“Then you shouldn’t go home,” Cameron says.
“Cool idea, but I’m not really into sleeping on park benches.”
Reggie arrives at our table with a silver tray stacked high with wings. He sets it down, a few wings falling off the pile and onto the checkered plastic tablecloth. The hot sauce burns the inside of my nose in the best way and I can’t stop smiling as he gives us napkins and tells us to enjoy. I can’t remember the last time I had chicken wings.
Cameron’s the first to grab a wing, and just as he bites down, I notice the door of the restaurant open. My smile falters and I gasp in a breath. Cameron lowers his food.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, wiping his mouth.
I don’t answer at first. Because Patrick is in the doorway with three of his blockhead friends, joking with the hostess. The bruises on my face begin to ache, and fear ices my skin. I saw the hatred in his eyes earlier. I can’t let him hurt me again.
“We have to go,” I whisper to Cameron.
“What? But the food just—”
“Please,” I say, ducking down. I hate how scared I am. And I hate that Cameron will want to know why.
He stares me down, but then he nods. “Yeah, all right,” he says, taking out his wallet and tossing down some cash. “But we’re stopping for ice cream.”
I force a smile, hoping we’ll make it out before Patrick notices me. Cameron looks longingly at the wings, and then pushes back in his chair. But before he can stand, Patrick looks around from the front of the room, possibly searching for someone he knows, and his eyes come to pause on me.
The air in the room is sucked out, and I quickly lower my head.
“Is that . . . ?” I hear Patrick call loudly. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know he’s talking about me. I harden myself against him, tightening my jaw and clenching my fists below the table.
Cameron stands, but I don’t move, scared to draw any more attention. I wouldn’t have gotten past him anyway. Patrick walks down the aisle, glaring at me.
“Look what we’ve got here,” he says, sounding amused. “Slutton’s on a date.”
Cameron spins quickly to look at him, and then turns back to me, a question on his face. I want to apologize, even though I know it’s not my fault. But first we have to get out of here. I start to get up, but suddenly Patrick’s at the end of the table, blocking my escape.
His expression darkens. “I told you we weren’t done.”
“You definitely are,” Cameron says, pushing past him to take my hand, pulling me out of my seat. Although Patrick is taller, Cameron’s build is enough to at least give him pause. But then Patrick laughs.
“Good luck with that,” Patrick says to him. “Slutton—”
But he doesn’t get to finish his insult because Cameron pushes him hard enough to knock him back into the table. The edge tilts, sending chicken wings and sodas to the floor. There’s a smash as the cups hit, silverware clinking.
Cameron reaches down to grab Patrick up off the floor, but Reggie comes running over and takes Cameron by the shirt.
“Ease up, man,” Reggie says, holding him back. He locks his arms across Cameron’s chest from behind. Another worker comes over and helps Patrick up on the other side of the table. Reggie leans in near Cameron’s ear.
“Better get out of here before one of these assholes calls the police. You know how they are.”
Cameron’s eyes are wild, like he’s ready to fight anyway, but Reggie whispers something about parole. Cameron curses, and then as if he just remembered I’m here, he glances over. He doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed that he was about to fight. Instead he laughs and holds out his hand to me.
Reggie lets him go. I take Cameron’s hand and quickly lead us toward the door before Patrick and his friends regroup. I don’t want to get jumped, and I certainly don’t want Cameron to.
We get outside into the cold night and head toward his car. I check back to make sure no one is following us. Adrenaline races through my veins.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say to Cameron when we get to the car. “We could have just left.”
“That’s the asshole from the truck, right?” Cameron asks. “Seems walking away wasn’t enough to deter him then.” He stops, and I realize that he’s been holding back the true depth of his anger. “He did that to your face, didn’t he?” he asks.
Shame, bright and painful, blooms across my chest. “Doesn’t matter,” I say, pulling up the handle of the passenger door to get in. It’s locked.
“Was it him?” Cameron asks.
