Cam is the type to put off his work until the last minute, too, which is probably why he’s working late. I should let him do his thing. But as I move to keep walking, I notice another body passes the window—he’s not alone.
I change my direction, heading for the studio. I knock on the door, calling out his name.
I hear voices, but I can’t make out what they are saying, but they sound angry.
Like an argument.
Two more knocks, and this time I speak louder. More direct.
“Hey, Cam? It’s Austen,” I say.
The hurried voices are loud as the door opens without warning, nearly knocking me over in the process. The man leaves, huffing angrily, hoisting his large portfolio over his shoulder.
I look inside, noting Cam’s back is turned to me, bare-assed.
My stomach twists into knots as I look between Cam and the man running off into the dark, worried I’d interrupted something serious.
Well, not that serious, if this guy is anything like the others.
A strange sort of pride swells within me.Good riddance. He doesn’t deserve him, anyway.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Cam asks, his voice apathetic. I slip through the door, and it shuts behind me with a loud thud.
I survey the room, noting all the easels and drawing pads set up. Most of them have figures in various states of sketch, someshowing body parts or partial forms, but there is one that hangs off to the side, completely empty.
I’ve been in the studio before, enough times to know the spot is Cam’s.
But why is his pad empty? Artist block, maybe?
“I was working late at the lab,” I say as I saunter around and take in the artwork displayed. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cam slipping his boxer briefs up his ass, the motion making his cheeks jiggle the slightest.
Oddly enough, it reminds me of the porn I watched earlier in the week after I came home from the strip club.
My cock twitches at the thought of such things. That was a night. I woke up the next day feeling like a million bucks, despite being nearly stuck to a crusty puddle of my own making.
I nonchalantly adjust myself, pushing thoughts of porn out of my mind as Cam continues to dress himself.
His demeanor is all off. His shoulders are tense, his jaw set.
“You okay? Was that guy—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he bites, letting out a sigh. I drop my bookbag, my instincts kicking in.
I’ve seen this a hundred times with Cam. He likes to put on a good front, make everyonethinkhe doesn’t give a shit. But he does.
He always gives a shit, he just never wants anyone to know. God forbid someone get the wrong idea and discover he hasfeelings.
“Of course it matters,” I say as I approach him. He’s standing in the center of the room, and I can see the whole set up. The Victorian couch with all the tattered drapes and the varied props spread out among the stage. A vase of fake flowers, some wax fruit that’s seen better days, judging by how the paint is chipped on half of them.
Cam stands there, his back to me, hands on his hips, letting out a heavy breath. The light shines down on his skin, casting an incandescent tan on him. His shoulders knit together, his neck stretched as he rubs it the way he always does when he’s anxious.
Whoever that guy was, he was an asshole.
Anyone that hurts my boy is a fucking asshole.
“Do you want me to beat him up?” I ask seriously. I know Cam can take care of himself if he needed to, because he was always getting into fights when we were younger, but there’s still a part of me that feels protective of him, nonetheless.
I don’t care if he’s a man, he’s my best friend. I’d fight the devil for him if he asked—and even if he didn’t.
