. Thanks to Jane. He stripped and climbed in, catching a whiff of her lingering scent as he pulled the covers over himself. He hadn’t noticed her wearing any overt scent before. In fact, hadn’t he been thinking that first day at the bar that she smelled like Ivory soap? But somehow, now there was this other smell, and he recognized it as hers. It was…bubble gum? No. He turned his face to the pillow she’d slept on and inhaled deeply. Watermelon?
Whatever the fuck it was, it tented his boxers. Which wasn’t saying much because pretty much everything tented his boxers these days. That was what five months of celibacy followed by sudden immersion in civilian life did. In the field, he tamped that shit down. Of course, there were women around. His best buddy over the past two deployments had been a woman. And Rebecca Mannerly had been, objectively, an attractive woman. But those types of feelings and the brotherhood—for lack of a better word—didn’t mix. For him anyway.
He’d known that Becky took a lot of shit from a lot of guys, including their commanding officer. Captain Biggs had been on her for months before that night. Nothing you could ever really put your finger on, but he’d needle her in ways he wouldn’t any of the guys. Which wasn’t a surprise, really, because Biggs was a grade-A dick. Cam’s CO on his first tour had been a stand-up, honorable guy. He’d been the reason Cam started entertaining the idea of university as a path to becoming an officer. But Biggs? He fulfilled every stereotype of the hyper-masculine soldier who picked on those he perceived as weaker and got off on the power he held. Cam and Becky were part of a group of reservists who’d been called up to fill some gaps in Biggs’s reg force team, and as such they were used to being ribbed about their second-class status. But Biggs’s behavior went way beyond that.
He could still feel his fist connecting with that asshole’s jaw. He wanted to regret his actions that day. He did regret them, in the sense that they’d destroyed his career. He definitely regretted that after he’d landed the punch that had dislodged Biggs and summoned the others, he didn’t stop.
Cam followed his own code of honor. One that dictated that you put your dick on ice when actively deployed. One that dictated that you protect someone—man or woman—when they’re being hurt. Ironic that it had turned out to be his downfall.
The flip side of that code of honor, of that long period of celibacy combined with stress, meant that when he came back, he was ready to go. It was like someone turned on the TV with the volume at full blast in what had been an utterly silent house. And, after his first deployment, Christie had been happy to see him. Or so he’d thought. She’d been happy to fall into bed with him anyway.
He wasn’t sure what the hell had happened to him this time. He should have been able to get laid ten times over by now. The tiny waitress. Sherry of the too much perfume. That Gia girl in the bar earlier. And those were without him even trying.
But no. Instead of ticking that item—the most important one—off his return-to-civilian-life list, he was in bed alone with his hand in his pants and a head full of watermelon.
Chapter Seven
FRIDAY—EIGHT DAYS BEFORE THE WEDDING
When Jane got into Cameron’s car, it took her all of five minutes to ask, “So what did you do last night after you left the bar?”
I stuck my nose in your pillow and jerked off to this weird watermelon smell that reminded me of you.
But of course he couldn’t say that. So he settled for, “I presume that what you’re actually asking me is, ‘Did you sleep with any randoms last night?’” The way she called potential hookups “randoms” was pretty funny.
“I am not!” she protested. She shifted her gaze out the window. “I probably shouldn’t be so hard on you. I didn’t know you’d just gotten out of a long-term relationship. I think sleeping with randoms is probably pretty normal when you’re on the rebound?”
The way she’d phrased it as a question suggested she didn’t have firsthand knowledge of post-relationship slutty phases. Damn if he wasn’t happy about that. He didn’t like the idea of Jane sleeping around. It took a while to get to know Jane. To appreciate her. He didn’t trust “randoms,” to use her term, to do a decent job of it. He didn’t mean it in a sexist, double-standard sort of way—it wasn’t like he thought Jane needed to remain “pure” or anything. But she deserved someone better tha
n your average bar-trolling, right-swiping Neanderthal. Someone with his shit together who could be all in.
She still wasn’t looking at him, but there was alertness about her that suggested she was waiting for him to speak.
“Well, I have no idea about ‘normal,’ but my ex and I had been together for three years. I’m not really looking for anything serious right now.” Or ever again. “So I admit I was kind of looking forward to a little wild oat sowing once I got to town. But,” he added before she could say anything, “I also enjoy betting—even though you kicked my ass with that CN Tower one.”
“Damn right I did.”
He grinned, checking over his shoulder before merging onto the highway that would take them to Niagara Falls. “So all that’s to say, Ms. Denning, that thanks to you, my virtue remains intact.”
She finally looked at him, laughter in her eyes.
“I’m a man of my word,” he added, though he wasn’t sure why. It just seemed important, at that moment, that she know that.
“I know,” she said quietly.
He sighed, a big, content exhale that took with it some of the tension of the past few days—hell, of the past few years. It was another gorgeous day. Sure, he wasn’t doing very well with his return-to-civilian-life list—hell, steak, beer, and TV were pretty much the only items he’d managed to tick off. He pissed off his brother just by being alive. And he had no fucking clue what he was going to do with the rest of his life. But for one minute, none of it mattered. He was in a sweet car with a pretty amazing girl, and there was nothing but blue skies ahead of them.
“Okay, I did some research,” Jane said, dumping a stack of paper out of her purse.
He chuckled. “Of course you did.”
Ignoring him, she said, “There’s a lot to do in Niagara Falls, so I figured we’d want to maximize our time there. So I printed out some stuff to help us decide.”
“We could grab a hotel room if we feel like we’ve not done all we want to do by the end of today.”
The withering glance she shot him followed by the raising of one eyebrow told him what she thought of that idea. And, uncharacteristically, he hadn’t even meant it like that.
“How do you do that?” he asked, reminding himself that “I was watching my passenger raise one eyebrow” wasn’t going to get him out of a ticket when he got pulled over for erratic driving.
The eyebrow plummeted, joining its twin in a furrow. “Do what?”
“Raise only one eyebrow at a time.”
The eyebrow shot back up, and he laughed. “And it’s always the left one.”
And there came the furrow. It was like watching her eyebrow bungee jump.
“It is?”
Eyes on the road. “Yes, so what do you do when you’re not writing portal fiction or babysitting me?” he asked.
“Not much, actually,” she said. “I’m kind of boring.”
He noticed she hadn’t fallen back on her usual protest that she wasn’t babysitting him. “What about this costume ball thing?”
“Not a ball! Comicon.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a convention for people who like comics and sci-fi and stuff. And people dress up like their favorite characters.” She laughed. “It’s a nerd convention, basically.”
“And who do you dress up as?”
“Do you remember the show Xena: Warrior Princess? Probably not—you’re probably too young. And/or too cool.”
“Hell, yes, I know that show. I used to watch it in syndication.” He’d loved the mixture of goofiness with, as dumb as it sounded, Xena’s quest to atone for her past sins. There was something about the noble warrior that had always appealed to him. Of course, there was also the part where his thirteen-year-old self had sexually imprinted on Xena. Not really, but he did appreciate how well Lucy Lawless could rock a leather corset.
Jane’s jaw fell open. She was surprised he knew the show.
“Hey,” he protested. “Xena and Gabrielle run around scantily clad and kick ass. What’s not to like?”
She laughed. “Yeah, well, Comicon is this weekend. I’m going Sunday, which totally conflicts with the wedding, but Elise knows I’ve been planning this since last year. I went as Gabrielle last year, which is the obvious move for me because my hair has a red tinge, but Xena is my brass ring, and I’ve been working on the costume for months, so Elise doesn’t dare say anything.” She grinned like she was particularly pleased with herself. “So barring total wedding apocalypse, I will be transforming into Xena this coming weekend. I’m all ready to go except for the chakram.” She eyed him. “You know what a chakram is?”
It felt like some sort of test. “It’s that circular weapon thingy, right?” She beamed. Hell, that might have been the only test he’d ever passed on his first go. “This all sounds great.” It really did. Goofy, and definitely nerdy, but great. “But I don’t see what the scheduling problem is. The wedding isn’t until the weekend after this coming one, so it doesn’t conflict, does it?”
“For mere mortals? No. But a bridesmaid is not a mere mortal. Alas. A bridesmaid must bend space and time so as to make herself continuously available at the whim of her friend the bride. I have duties this coming weekend.”
Right. Because why else was she here if not because she was doing her bridesmaid duty, looking after the wild-card brother who couldn’t be trusted?
“Well,” he said, glancing at the pile of papers in her lap, “I’m up for something totally low-brow first.” He’d had enough of playing tourist in his brother’s refined life. Swanky condos and interior designer fiancées and ten-dollar pints of beer were wearing on him. Apparently you could take Jay out of the trailer park, but not so much Cam.
“Oh, that should be easy,” she said, reading from one of her printouts. “Dinosaur mini-golf, wax museum, or, oh! If you’re not into dinosaurs, there’s wizard mini-golf! Also, Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, Nightmares Fear Factory, some kind of indoor roller—”
“Nightmares Fear Factory.”
She whipped her head around to look at him. “I’m not going into a haunted house, particularly not one named Nightmares Fear Factory.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have an overactive imagination. Haunted houses scare the crap out of me. Horror movies, too—all that stuff.”
Wow. He had expected her to give a speech about how stupid and juvenile haunted houses were, not to admit that she was just plain afraid. “Even though you know it’s all fake?”
“Does that really make a difference in the moment?” she asked.
“Well, I worked on a haunted hayride when I was in high school. So I think the illusion is ruined for me.”
“Really?” She seemed out-of-proportion delighted by his seasonal teenage job. “What did you do?”
“Well, I started in the support crew—mixing up vats of cooked spaghetti and red food coloring for example.”
“What?”
“Yeah, you have no idea what goes on behind the scenes to make the experience seem authentic.”
“Kind of like being a bridesmaid.”
He barked a laugh. “Yeah, well, I worked my way up over the years. My last year there I was Freddy Krueger, complete with the long fingernail-knives.”
“Oooh! I’m impressed. And then what? You graduated high school and that was the end of your haunted hayride career?”
“Nope,” Cam said. “Never graduated. Just moved on.” He had to force himself to let up on the gas pedal. They were going too fast, even for him. “Got my high school equivalency later, though,” he added, seized with the desire that she not think him any dumber than necessary. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I can’t believe you’d do EdgeWalk one day and then let a dinky little tourist trap haunted house get the best of you. Come on. I have a professional interest.”
“No way. No. Way.”
“I dare you. Let’s make another bet.”
“Hmm.” He glanced over. She had her head tilted and one fi
nger pressed against a cheek in an exaggerated “I’m thinking” posture. “What do I get if I do it?”
“I’ll buy you dinner.”
She pretended to think about it for a few more seconds. “No. Well, yes, you can buy me dinner, but you know what I really want.”
“What are you? A professional cock-blocker?” he said, laughing, knowing he was going to agree.
“Not usually!” she said. “But I’m deriving a strange sort of enjoyment from it in your particular case.”
The fucked-up thing was that he sort of was, too. He glanced at her again, then forced his eyes back to the road. But the image of her stayed with him, burned into his retinas. She’d worn her hair down today. She looked different without the ponytail. Softer. And her eyes had been twinkling. He liked that he could make her eyes do that.
So he stuck his hand over the center console for her to shake and said, “You got yourself a deal. You do the haunted house, and I stay pure another twenty-four hours.”
* * *
An hour later, they were lined up outside Nightmares Fear Factory, which Jane, who had studied the attraction’s Wikipedia page while he found parking, informed Cameron was the oldest continuously operating haunted house in North America.
“This is a former coffin factory, too,” she said, reading on her phone as they approached the entrance. “Its owner was supposedly killed when a stack of coffins fell on him. Now that is a nice touch.” It appealed to the storyteller in her.
A sullen teenage employee explained the rules to them. You could shout “nightmares” if you were panicking and needed out, and “something” would come get you. But from then on, your name would be forever entered on the house’s “chicken list,” which he reported was one hundred and thirty thousand names long and counting.
“I want you to know that I have absolutely no problem with my name going on that list,” she told Cameron. “They need a better deterrent than that.” She was joking to cover her fear. But actually the chicken list was kind of a deterrent. Normally, she wouldn’t care about appearing on it, but for some reason she wanted to show Cameron that she wasn’t afraid of silly things. For heaven’s sake, the man had been a soldier in a combat zone, and she couldn’t face a little fake gore?
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