I nod in understanding, hating that I hurt Camden when I didn’t even know I was.
“I can’t take back what I’ve done, but I can tell you, none of the women I was with compare to being with you.”
I roll my eyes playfully and he palms the side of my face. “I’m serious, Shutterbug. Being with you… it’s incomparable. I told you before, for a guy, sex is usually just sex, but with you, it’s so much more. I always knew it would be like this, but I never imagined it would actually happen.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, and he pulls me on top of him so he’s leaning against the headboard, and I’m straddling his waist. “I get it. I appreciate you explaining it to me, and I won’t ask how many or anything like that. Am I a bit self-conscious after seeing those women? Yeah.” I shrug. “Those women from earlier were nothing like me. They were dressed in tight, sexy dresses, faces full of makeup, fake breasts, and based on how tiny they were, I doubt they’ve had any kids.”
“They’re fake. Fake hair, fake makeup, fake tits. Fake tan. All fake.” He squeezes my hips. “You’re all real, and no man wants fake over real.”
“You said you did. And Brax and Gage obviously do.”
“I didn’t want fake. I went for fake because it was easy. Brax’s heart is fucked, and Gage…” He shakes his head. “In their own time, they’ll come around. They’ll find someone real, like you, and it will be a game changer, just like you are for me, but right now, the fake is what’s getting them through each day. Not having to think too hard, not having to feel. The fake is how those who can’t have the real survive.”
His words burrow into my chest and squeeze my heart. I never thought of it like that, but he’s right because looking back, what I had with David wasn’t real—it was fake. It was how I got by. Only I didn’t know it until Camden came back into my life and showed me the real.
I edge down and lay my head on his chest, wrapping my arms around him. “I hope one day Brax and Gage find the real because the fake really sucks.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
LAYLA
“What’s up, LA?” Camden yells out to the crowd of thousands of people. Of course, they all scream back like he’s a damn god. “Hell yeah! We just got done with a hundred and fifty–show tour, but I have to tell you, there’s nothing like being home.”
The crowd erupts in even louder cheers—if that’s even possible—and I make sure to record their reaction. The festival has been going on all day, but not a single band has had the same response as Raging Chaos.
Gage starts drumming the beginning instrumentals to their first song, then Braxton and Declan join in. A few seconds later, Camden starts singing, and the crowd goes crazy.
I move my camera from the guys over to the crowd, zooming in on various fans. One woman is holding up a sign that reads: I <3 you Brax. MARRY ME! Several women are flashing the guys their breasts, and a few are even crying. It’s insane. The charity concert I attended was tame because it was for a charity. But out here, anything goes. The smell of weed permeates the air, smoke creating a hazy fog across the area.
I shift my focus back to the guys as they get lost in song after song. Knowing how Camden has felt for me all these years gives every song, every lyric, new meaning. I can tell which songs Braxton and Gage wrote because they’re all bitter and angry and filled with rage. But Camden’s… they’re filled with heart and love mixed with evident sadness.
At some point, Declan’s hair falls out of its knot and his long hair curtains his face. Gage’s shirt has come off, exposing his tattoos and six-pack abs. Braxton’s eye-fucking several of the women in the front row, and Camden’s hoodie is coated in sweat, sticking to his muscular torso and showing off the outlines of his shoulders and back.
The fans eat up every minute they’re on stage, and I don’t blame them because I can’t take my eyes off them. This is nothing like watching it on the internet. The electricity, the spark. They’re a force to be reckoned with when they’re on stage like this and in their element. My gaze goes back to Camden, who’s now singing about wanting what he can’t have.
It should be me, kissing you, touching you, inside you
But instead, it’s him, getting you, every fuckin’ piece of you
Those pieces should be mine
My heart swells at the words, at the implication behind them. I wonder if he’ll write songs about us now that we’re together.