Weeks later, I’m practicing Jiu-Jitsu with Jimmy when I notice Enya hovering over us. I flip the kid over and clamber off him. Jiu-Jitsu is skill-based, and being bigger doesn’t necessarily mean being better, but with the level of body mass difference between Jimmy and me, he doesn’t stand much chance of coming out on top. He’s not scrawny, but he’s all lean muscle while I’ve got brawn.
“What’s going on?” I ask Enya as I roll onto my butt and look up at her.
She dithers for a moment, which is unlike her. She may not always be as aggressive as Seth’s sister, Harley, but she’s direct. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what’s happening with Cami’s show. I wasn’t sure whether to mention it or not, since it might be a sore point. Is she doing okay?”
Lead sinks to the bottom of my stomach. “What do you mean?”
Her eyebrows knit together. “The influencer. You don’t know?”
I scramble to my feet and put my hands on my hips. “Know what?”
She pulls a face. “Some asshole on social media is calling for people to boycott the show because Cami is the sister of a drug cheat.” She hesitates, then adds, “And he insinuates she’s probably dating another one. He’s calling her designs ‘junkie chic.’”
I try to swallow but my throat feels thick. Shame bubbles in my gut. I’d worried people might view my connection with Camile as another reason to doubt my innocence in the City Fight Center drug scandal, but it never occurred to me I could taint her in the same way. Fuck, I’m self-centered. I encouraged her to reach for her dreams, and now I might be the reason they’re snatched away. I only hope nobody approaches Karson for a comment because after how I told him to fuck off when he confronted me about dating his sister, he might say something spiteful just to mess with us. He’s vindictive like that.
“Does this influencer guy have many followers?”
“I wish I could say not, but he does. He’s a bit of an extremist, and you know how those types are. Their fans are die-hard loyalists.”
“That’s messed up,” Jimmy grouses. “People shouldn’t talk shit when they don’t know anything about it.”
“I have to go.”
I hurry to the locker where I keep my phone during training and grab it. A quick Google search leads me to several hits. I click the top one and scan the text. My stomach rolls uncomfortably. Has Camile seen this? It will devastate her. I pocket the phone and snatch the rest of my belongings, then knock on Seth’s office door. I wait for him to respond. I learned the hard way not to barge in, in case he’s with Ashlin.
“Come in.”
I stick my head around the door. “I need to leave. Something has come up.”
He nods. “You done everything you have to?”
“Not weights yet, but I’ll use my own at home.”
“You’d better. I’ve nearly got this fight with Ricky locked in.”
“Great.” I should be more enthusiastic, considering how badly I’ve wanted that fight, but I’m too preoccupied by thoughts of Camile. “Keep me updated.”
“Will do.”
“See you.” I nod in parting and dodge out the side exit. My mind races as I make my way to my car. The drive to Camile’s apartment—where she’s been working during the day since she finished with her previous job—seems to take forever. Finally, I park in the underground lot, get one of the neighbors to buzz me in, and take the stairs to her level. I pause in the corridor outside, wondering how I want to play this. If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll put some distance between us in the lead-up to the show, and the thought of that makes me want to scream. It’s so fucking unfair. Neither of us had anything to do with her brother’s mess and yet, we’re both paying the price.
“Leo?” I turn and find her standing behind me, the key to the apartment clutched in her hand. “Shouldn’t you still be at the gym?”
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Oh.” She stiffens. “What?”
I gesture toward the door. “Maybe you should go in and sit down.”
Her mouth tightens. “You’re freaking me out. What is it?”
Reaching over, I take the key from her and slot it into the lock, then I place my palm on her lower back and guide her in. We sit side by side on the sofa, and I clasp her hand in mine. God, I wish I didn’t have to be the one to break the news.
“Some asshole online is calling your designs junkie chic and asking people to boycott your show because of me and Karson.”
Her expression doesn’t change, and that’s when I realize: she already knows. What the hell?
“He’s a sports guy,” she says. “His following doesn’t overlap much with my target audience.”
