There was even that one time I snuck across the Mexican-American border, after Vic got pissed and left me in Mexico, without my passport, and I was pretty sure I was gonna get deported to god-only-knows where, before Vic--ass--showed up with my papers and I got out without having to blow a border patrol agent.
That I was considering it is still something I regret.
I even regret that threesome Vic and I had with Jace. Because that had just made things awkward and weird for the past few years.
But none of them compare to this. To the taste of Camden and beer in my mouth as I stare at my best friend and wonder how the hell I'm supposed to apologize for this.
“What are you apologizing for?” she asks, and I wince. She's gonna make me say it.
Dirty, but I guess that's fair.
“Kissing Cam.”
She stares at me for a long moment and then, “Don't you think if I wanted to prevent that, I'd have found something else for us to do this summer?”
I freeze and look at her, my eyes wide.
“Or, you know. Brought him home with me, when KP called about that interview?” She's got the tiniest of smiles on her lips, but it's slightly bitter. “Your underestimating me, Dimitri.”
“You knew,” I breathe.
“Of course I knew. You idiots aren’t exactly subtle,” she huffs and nods. “Eat a cookie. Take your Advil.”
Without really thinking about it, I reach for the pills and pop them into my mouth. Swallow dry and then take a bite of the cookie.
"What the actual fuck, Cari?" I snap.
She sighs. "I knew you wanted him. And I’ve known for a while that Cam isn't quite as straight as he'd like Hollywood and the world to think. And I love you both. You'd be happy together."
"You," I blink and shake my head. "You were trying to set us up? Are you for fucking real, Carissa?"
"You're welcome," she says, stiffly.
"I have a boyfriend. And you're trying to set me up with your boyfriend. Are you gonna start explaining this shit at some point because I'm fucking confused, sweetheart."
"Vic is your problem to sort out. But we both know you haven't been happy with him for a while. As for Camden and I…" she hesitates, and shifts. The first hint of nerves since she got here and it makes me nervous, for some reason.
"Cam and I are friends, Dimitri," she says, gently.
"I know that," I say, annoyed and she shakes her head.
"No. You don't get it. That's all we've ever been. He's my best friend. That's it."
And that.
No.
"You own a house with him. You've been dating for years. You guys have unbelievable chemistry. For fucks sake, you share a bed with him. That's not best friends, Cari. That's dating. Hell, that's a half-step away from marriage."
"And we've never slept together. We're not--we fulfill a purpose for each other."
I stare at her and she sighs.
"When I first started started dating, it was really hard. I dated a few guys. And it was...it was good at first. They cared about me, seemed to get my issues, and they were patient."
"What issues?" I shift forward, catching her hand and tugging her out of the chair and onto the couch.
"Um," She pauses and then shakes her head. "They weren't bad guys, Dimitri. Bruce was a friend from high school and he got where I came from. Jason was an actor who worked with my agent, and I just. I dunno, we clicked."
"What went wrong?"
"They cared about the fame more than they did me.” She shrugs. “There were too many nights, dating Kevin, that we'd get to a restaurant or a club, and the paparazzi would be there, and he'd be smiling and fucking preening for them. It made him look good to be seen with me. And they were paying him, for each tip about where I'd be." Her lips quirk up. "Bruce was more of the same, but then he started doing interviews. Talking about our sex life. It was...it was awful. And I just couldn't keep doing it. Being with Camden was easier, even if we weren't together. It started out just going to events together, you know? And the fans loved it. The chemistry was there. We worked well together, and we were good friends. Then the studio wanted it to be real. And it was easy. Cam knew what I could offer, and he didn't care because it wasn't real. And it was safe. He wasn't going to hurt me or sell me to the tabloids. It was comfortable." She smiles, this tight, angry little thing. "That's not a good reason to have a relationship, but it was all we had, and we were young. Stupid. And trying our damnedest to be smart."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I whisper.
"At first? Because we didn't know you. You gotta understand, no one knows. My sister does. Tristan Emery. KP, because damage control. But that's it. So we didn't tell you because we didn't know you. And then, when we did--I guess it never occurred to us. I mean, you’re around us often enough, I thought you'd pick up on it."
"On the fact that you’re fucking fake dating and have been for years?"
She frowns. "Dude. I treat Camden the exact same way I treat you. I don't kiss him or touch him any more than I do you. What the hell does that tell you?"
I stare at her. "Carissa, sweetheart. That doesn't make any fucking sense. I'm drunk. Spell it out."
"I'm with Camden because it's safe and I trust him. And he's with me because he doesn't want to date. God, Dimitri, he's all fucked up over his sexuality. And it's easier with me. I'm ace, and it just takes sex off the table, so it's not something he has to deal with."
I stare. She's still talking, about how this was supposed to be healthy and maybe it wasn't because it let Camden deflect, and I'm still hung up a few sentences back and I'm really sure I didn't hear that right.
"You're ace?" I whisper.
She goes still, and then understanding floods her face. She nods, a sympathetic look crossing her face. And that's what convinces me. "Yeah, Dimitri. I love Cam. But I'm not fucking him." She laughs, and makes a face. "I'm not interested in fucking anyone."
It's not real.
"Cari?"
"Yeah, sweetie?"
"Next time there's something this fucking important, don't assume I know. Spell it out for me, k?"
I can hear the smile in her voice as she ducks down, tucking herself under my arm and pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "Ok, Mitri,"
We sit like that for a long time. While I rearrange my world view and how Cam and Cari fit into it.
And what this means.
"What does this mean?" I finally ask.
She leans her head back, and smiles at me, sweet and a little bit devious, and everything I've always adored about Cari.
"What do you want it to mean, sweetie?"
Chapter 7.
Origianlly posted on EndersHallow Message Boards.
@FractalEnds: Its season seven, and @CariAukes @realCamMartin and @DimitriBlackwood are back on set. Bring on the end of the world.
@CariAukes: Hey, @DimitriBlackwood you gonna actually work this year, or am I gonna have to carry you again?
@DimitriBlackwood: @CariAukes, you’re lucky you’re so damn cute. I think the one we really need to worry about is @realCamMartin.
@CariAukes: @DimitriBlackwood Don’t pick on him. It’s too early and he’s getting me coffee.
@DimitriBlackwood: @CariAukes but LOOK at him. He’s clearly sleeping on the job! [IMAGE ATTACHED]
@realCamMartin: @CariAukes @DimitriBlackwood. Fuck both of you. I’m drinking your damn coffee.
--
I don’t see him.
That’s weird enough. Cari went to his place, and came back quiet and refused to talk about whatever the fuck went down between them.
And I don’t know what I expect, but what I don’t expect is almost two weeks of silence.
I give him three days and then text him, and get a quick response.
I’m visiting my mom for a few days. We’ll talk when I get home.
And that’s it.
It stings.
After…well. After. It feels like he’s running and I hate it.
&nbs
p; Cari puts up with my angsty and moody ass for two days and then she calls Tristan. Within a few hours, I’m being pushed onto a flight, and then I’m in LA, and Tristan Emery is waiting for me, leaning against a big, black truck that would look more appropriate in southern Georgia than it does in front of LAX.
For that matter, Tristan Emery looks like he belongs in southern Georgia more than the streets of LA. He’s wearing ripped up, oil-stained jeans, a loose t-shirt that’s seen better days and boasts about gun rights, and a ball cap on backwards over his shaggy hair. He grins when he sees me, and straightens off the truck. Grabs my bag from me wordlessly and tosses it in the back with Rosalie—because of course he brought his goddamn blood hound with him, he takes the whole country-boy-bullshit about five steps too far. I climb into the pickup and he pulls away, turning down the radio as we pull into LA traffic.
“Cari says you’re a mess,” he says, not looking at me. Rosalie is shoving her head into my shoulder and I reach up to rub her ears affectionately.
She’s gotten bigger since the last time I saw her.
“You a mess, Cam?”
“Aren’t I always?” I answer and Trist grins at me.
“Normal therapy?”
I nod and lean my head back against the seat.
Tristan’s therapy is work and beer. With a side order of tequila, on the fourth night at the ranch, and that’s when I tell him. Everything.
I’ve spent the past few days sun drenched, bone tired, and drunk off my ass, by turns. Trist isn’t pushing, it’s not his way. He’s always been more content to provide a safe place for me to figure out my shit, and a quiet ear to talk about it when I figure it out. It’s what he’s been doing since I first met him, on the set of Dead of Night, almost twelve years ago.
Fuck, when did we get so old?
Tristan laughs, when I ask him that and pours me another shot of tequila. He smokes with a lazy kind of intent that reminds me of Dimitri, and I wave off the joint, when he offers it up.
“I’m in love with Dimitri,” I say, at last.
Trist blinks at me, but doesn’t say anything. Tequila burns, liquid courage in my gut.
“I don’t want to hide it.”
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s not being with Dimitri. Or maybe it is. Maybe.
“He left. We made out and Cari talked to him and he fucking left without talking to me. So maybe this doesn’t matter. Maybe he’s decided it’s not worth the trouble.”
“It?” Tristan says, and I hear the edge in his voice.
“Me,” I say, ignoring it.
Tristan throws a football at my head. “Fucking idiot,” he snaps, without any real heat.
“He left, Tristan,” I shout back. Rosalie lifts her head, and Tristan glares, blearily.
“You’re fucking worth it. Even if Dimitri is too goddamn blind to see it. You’re worth it. Don’t fucking say you aren’t.”
He’s pissed.
I knew he’d be pissed.
Tristan Emery and I have a weird relationship. The kind of too close friendship that allows for insults and vicious teasing, lets him put me—me—to work in his fucking barns, and offers me up at the bar we visit, sometimes, for public amusement and ridicule. And yet, will permit no one else near me. He punched a guy, once, for insulting me when we were out. Chased off three girlfriends before I started dating Cari, and even then, I think he wanted to, but Tristan met his match in Cari.
And he doesn’t like Dimitri. He never has.
Dimitri is wild and unpredictable, loud and sarcastic and a tiny bit pretentious in his very down-to-earth way. He likes to observe, and make these brilliant, cutting observations with a smile that makes you wonder what the hell just happened. He works hard and cares deeply and lives with a kind of abandon that leaves me breathless.
And he’s a musician.
Tristan is…the same. He’s wild and unpredictable, loud and sarcastic, especially when drinking. He’s a good ol’ southern boy uprooted to Cali and as much of a dick as that implies. He’s quiet until he’s ready to speak, and brilliant when he does, and has a wicked, self-effacing sense of humor that dares you to laugh at him. He works hard and cares too much and live with the kind of disregard for the world that makes me envious.
And he’s a musician.
They were bound to hate each other or be best of friends. And I think, if Tristan hadn’t picked up on my feelings for Dimitri, it would have been the later.
But he did. And they’ve disliked each other, intensely, since the day I introduced them.
I drink a little bit more tequila. Because that’ll help. Tip my head back and stare at the stars.
“What do I do?” I ask them, and Tristan.
“You quit acting like a little shit, and you go get him,” Tristan says, gruffly.
He steals the tequila back and I let him take it without much protest.
“You don’t like him,” I say.
“I don’t. But you do, so what the hell does that matter? If he makes you happy and isn’t hurting you, I don’t really have a lot of room to say, I don’t like the dick, stop sucking it.”
I choke on my beer, and Tristan leers at me. “Just be happy, Cam. That’s all I want for you,” he says, after I’ve finished choking and the night settles still and silent around us again.
Be happy.
Fuck, when did that get to be so damn hard?
We don’t talk about it again, and I avoid the tequila like the plague. How the hell Tristan always manages to get me tequila-drunk will be a mystery.
But I sleep late, and work a little. On Friday, Tristan drags me to the local bar he loves, and on Saturday, we end up at a music festival. Pictures of us hit the internet pretty quickly, and Cari texts me.
Cari: You have a 6am call time Tuesday. Don’t get too drunk.
And
Cari: Have fun, sweetie.
I smile at the messages and Dimitri’s name pops up, a message brightening the screen.
Dimitri: I miss you.
It’s the first I’ve heard from him since he left and I have a heartbeat to wonder if it’s because I’m here. With Tristan. If it’s just Dimitri’s jealousy talking.
Dimitri doesn’t do jealousy. He never has.
So why now?
I’m still pondering what the fuck I should say when the next message comes through.
Dimitri: I’ll see you in a few days.
And then my phone goes silent and Tristan is back, shoving a beer into my hand and leading the way to another act.
On Sunday, after a greasy breakfast, Tristan drives me back to the airport, humming along to the CD in the truck. I point at it. “You?”
He nods, flashes a quick grin. “What do you think?”
“It’s good, dude. I love it.”
“We got some work to do still,” he says, critical as always, and I smile out the window.
When we pull up to LAX, Tristan puts the truck in park and I wave him off. “I got it. You’re fine.”
“Cam,” he says, and I pause, looking at him, suspended in motion by the serious note in his voice.
“I mean it, man. Do what makes you happy. Fuck the rest of it. Do you understand me?” His gaze is hard and hopeful and sad, somehow.
All the things that have always been unspoken between us bubble dangerously, and I have this sudden insane urge to pop them and let the chips fall where they may.
No.
No.
Tristan is too much of a friend.
And there is Dimitri.
He’s staring at me, still, gaze obscured by that ball cap and I nod, “Yeah, Trist. I understand.”
Satisfaction spreads across his face and he relaxes against the seat. “Go on, then.”
I slip out of the truck and grab my bag. Give him one more smile, wide and grateful and bittersweet. His echoes mine, and it’s there.
Everything he’s felt and never spoken. Everything I’ve known and ignored.
“Call me when y
ou get him,” he drawls, and I nod again. And then he’s gone and it’s time to go back to the real world.
The first day on set is a mess of emotions and angst. And Cari’s intense impatience.
There’s meetings and read-throughs, as we get a grip on the upcoming season, and wardrobe for all of us, where Cari and I both get a trim and I get a shave. And long hours in my trailer, as she and Dimitri work through their lines and the scene is set and reset and we make sure continuity is there, before I’m on set.
Dimitri is standing a few feet away, except he’s covered up by Farley and I’m hidden under Josef. Ann is at Farley’s side and it twists something in Josef as Evans calls action, and we kick into the first day of filming season seven.
I don’t get a chance to talk to Dimitri until late that night. He’s been keeping close to Cari, and even though I can feel him watching me, I don’t actually get a chance to talk to him.
It’s fucking infuriating and from the tiny smirk that’s on his lips every time a PA grabs me or he slips away to makeup or craft services, he knows.
What I don’t get is why.
“Maybe he needs more time,” Cari says, halfway through the day. I’m pacing in her trailer, and going fucking insane.
“I haven’t spoken to him in two weeks, Cari.”
“What you’re thinking about. What he’s thinking about. It’s not a small thing, Cam. It’s okay for him to take some time.”
“What the fuck do you think we’re doing here?” I demand. “I want him. He wants me. What is there to think about?”
She gives me a patient look, and I flush.
Everything. There is everything to think about. There is Vic and our show, our friendship, hell, Cari, not to mention the whole fucking world.
“This isn’t something you can half ass, Cam. You do it, you do it right. If you don’t want to do it right, then don’t bother. There’s too much at risk for you to string him along, fuck him and then panic.”
Secret Things Page 6