My Sweetest Agony, page 21
But he must be feeling something, too.
About me.
About what happened.
About the future that seems so uncertain and complicated.
But he said he wanted to show me something about him.
This is it.
Cam gives me a sad smile and returns his attention to the painting. “I guess I feel like I understand him, his pain, how he suffers. Even more so now than I did when I first fell in love with it.”
His enigmatic words move through me like a tsunami rolling across my heart. I can feel the agony in them, but I don’t understand it. Can’t understand the enigmatic man standing beside me. Because he won’t let me in, not really.
He keeps so many things locked away, so many secrets that I know he hasn’t told me. Things that go far beyond what he revealed about that night four years ago, and I want to know them.
I want to know him.
I want to understand what makes him tick.
What made him so different from his brother.
Why he turned in on himself when their father died, while Drew sought out others for comfort and became that comfort for other people—including me.
I want to know why Cam always looks so haunted.
But I’m afraid to ask, afraid I’ll send him running if I probe too hard.
Deep down, I’m afraid of him and what his answers might hold.
I ask anyway. “Why?”
He stares at the painting for a while, long enough that I don’t think he’s going to answer, but he finally does, never tearing his eyes from the gruesome display. “He thought he was doing the right thing…”
“Who did?”
“Prometheus.” He tilts his head slightly, taking it in at a different angle, even though I have no doubt he has every single brushstroke memorized. “A lot of people consider him kind of a god of unforeseen consequences. It’s something that, the older I get, the easier it becomes to recognize in my own life.”
Unforeseen consequences…
“Like what happened with us.”
It isn’t a question.
He slowly turns to face me, his eyes hooded, that darkness overtaking them as he examines me. “One example in a long line and many years of them, Ivy. It isn’t just about you and how badly I fucked things up.”
I open my mouth to ask him what else it’s about then, but the clicking of heels and a gasp cut through the noise around us.
“Camden?”
The woman’s voice floats over us, and my back stiffens as we both turn toward her.
Cam’s eyes widen slightly at the stunning woman standing to our left, red hair floating down over her shoulders, tight black dress hugging every curve of her body, and bright-green eyes locked squarely on him.
“It is you!” She rushes forward and throws her arms around him, giving him a hug that says they are definitely well acquainted.
He returns the embrace, pulling away from her slightly to look her up and down. “What are you doing in Philly?”
She smiles brightly at him. “I work here now.”
His brows rise. “Seriously?”
Her head bobs enthusiastically. “I got the job almost four months ago. I’ve been meaning to call you this whole time since I knew you had moved back a while ago, but I got distracted. You know…” She waves a hand toward the gallery. “It’s a large collection to keep track of.”
She laughs lightly and places a hand on his shoulder, so casually and intimately that my stomach roils.
I retreat a step, and my movement shifts Camden’s gaze from her to me.
“Oh, umm…Ivy, this is Roxy.” He rubs at the back of his neck, a strange look on his face that I can’t quite place. “We went to art school together in London.”
Roxy smiles at me, her eyes sliding over me in assessment, and she holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I accept it and shake. “You too.”
She quickly turns to Camden. “But now that I’ve seen you and you know that I’m in town, we have to get together for dinner and catch up.”
He nods. “Absolutely.”
Her smile falters slightly, her brow furrowing as she looks him over. “I’ve been worried about you. I called the gallery a few times, and your cell, but never heard back.”
His gaze cuts to me quickly before it returns to her, and he forces a smile I can tell isn’t real. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Things have just been…difficult.”
She frowns. “I heard about your brother. I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do…”
“I appreciate it.” He reaches up and places his hands on her shoulders, then leans in and kisses her on the cheek. “I’ll call you. Same number?”
Roxy nods, then motions over her shoulder. “I need to get going, but I better hear from you.”
She darts away and disappears around the corner, leaving me awkwardly standing beside Cam with my heart in my throat and my stomach threatening to make the few bites of breakfast I managed to eat come back up.
Cam turns back to me—agonizingly slowly—running his hands through his hair as his uncertain gaze meets mine.
“Art school together, huh?”
I don’t mean it to come out so accusatory.
Or to sound so damn laced with jealousy.
But that’s exactly what happens.
I’ve suddenly become that person who turns green with it the moment another woman who clearly has a past with the man I’m—
I don’t even know what we are, but this heat spreading through my body isn’t a pleasant, warm glow. It’s the kind of uneasy feeling I only ever got before with Drew when I saw the way women flocked to him.
He clears his throat and approaches me, stopping within touching distance but not moving to do it—maybe because he senses my current mood. “We were friends.”
I raise a brow. “Friends?”
He nods.
“That looked like more than just friends.”
Cam releases a labored sigh, his shoulders slumping beneath his leather jacket. “I wasn’t very careful with my actions when I was using. Before I went to rehab. We were friends. Just friends,” he clarifies, “but things went further than they should have, even though I thought we were on the same page and knew what it was. I think she wanted more.” He shakes his head. “No, I knew she did. Crossing that line with her is something that wouldn’t have happened if I’d been thinking clearly. I’m not a thoughtless person, Ivy, despite what some of my recent actions might suggest, but…”—he sighs again and glances toward where she went around the corner—“I definitely fucked up where she was concerned, and I owe her an explanation. And an apology.”
His confession blasts away any green tinge of jealousy and replaces it with embarrassment for the way I acted.
My cheeks heat, and I dip my head, unable to look at him. “Part of the whole making amends thing?”
He lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze as he nods. “Something like that.”
“Is that…why you came to my house?”
His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“That night, when you came back to town. Is that why? Because you were making amends?”
Cam watches me for a second, as if he’s unsure how to answer or how I’ll respond to it, before he shakes his head. Those warring emotions that always seem to battle in his eyes continue their melee. “No. That wasn’t why I came.”
“Then why did you?”
He clenches his jaw, a muscle there ticcing as he considers me. “I had to make sure you were okay. To check up on you…”
“So, you came all the way from London to do that? You couldn’t have just asked your mother? You couldn’t have called?”
All those things would have been much easier, especially since he apparently has no intention of letting Nancy know he’s here anytime in the near future.
But Cam shakes his head, his hold on my chin tightening. “No. I had to see you myself. And warn you.”
“That you were back in town?”
He nods.
None of it makes any sense.
The way he looks at me…
These overwhelming feelings that seem to bubble up inside me with a simple touch from him…
All the secrets and lies that have been told to me by Drew and him have left me unable to grasp what’s real without questioning it.
And having to stare into Cam’s eyes doesn’t help matters.
I pull free from his hold, turn, and look at Prometheus again.
At the agony he’s suffering.
His clenched fists.
The eagle’s talon digging into his eye, tearing into his flesh.
This is how Camden sees himself—a victim of unintended consequences.
And my heart shatters for him because of that.
Because he’s proven to me time and time again since he’s been back how caring he is, how kind, always looking out for me, taking care of me even when I don’t want to let anyone.
Yet, it’s right there in the blood spilling from Prometheus—the unintended consequences.
Cam sitting down on that bench with me that night, not correcting me when I thought he was Drew, led to their relationship being destroyed, even as it helped build mine with his brother based on a lie.
A tear starts to blur my vision, and I quickly blink it away, refusing to cry again for a man who still holds so many secrets.
I can see them in his eyes, hiding in those shadows that always consumes them.
He may have come clean about a lot of things, but there are some he keeps locked down deep. Truths he refuses to tell because he’s terrified of the consequences.
Something tells me I’ll never know—not those hidden truths and not the man standing beside me.
Not truly.
He and Drew both had secrets, but Camden’s are undoubtedly far worse if this painting is any reflection of them.
27
IVY
The moment I open the front door, Marlo pushes through it, carrying a grocery bag in one hand and raising a bottle of wine in the other. “I brought wine, chocolate, and cheese. This sounded urgent.”
I roll my eyes as she moves straight toward the kitchen with her haul. My hand tightens on the knob, and though I have every intent to close the door, my eyes lock on the street—the empty street.
It’s only been a few hours since we parted ways so he could go to his meeting, and I came home alone, but I’m twitchy.
Restless.
Unable to stop waiting for the rumble of his motorcycle’s engine that will announce his presence.
Get your shit together…
I force myself to tear my eyes off the street, close the door, and follow Marlo into the kitchen, where she’s already pulled out a box of crackers, three different types of cheese, and a container of truffles.
Standing at the end of the counter, I drum my fingers on it, drawing Marlo’s sharp gaze.
She spreads her hands wide over what she brought. “All the essentials.”
Any night before Drew died, I would have been thrilled with her bringing our typical snacks and settling in for a night of crappy TV or a cheesy movie, but tonight, the tension I’ve been holding in my body, along with everything I have to tell her, makes the thought of eating anything twist my stomach.
Still, I force a smile.
She tugs open the drawer under her and pulls out the wine opener, twisting it into the pinot noir as she glances at me. “Now, spill. You were very mysterious on the phone.”
For a reason.
A very good one.
With thick, almost black hair…
Blue eyes the color of the Caribbean that darken to an almost navy…
Calloused hands that can create such beauty and pleasure…
A beautiful mind so tortured by his guilt…
And a heart strained under the weight of secrets…
I chew on my bottom lip as Marlo struggles with the cork. Her brow furrows in frustration, her teeth clenched as she tugs on it. Rolling my eyes, I snatch it from her, pop it off, and hand it back to her.
“Thanks”—she narrows her gaze on me—“but you still haven’t answered my question. All you said was, ‘We need to talk. Come after work.’ So here I am. After work.” She spreads her hands again. “Prepared to listen.”
“And not judge.”
Her brows fly up. “Okay…and not judge.”
She says it tentatively, like she isn’t sure she should be making that agreement, but even if she can’t commit to keeping her judgment out of this conversation, I can’t not tell her.
Not when she’s the only person I really trust to give it to me straight.
Yet, I already dread her possible response.
Because deep down, I know all of this is…
Really.
Really.
Fucked up.
Marlo pulls out two wineglasses, then snags the cutting board from beneath her and a knife and sets all the cheese and truffles on it before ushering me toward the living room and the couch.
“Take the wine and the glasses and go. I’ve got the snacks.”
I do what she asks, a strange icy tingle rippling across my skin and turning my stomach again as I set everything on the table and settle into the corner of the couch.
It’s just nerves.
And guilt.
And all the other things that have been filling my head all day.
But when Marlo settles next to me and watches me expectantly, I suddenly feel like I’m a criminal suspect in an interrogation room with a skilled detective who will stop at nothing to get to whatever I’m trying to hide.
I thought this would be easier.
That as soon as I saw her, everything that I’ve learned and that happened would come pouring out of me like a tidal wave.
Instead, my throat feels tight.
Like something is clamped around it, making it hard to breathe and impossible to speak.
Marlo sighs and leans forward, pours the wine into our glasses, and shoves one into my hand. “Drink. Then spill.”
Shit.
I take a sip of the sharp, tannin-heavy wine and clutch the glass in my hands so tightly I’m afraid I’ll snap the delicate stem. “So, you told me to go talk to Cam yesterday…”
She nods. “Yeah…” Her brows rise. “Did you find him?”
Normally, she would have been all over me last night, texting and calling for updates after she basically encouraged me to stalk the man again. Only sheer luck and her own romantic distraction prevented her from doing just that.
I bite my lip, glancing down at the red liquid I should be enjoying.
Kissing you tasted like red.
Cam’s words ring in my ears, igniting that scorching heat throughout my body that keeps coming every time I remember last night.
I clear my throat. “Yep. We…talked.”
Then fucked like wild animals and fell asleep with his cock still buried inside me…
“And?” She motions to me expectantly. “Don’t leave me hanging, girl.”
Cam would never do that—leave me hanging.
While he certainly seemed to enjoy dragging out my pleasure to torturous lengths, he was also crazed in his focus on ensuring I came hard—and often.
My pussy clenches, heat rushing between my legs at the memories, and I shift my position on the couch so I can try to alleviate the ache. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Marlo sips her wine and cuts off a piece of cheese to pop into her mouth. “At the beginning.”
“I followed him after his meeting—”
“Well, aren’t you becoming the perfect little stalker…”
I snort, burying my face in my free hand, cheeks heating with absolute mortification. “Please don’t say that. It’s embarrassing enough.” Releasing a sigh, I look back up at her. “I don’t need you making fun of me for it, especially when you are the one who encouraged me to do it.”
“Okay, okay.” She holds up a hand defensively, then snags a truffle and bites into it with a little groan, chewing slowly. “God, these are good.” She swallows. “So, you followed him and…?”
“And he went to his studio.”
Her eyes widen, and she grins. “Ohhh.”
Curiosity piqued, she leans closer, waiting for me to expand, but something stops me.
All those beautiful paintings flash through my head.
So filled with everything that Cam is—beauty, tension, darkness, light, life.
But he keeps his identity hidden for a reason.
He doesn’t want the fame. He doesn’t need accolades. He just wants to paint.
And revealing his secret feels like a betrayal of the trust he put in me by exposing everything he did last night.
I take another sip of wine, but it almost instantly sours in my stomach, so I set my glass on the coffee table and swipe my sweaty palms across my leggings.
Not only am I a shitty liar, I’m apparently also awful at keeping secrets—my own or other people’s—because I don’t know how I can explain everything without telling Marlo who he really is.
So much of Cam’s identity is wrapped up in his art.
To understand him you have to understand it.
“I need you to promise me you’re not going to tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”
Her blond brows draw low over her eyes. “Okay, now you’re freaking me out…”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing bad, just…something that has to stay private.”
Marlo scoffs. “Who do you think I talk to you besides you?”
“Trina? Everyone else who works at the shop.”
“Oh, pu-lease.” She rolls her eyes. “I keep the good stuff to myself, and you know it. I’m fucking Fort Knox.”
She’s far from that, but I do trust Marlo more than anyone else in my life, so if anyone can keep this secret, it’s her. Especially now that she knows how important it is for her to keep her lips sealed.
“You’re not going to believe this but”—I lock gazes with her so I can watch her reaction—“he’s Cush.”
Her eyes widen, brows rising comically high. “That street artist who does all the murals on buildings and has his paintings auctioned for millions of dollars?”
