Sobering talk for a group of excited freshmen, but it stuck with me. And as much as I don’t want to think The Most Obnoxious Man on the Planet could really try to slip something into my drink in front of all these people, I can’t ignore the possibility.
His hand is less than a finger’s length away from my glass now.
I hold my breath.
Will he? Or am I making more of this than it is? Maybe he thinks it’s his glass. Or?—
Wait.
If it turns out he’s worse than obnoxious, that he’s actually a predator, I damn well want to make sure he’s punished.
Time seems to slow as options spin through my mind.
If he drops something into my glass, I could call him out right away. But he could easily knock over the glass, effectively hiding the evidence.
If he tries to drug me, I could take the wine glass outside. Ask Ace about having the wine tested. But if it comes back positive for GHB or some drug like that, how do I have the proof that Camden did it? It’ll be my word against his.
Or.
I could play along.
I could pretend to be drunk, see if he offers to take me someplace more private, and catch him red-handed.
I could be the badass Yara I used to be in the Army. The one who never shied away from a challenge, who never let anyone intimidate me, who proved she was just as strong and capable as the men, regardless of what critics thought of me.
I could be the Yara who dedicated her life to protecting people.
And maybe, for the first time in three years, I wouldn’t feel as much like a failure.
That decides it.
If this jerk does what my gut is telling me he’s about to, I’m taking him down.
So I watch through the fringe of my eyelashes as his fingers catch the base of my glass. Everything else fades into the background—the buzz of voices in the room, the chime of anincoming text, the beating of my heart—while I watch him drag the wine glass back towards him.
There’s still a chance it’s nothing. I know that. But there’s also a chance it’ssomething.
He has the glass halfway back to him when another idea strikes me.
The camera.
I can record him. Get inarguable proof.
A few months ago, when I was home sick with a sinus infection, I got the idea of installing tiny surveillance cameras on all my bags. It stemmed from hearing about Eden and how her stalker stuck a tracker on her purse without her knowing.“It could have happened anywhere,”Rafe told me.“Hanging on the back of her chair at a restaurant. In the locker at the gym. She couldn’t have eyes on it all the time.”
But if there were a tiny camera on her purse, she could have.
So I set to installing cameras designed to look like decorative accents on all my purses and bags. Not because I thought anyone would stick a tracker on one of them, but just because I wanted to try it.
And my clutch, which is sitting right on the table in front of me, just happens to be one of the bags I modified. Which means…
Heart racing with excitement, I carefully reach for the flap of my clutch. The little camera is right there, nestled inside a cluster of beads. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never know. I put it there, andIeven have a hard time noticing.
With my attention half on my wine glass and half on the clutch, I press the camera to turn it on. Then I shift the clutch so the camera is facing Camden, hold my breath, and wait.
Another text comes in on my phone, but I can’t afford to look.
For the first time since I told my commander I was separating from the Army, I feel that familiar rush of adrenalineagain. No, this isn’t nearly as dangerous as what I used to do as a Green Beret, but it’s enough to get my heart pumping.
