“This is Joey,” she says. “Cam’s…” She trails off, looking from her son to me with a hint of an uncertain frown.
“Girlfriend,” Cam replies with a giant grin, pulling me into his hip.
My heart skips a beat at the word. We haven’t had that conversation yet, though I suppose fucking a person’s ass with a dildo should warrant “the talk.”
Thankfully, the Drapers are promptly whisked away by other attendees, and Cliff and Stephanie politely excuse themselves, promising to meet up with us on the dance floor later.
“Your parents seem nice,” I say, brushing a piece of Cam’s hair off his forehead.
Beads of sweat have collected at his temple. The sight alone leaves me wanting to drag him into the bathroom so I can lick them away before dropping to my knees the way he did in the closet before we left.
“I’m sorry this is how you’re meeting them for the first time, but I?—”
“You called me your girlfriend.” The words tumble out of my mouth before I have a chance to rein them in.
Cam, a man who stands tall with confidence no matter what the situation, ducks his head and rubs at the back of his neck. And if I’m not mistaken, his cheeks have gone pink. “About that…” His lips tip up in a smile.
I step closer and put a hand to his chest. Beneath my palm, his heart pounds a furious beat. I want to tell him I liked it. I can taste the words on my tongue, and the desperate look in his eye silently urges me to go for it, but before I can, I’m gently tackled from behind.
“Joey!”
I spin and come face to face with Claire. She’s almost unrecognizable without a nest of hair on the top of her head and her glasses. She’s stunning, dressed in a strapless, floor-length gown. The maroon bodice is fitted, and the fabric flares at the hips. Her simple black choker matches her black heels. Her dark hair falls a couple of inches below her shoulders and is set in loose curls. She looks phenomenal.
“Claire!” I gasp. I’m thrilled to have an ally here, but conflicted, because I’d finally found the courage to tell Cam that I liked being called hisgirlfriend. Though now that I’ve had a moment, his ex-girlfriend’s dad’s uppity fundraiser is probably not the right place to confess.
After hugging me, she embraces her brother, then throws her clutch on the table next to mine. The band plays the first notes of Diana Ross’s “I’m Coming Out,” and she yanks me by the wrist.
“Let’s dance!” she crows over the trumpets.
Before I know it, I’m on the dance floor with mymaybe boyfriend’ssister.
Cam is leaning against the table, one foot crossed in front of the other, the glass of whiskey in his hand resting at his belt. His face is painted with an irresistibly devastating grin, his eyesturned up at the sides as he watches me. I pull my attention back to Claire, who’s motioning for me to twirl in her arms. God, we must look ridiculous, but we’re having a blast all the same.
The band goes into a Michael Bublé song next—the one about being terrified to love again and promising to never run. Before I can exit the dance floor, warm breath hits the back of my neck. “My turn.” Cam’s voice, deep and sensual, sends a ripple of lust through me.
Claire bows out, but Mr. and Mrs. Connelly appear nearby. Stephanie’s eyes sparkle as she spies us over her husband’s shoulder. I smile at her but am quickly lost in the man holding me. We don’t speak, but our bodies converse, nonetheless. In my stilettos, I’m at the perfect height to burrow into his neck and inhale his cologne.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket, but I ignore it. I needed this moment. Cam slides his hand a little lower, and I glance up at him. When he kisses me on the forehead, I swear he transfers images to my mind. Visions of what a life with him could be like flash by cinematically: more sleepovers, more movies in the park, more working side by side on hotel balconies, more food-induced gastric moans, more moans in general, more reading each other’s favorite books and talking endlessly about them.
But I’m interrupted yet again by the buzzing in my pocket. The incessant vibrations have finally piqued my curiosity, so I fish it from my dress.
“Hold on, I’m so sorry.”
An unknown California number flashes on the screen, but just as I slide my finger over the screen, the call ends. A series of missed calls and voicemail notifications pop up immediately after.
“What’s going on?” he asks, his voice urgent.
“I’m not sure, actually,” I admit, unlocking my phone. “Canyou give me a minute?” Without waiting for a response, I stride off the dance floor.
I scroll through my missed calls as I rush to the restroom, and once I’m locked in a stall, I tap on the most recent voicemail.
“This is Santa Monica Medical Center. We’re calling again regarding Elin Beckham. Please call us back at?—”
My stomach drops to the floor. Worst-case scenarios flood my brain. Is she injured? Or worse?
With shaky hands, I tap the number in my list of recent calls and hold the phone to my ear. I’m transferred twice before I’m connected with a nurse who can answer my questions. He informs me that my mom fell and hit her head at a bar and assures me that her CT came back normal. She did, however, need stitches and is in no condition to return home on her own.
I can’t believe this is fucking happening right now.
