How to Misbehave (Camelot 1)

But what was Patrick supposed to do, stop thinking about it? Stop caring? Stop remembering? It was pointless even to try. It didn’t go away. You just had to live with it.

They both had to live with it.

How long before you’re done?

The memory of Amber’s quiet question hit him behind the knees, and he folded in half, bracing his hands on his thighs.

This wasn’t about Patrick. Just like his asshole brother had said, this was about him.

How long before you’re done with your penance?

He could never be done. He and Patrick—they didn’t know how to be done. But Christ, if Patrick needed to figure it out, so did he. If Patrick deserved forgiveness, surely Tony did, too.

A couple of days ago, he’d told Amber that Patrick ran over his daughter in the driveway. This morning, she gave him half her sandwich.

She’d given Tony a lot more than that. Trust and understanding. Her arms wrapped around him, her body wrapped around him, even after he’d told her the worst of it.

She didn’t care what he’d done wrong in the past. She wasn’t worried about what he might fuck up in the future. She’d opened up her door, let him in her bed even though she was nervous as hell and had plenty of reasons not to trust that he could make it good for her.

She thought he was strong. She believed in him, and he was throwing that away.

He was being a fucking moron. Just like his brother.

Tony took a deep breath and lifted his head, looking out over the expanse of the soccer field toward the front of the building, where they were hooking Amber’s car up to a tow truck.

He didn’t want to lose her down the road by screwing up what they had. But he didn’t want to lose her over nothing, either, just because he was too scared to try to figure out his shit and reach for her.

If she wanted him, he had to try to be the man she saw when she looked at him. He had to try, because God knew he wanted her.

She could be his future.

For the first time in as long as Tony could remember, he wanted to have one.

Chapter Fourteen

Amber said goodbye to Rosalie at five and took her place by the phone, waiting for the building to clear out.

The younger construction worker had taken off around four thirty, leaving just Tony and his brother.

Patrick came out first. He stopped in front of the counter. “Wait for him,” he said.

She didn’t know how to reply to that. Did he mean she was supposed to hang out a few more minutes while Tony finished putting away tools, or that she was supposed to hang out for a lifetime, waiting for him to repair his damage and claim her?

After the way he’d looked at her earlier—a Neanderthal who couldn’t so much as grunt a greeting, much less operate a phone—Amber wasn’t inclined to do either.

Except for the part of her that was.

Thankfully, Patrick didn’t seem to expect an answer. He let himself out the front, and she shut down the computer and listened to the sounds of the community center going still.

At five after five, the radio in the director’s office flipped off, and her boss said his goodbyes.

At ten after, the sneakers quit squeaking in the gym. A basketball bounced and then rolled across the floor to hit the wall. Two boys emerged, talking animatedly as they crossed the entryway and pushed out the front door.

The seconds ticked past.

At five twenty, the building had emptied, and he finally came out.

Afraid to look directly at his face, she looked at his fingers on the counter instead. Short, blunt nails. Plaster dust on his knuckles, caught in the dark hair on his forearms. The crease at his elbows.