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“Because I wanted to know.”
“Why?”
I drop onto my couch, paralyzed, captive to whatever he says next.
“Because you’re all I think about,” he continues, his voice low and husky. “Since Culloden. Since the first time I saw you. I can’t stop thinking about you, Cam. I can’t stop wanting you. And I know that doesn’t excuse what I did, but it’s the truth.”
Oh my God.
“What were you doing when you asked me to—” I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t say it out loud.
“Touch yourself?” Lucien finishes for me.
“Yeah.”
“What do you think, Cam?”
“Oh God,” I groan, pressing my free hand to my face.
The thought of Lucien sitting in his room, listening to my voice, touching himself is exciting, and I’m actually turned on by the image.
“Look, Cam,” Lucien’s voice cuts through my arousal. “I’m sorry. I wanted you so badly that this was the only way I could think of to get close to you. It was wrong. It was horrible, and I don’t think I can even forgive myself. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to process any of this.
“Okay,” I say finally.
It’s all I can manage.
“Okay?” Lucien repeats, like he’s not sure what I mean.
“I don’t—” I stop. I start again. “I don’t know what to do with this.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “I just wanted you to know the truth.”
The truth.
The truth is that Lucien Ashford is gay. The truth is that he’s been thinking about me. The truth is that he manipulated me and lied to me and violated my trust in the worst possible way. The truth is that I’m still attracted to him. The truth is that I’m gay too, and I don’t know what the fuck to do about any of it.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Cam—”
I hang up.
Outside, the wind howls. The precipice I’m standing on is about to crumble. A seismic shift is coming, and I know there’s no going back from this.
20
LUCIEN
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone for what feels like an eternity, giving Cameron time to process everything I’ve confessed before I call him back.
“Hello?” he says, but his voice sounds distant.
I can picture him sitting alone in his room, trying to make sense of what I’ve told him.
“I’m not a psycho,” I say carefully. “And if you want me to leave you alone, I will. Just tell me.”
