There aren’tthatmany hotels in Ashbourne, so I’m sure it wouldn’t take long to figure out where he’s staying.
I twist my lips as I realize I sound like a fucking stalker. Groaning, I set the phone down, shaking my head.
I’m not a fucking stalker, I just—
I just want us to be like we used to be.
I want my best friend back.
The phone lights up with notifications. I grab the phone, relenting if only to quiet my brain from over-analyzingpossibilities. I call every hotel within reach, and none of them have a Cameron Scott to connect me to. Which means he’s not staying in a hotel, most likely.
He’s staying with his mom, which means he’s desperate.
Why didn’t he just say something? I wonder. I would’ve gladly thrown his ass in my Escalade and set him up with everything he needs. Not because I feel bad, but because it’sCam.
I would give him my left nut if he needed it, even if he fucking hates me now.
I stare at that photo, of his bright smile, his pristine grey eyes gazing at me from behind framed glass.
It’s my favorite photo because I’m not looking at the camera. I’m staring at him, on the end, with the biggest, cheesiest grin because at that moment I was so thrilled he was there. With me.
I can still remember walking into our hotel room and finding his things gone. The way everything around me shattered because I knew he left—because of me.
I had the option to chase him then, but I didn’t. Because I was scared of wanting to chase him, of wanting to catch him.
But I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.
I’m not going to let Cameron slip through my fingers, and I’m not going to let him hate me forever.
So I make a vow to earn his forgiveness and to repair what I’ve broken.
I’ll swing by his mom’s in the morning and try to catch him. I’ll ask him to dinner—what man can refuse a steak dinner, anyway— and we’ll talk, and I’ll tell him I’m sorry.
I’ll tell him that I want to fix this. That I miss him. I miss him so fucking much.
I get up from my desk, assuring myself it’s a solid plan.
I walk past Savannah’s room just as she shuts the light off.
“Good night,” I tell her, but she doesn’t answer. She never does.
When I get into my bedroom—the primary bedroom, which I’d kept when Savannah decided she couldn’t sleep with me anymore on the account she said I ‘move around too much’ —I take my time undressing. With each layer, the assurance and confidence in my decision grows.
When I take off my watch—the one I wear everyday— I look at the glittering face and find the courage I need.
When I wake up, I feel better than I have in years. I slept like the dead, but I rise every morning at the same time, no alarm needed. Six a.m., rain or shine.
I head for the shower, taking my time as I let the water heat up. My cock twitches, knowing this is the best part of the day, because usually I don’t have time otherwise.
I slide my hand over my cock, relishing in the feel of my touch.
It doesn’t take long, and I barely have to think anymore. I try to keep a clear head when I’m masturbating, because if I don’t, my mind wanders to places I don’t want it to go.
Like Vegas.
So instead of focusing on the thoughts, I focus on my breath, on my strokes, on the relief that is waiting for me.
“So fucking close,” I hiss as I snap my hips forward, fucking my fist with a steady rhythm.
