by Jenna Scott
Then I see the tight line of his mouth, along with the glint of anger in his blue eyes, and the joy drains out of me like air from a popped balloon.
Chapter Twelve
Camilla
My sight is a blur, as is the sequence of events that happens next.
Hunter grabs my wrist and pulls me to his side, and I’m too stunned to resist. Unfortunately, I’m also too drunk to do it gracefully. My foot stomps on his, and I almost trip—the only reason I don’t is his arm coming around to steady me.
“The hell you doing, Beck?” Emmett asks him.
“I could ask you the same,” Hunter spits back. “What were you thinking, letting her drink this much?” He’s growling at Emmett like he’s my guard dog, and my wrist is burning under his tight, hot grip. “Look at her, she can’t even walk straight.”
It’s true. Even now, I’m swaying against Hunter’s side like a branch in the wind. Heat spreads to my already warm cheeks. Sure, I might be intoxicated, but I was just fine before he came along, and now everyone in the room is craning to listen in.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to her,” Emmett says defensively. “And what do you expect me to do, take the glass right out of her hand?”
“Precisely. But that wouldn’t have been in your best interest, now would it, Ortega? Then you couldn’t have played knight in shining armor.”
“Oh, like you’re doing now?” Emmett asks. “How’s that working out for you?”
I look up at Hunter, my chest strangely tight. Is he trying to rescue me? From Emmett? And why? He thinks I’m worthless. It shouldn’t matter what I do.
“You let her play the game knowing full well she was trashed and could’ve ended up in that room with anyone.” Hunter lets go of me and takes a step toward Emmett. “I see right through you. Remember that next time you try to act innocent.”
Emmett’s eyes narrow. “Not everyone is a selfish prick like you, Beck.”
Hunter closes in on Emmett at once, and the claustrophobia of this narrow hallway has me panicking. On top of which, the thought of this escalating further—with a bunch of people watching, to boot—completely mortifies me. I throw out a hand and grab Hunter’s arm, feeling his taut muscles beneath my grip.
“I’m the one who chose to drink as much as I did!” I blurt out. “It’s not Emmett’s fault.”
Glancing back at me, Hunter’s nostrils flare. “Don’t try to defend him.”
“Hey, lay off!” Isabel appears at the end of the hallway, scowling at both of them. “You’re making a scene.”
“Do I look like I give a fuck?” Hunter says. “I’m calling her a Lyft and sending her home. Which is what you should have done.” That last bit he throws at Emmett.
Isabel ignores Hunter and turns to me, brow drawn in concern. “Camilla, is that what you want?”
I glance at Hunter, who already has his phone out, and then nod, the motion making me feel a little seasick. “I’m supposed to be home soon anyway.”
“You sure?” she asks.
“Yeah. I’ll text you later,” I answer.
That’s all I get to say before Hunter basically drags me away. People who were supposed to be playing kinky spin the bottle are all staring at us as we leave, and I’m still too baffled by this whole situation to do anything but let Hunter lead me.
Hopefully, the night air will do something about the heat assailing my body because not even the icy daggers Hillary and her posse are throwing at me can keep the little trickles of sweat from rolling down my back.
When we get to the top of the stairs, Hunter wordlessly offers me his arm, and I cling to him as I take each shaky step. Once we’re in the foyer, I look up at his tense expression of concern and feel a smile spreading across my face. My hero.
“Hunter Beck is worried about me,” I mumble, teasing.
I tilt forward, and his arms tighten around me, keeping me from falling. “Fucking hell, Camilla. How much did you drink?”
My eyes roll up while I count. “I don’t know. Four? Ish?”
“Four-ish what?”
“Vodka Gatorade. It tastes like fruit punch,” I tell him very seriously. “Isabel made ‘em. I never drank before.”
“What? How are you even…?” He stops, looks me up and down, and sighs.
Once we’re out in the driveway, he spins me to face him and rests his hands on my shoulders. Dazed, I look up at him, but I can’t keep my eyes focused.
“What?” I ask when he says nothing.
“Do you have any idea what could have happened to you in there?” His voice is husky, and I can’t help but feel a little ashamed as I drop my gaze to the contour of his square jaw and the curve of his lips. “You’re fucking lucky the bottle stopped when it did and you got locked inside with a coward like Emmett. Anyone else, Camilla…”
My eyes snap back up. “What, Emmett being decent makes him a coward? He’s my friend.”
Hunter glares at me. “You’re stupid if you haven’t realized he’s just waiting for his chance to pounce. Did he touch you?”
Maybe I did get a tense vibe from Emmett when we’d been in the kink room, but nothing creepy or pushy. Just a little awkwardness at first. Who cares, though? He’s a good guy. Nothing happened. And even if it had…
“How is this any of your business?” I ask, sidestepping the question.
He just laughs bitterly and shakes his head, taking a few steps back.
“Did you know that room is soundproof? That if someone took advantage of you and you screamed, no one would have shown up to help?”
“I’d whack him with the flogger,” I answer without hesitation, grinning.
“Do you think this is a game?” he growls.
“God, Hunter, I’m not as defenseless as you think.”
“Oh no?” Out of nowhere, Hunter drops his hands to my waist and pushes me back against the garage.
My adrenaline is pumping hard, and my knees feel weak. It’s not just the vodka.
“Let me go,” I say. I’m not smiling anymore.
“What if it had been me in that room with you, Camilla? Huh? You’re wasted.”
Didn’t I wonder that exact same thing earlier, before he decided to talk to me like I’m a child?
I meet his stare, the alcohol making me bold when I’d normally just walk away. “What would you have done?” I ask, challenging him.
His Adam’s apple bobs with a dry swallow. He didn’t expect me to talk back. I think this is the first time I’ve surprised him in any way, and it feels like a triumph.
It’s not long-lived.
“I don’t take advantage of drunk girls,” he says, finally releasing me.
“How can you say that? Every single person here is drunk!”
“Not like you are,” he scoffs. “And besides, I’ve already…”
He trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished, but it’s obvious he was going to say that he’s already hooked up with pretty much every girl here.
“I’m leaving,” I say, starting down the driveway. I’ll probably be home late, but hopefully my mom will be passed out and won’t even notice that I broke curfew.
Hunter comes up beside me, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Camilla, stop. I’m calling you a Lyft.”
“The bus is fine.”
“God, why do you have to be so stubborn? Just let me help you,” he says, his voice hard. “What’s your address?”
“I’m not telling you.”
He shakes his head. “Whatever, I already know it.” At my glowering silence, he begins to type. “Shawn G. will be here to pick you up in two minutes.”
I clench my hands into fists, whirling on him. “How the hell do you know where I live?”
“You’re my brother’s nanny.”
“So?”
“So? My dad did a background check before hiring you.”
Oh my God, these rich assholes. “That’s an invasion of privacy!”
“And yet it ensures we don’t
hire sex offenders or ex-cons to take care of my little brother.” He puts his phone back in his pocket. “And you’re working, aren’t you? Obviously, you passed.”
I can’t dispute the bit about Harrison’s safety, or that yes, I still have the job; I’m also not comfortable with people paying to find out about my past. “Regular people make do with interviews and references just fine,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Well, we’re not regular people.”
The look he gives me—a raised eyebrow over an unimpressed stare and a shrug—is so smug I want to slap it off his face.
He takes a step back, lips tightening as he looks at the road. “Your ride’s here.”
A dry cackle leaves me. “You’re so worried about me in my current state, yet you’re sending me home alone with a stranger?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be tracking the ride.” Hunter waves his phone at me.
“What a gentleman,” I scoff, stalking toward the Lyft. Every step requires focus and thought, and everything feels a little off-kilter, but I keep my balance, managing to slide into the car and slam the door without any mishaps.
As the driver pulls away, I watch Hunter storm back into the house.
He doesn’t look back.
Chapter Thirteen
Camilla
The next morning greets me with a massive headache, dry mouth, and intense nausea. I’m lucky my mom’s not home to see my frequent trips to the bathroom where I puke my guts out.
I drag myself to the kitchen with a wet washcloth around my neck and pour myself a glass of water. Last night’s events flash by in my mind as I pop two slices of bread into the toaster, and my stomach churns at the memories. I’d had so much fun with Isabel and Emmett, and not even the kink room had ruined the evening. Hillary had mostly ignored me, and I never even saw her minions.
But then things started sucking the minute Hunter decided to tear into me for trying to have fun the same way everyone else was: getting drunk and playing games.
I just don’t get it.
After my dry toast breakfast, I take a long shower and try to do some schoolwork. With this hangover, however, I find that getting any homework done is a bust. Unfortunately, I need to get it together and fast because I’m due at the Becks’ house this afternoon, except instead of babysitting Harry, I’ll be there to see Hunter so we can work on our debate project. I’m dreading it. I really wish I hadn’t suggested a study date earlier this week, but it’s too late now to cancel.
My phone vibrates on the desk with another text from Isabel. She’s been blowing up my phone since last night, first to make sure I got home safe, and now, to commiserate over our hangovers. I really love her.
Why is drinking so much fun in the moment until the next day when you always regret it? And then next week you do it again ARGH
Grinning, I text back. Doubt I’ll be doing that again anytime soon.
Isabel responds, Smart lady. I think you’re gonna be a good influence ; )
Speaking of which, I’m trying to do homework but kind of failing
Sleep today, homework tomorrow? Isabel suggests.
God, I wish. Can’t. I have a big group project due this week
Boo, she texts back. LMK if you need me to drop off a care package. I have plenty of ibuprofen, and FYI Jack in the Box serves breakfast all day.
After that, we make plans to hang out soon. The texting isn’t enough to cure my hangover, but it does make it bearable.
Around noon, I run a brush through my hair, change my shirt, and then take the bus to the Becks’, where my mom has been working since this morning. When I walk through the front door, I see her scrubbing the floor in her uniform, so I give a little wave and then head upstairs to say hi to Harrison first. I’m hoping his sweet smile will give me a boost before I have to face his older brother.
I find Harry in his room, lounging in his beanbag chair with a video game controller in his hands. He’s so engrossed in his game that he doesn’t even look up when I enter.
“Hey, kiddo,” I call out.
“Can’t talk. On a streak,” he says, big blue eyes unwavering while his small fingers press the buttons. The sound that accompanies every jab is unmistakable—he’s playing Super Mario Odyssey.
Some people might demand that he hit pause right now and offer a proper greeting, but I’ve played Odyssey with him before. If he’s about to get the jump-rope Power Moon on Metro Kingdom, I’m not about to interrupt.
So much for stalling.
“Come find me if you need anything, okay?” I tell him, tiptoeing out the door.
Hunter’s bedroom is next door, but he doesn’t answer when I knock. Crap. Is it possible he’s still sleeping off his own hangover? I’d text him, but I actually don’t have his number, which is kind of ridiculous since I have Mr. and Mrs. Becks’ and even Harry’s, though he’s always forgetting where he left his phone.
Cracking open the door just a smidge, I see a sunlit but empty room with an unmade king-size bed on the left side and a desk, TV area, and couch to the right. He also has his own walk-in closet—smaller than his parents’ but completely unnecessary.
I try the living room next and come into the rare event of a full house. There’s Hunter, in shorts and a blue T-shirt, lounging on the sofa while staring at his phone.
His stepmom Karleigh is there too, taking up the armchair while she browses something on her iPad—probably properties her husband can buy on the cheap and flip for exorbitant amounts—or scrolling through Instagram to work on her influencer side gig. I check up on her page every once in a while, and I’ve noticed that Harrison only shows up when she wants to remind her followers she has “the sweetest son” and to be called “a great mom.” Which is about once a month.
That’s the only time she pays attention to her kid. And speaking of women who neglect their children, there’s my mom, who’s currently cleaning the glass panes of the French doors like a Windex mercenary on a mission to annihilate fingerprints.
“Hi, Mrs. Beck,” I say. “Hi, Hunter.”
“Hi, sweetie,” Mrs. Beck says absently, not taking her eyes off her screen. “Are you taking Harry somewhere today?”
“Um, no, actually. Hunter and I have to work on a school project,” I tell her.
“How nice. I’m sure he could use the help.”
I catch Hunter shooting his stepmom some nasty side-eye, but then he immediately goes back to his phone.
With that, I’m left standing there awkwardly. There’s a weird tension in the room, and I’m not entirely sure where it’s coming from. My mom seems weirdly focused on scrubbing windows, Mrs. Beck is off in social media la-la land, and Hunter seems to be ignoring me on purpose. Which is infuriating, since the whole reason I came over—hangover and all—is because we have to work on this debate thing.
“Hunter?” I say, but I get nothing. What the hell?
My instincts are telling me to go back upstairs and watch Harry play Mario because that sure beats interrupting whatever’s happening here. But I need a good grade in debate to keep my GPA high enough to keep receiving the Oak Academy scholarship, and I can’t do it without Hunter.
I step in front of him. He doesn’t acknowledge me at all, even though I’m certain he’s noticed my approach.
“Hey—”
“Go away,” he growls without looking up.
Usually, I’d lean toward being nonconfrontational and walk away. Not today.
“We’re supposed to be practicing for our presentation,” I say, crossing my arms. “I’m not saving it till the last minute.”
He rolls his eyes. “All debate consists of is arguing our points in front of the class. We don’t need to write anything up in advance. We can just wing it.”
“Wing it? Are you serious?” I whisper, my temper flashing. “I’m not going to stand there and look like a fool because you won’t even do the bare minimum. Let’s just get this over with.”
The sound of Windex spraying against glas
s, then the cloth wiping it—Mom cleaning the windows—fills the room. Hunter’s jaw clenches, and he glances over at my mom as if he’s actually annoyed that she’s making noise while cleaning his stupid fancy house. I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should just figure out the project on my own and tell our teacher that Hunter refused to participate. I obviously can’t force him.
But then he’s looking up at me with what has to be the most patronizing smirk I’ve ever seen. “What was the topic again? Is marriage an outdated institution?”
I stiffen, surprised he remembers. “Yes.”
“Then what is there to debate? Everyone knows it is outdated. People shouldn’t legally bind themselves to anyone else when it’s common knowledge that men can’t stay sane and remain faithful to one partner.” He crosses his legs and leans back on the couch. “It’s not practical for us.”
My eyes narrow. “Oh really?” It’s exactly the kind of thing a manwhore like Hunter Beck would say.
“It’s biology, Camilla. Our brains are wired differently. Women are made to nurture, and men are made to screw. It guarantees the survival of our species. And besides, a single woman can’t keep up with a man’s sex drive forever. Once she gets old and tired out,” he says, glancing over at his stepmom, “the man has no choice but to look somewhere else.”
“So women just dry up, and all men are basically animals.” My voice is cold with sarcasm.
“Yes.” His tone is low and menacing.
I recoil. “Well, we can’t use any of that. We have to argue our side with facts, not feelings. Unless you can reference actual published research on the topic.”
Hunter pointedly looks at his stepmother. “It’s obviously a fact that men will always move on to the next hot young thing rather than stay with their wives.”