Slashed (Extreme Risk 3)

But Cam’s not done, not by a long shot. “Of course you did. That’s probably all you’ve been thinking about, isn’t it? Wondering whose baby it was. Wondering if I’m going to try to pawn somebody else’s kid off on you—”

“I never once thought you were carrying anybody else’s baby but mine.”

“Bullshit. You don’t trust me. You’ve never trusted me. You’re so worried about me being like everyone else, me thinking you’re not good enough. But ask yourself, if that’s the case, why would I want to have your baby anyway? Why would I—”

“That’s enough, Cam.” The words are low and harsh and though they’re exactly what I’m thinking—what I’ve been thinking ever since Cam started her quest to eviscerate me—they don’t come from me. Instead, they come from Z, who has somehow inserted himself between us. “You’re acting like a real bitch.”

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what’s enough? Who the fuck are you to tell me I’m being a bitch?” She lashes out at him then, planting her hands in the middle of his chest and shoving hard. “You’re the one who went and tattled to Luc like a little bitch. You’re the one who caused this whole scene.”

I’m not sure who’s more shocked by her diatribe—Z or me. She never talks to him like that, never lays into him when she can make an excuse for him instead. Except on closer examination, he doesn’t look shocked at all. He looks annoyed and maybe even a little abashed, but not shocked. A quick glance tells me neither Tansy nor Ophelia are shocked either. So maybe she has, and I’ve just never seen it.

I’m not sure what that means, and now isn’t the time to figure it out, either. Because Cam isn’t done.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I needed a day or two to get my head together before having to deal with Luc, too? That maybe I wanted to think about things and figure out what I want before I try to figure out what he wants. And if I even care?”

She turns to me then, and she’s still pissed, still not pulling any punches.

“And could you just give me some fucking room, please? The last thing I need right now is you breathing down my neck.”

“I’ve given you nothing but room since you walked out of my apartment three months ago, and look where it’s gott

en us. I just want you to know—”

“Where it’s gotten us?” she asks with a disbelieving laugh. “Even if we’d been fucking like bunnies for the last three months, I’d still be pregnant.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. We haven’t been the same since you left—”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one who didn’t trust me. You’re the one who was convinced I would dump you the second I got my hooks into a guy who could barge a 1440 without breaking a sweat. And now you want me to care what you think? About anything? It doesn’t work like that, Luc.”

Her words hurt, just like she intends them to. Partly because she’s right—I don’t expect her to stay with me when she can have any number of guys who are better boarders and better people than I am.

But I resigned myself to that a long time ago, so what really hurts—what really cuts deep—is that she doesn’t care what I think about this pregnancy. Just the idea that she might not take into consideration how I feel about the baby we made definitely makes me feel like shit. I’m the father. Shouldn’t I get a vote?

But at the same time, she has a very real point. Z did go behind her back to tell me. And instead of being civilized about it, I totally ambushed her. Totally hit her when she wasn’t expecting it—and worse, when she was feeling really vulnerable. That’s not cool. Not cool at all.

So for the first time since she got out of Ophelia’s car, I look behind the hectic color in her cheeks to the strain underneath. Sure, she’s in fight mode right now, but beneath the defensiveness, she’s scared and she’s exhausted. Now that I’m looking for it, I can see it right away.

The knowledge that she’s scared, that she’s suffering, hits me harder than any of the rest has—even the news that I’m going to be a father. Because before anything, before I fell in love with her, before I made love to her, she was Cam. Just Cam.

The girl who shared her Skittles with me on the playground in second grade.

The girl who let me kiss her in sixth grade so that I could practice for what I thought was my first “real kiss” with Addison Leigh.

The girl who froze her ass off in the half-pipe for hours as she helped me learn how to do a 1080 after Z and Ash had barged it like it was nothing.

This is Cam. My best friend. And she’s hurting.

I reach for her then, pull her into a hug. She rests against my body for long seconds, and I’m astonished at how cold she is. Colder than the air around us. Colder, even, then the snow beneath our feet.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, the words tripping on and over each other as they tumble out of my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

She nods against me, and I expect her to pull away—Cam really isn’t really the type to cry on someone else’s shoulder, and she’s already let me hold her longer than I ever expected her to. But she doesn’t move away, doesn’t shove me back. Instead she stands there, face buried in my neck, body burrowed up against mine and lets me hold her.

So I do. I pull her closer, curving my shoulders in so that I can shelter her from the wind whipping against us. From the cold that’s coming at her from without and within. The fact that she lets me tells me everything I need to know about her emotional state. Well, that and the slick, warm tears I can feel rolling down my neck.

Cam doesn’t cry. Cam never cries. So the fact that she’s messed up this badly—that I’ve messed her up this badly—wounds me more deeply than anything she might possibly say to me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, stroking her back as tenderly as she’ll let me. “I’m so sorry. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen. I swear.”