Make It Last

by Megan Erickson

  He and Tate drank at high school parties, sneaking crappy blackberry schnapps and chasing it down with fruit punch. But she never drank when he wasn’t around, saying she was only comfortable letting go of her inhibitions around him. She knew he’d watch out for her. He always did.

  She didn’t trust the guys in their school and frankly, Cam didn’t either. There were tons of assholes in their class that wanted the “spic’s chick.”

  He was hidden in his little alcove, so he could watch undetected as Tate ordered a round of shots, two for herself. Cam gripped his empty glass tighter as she threw them back like they were water. He remembered how she used to sputter and sneeze when they drank in high school, and he’d always laugh because she sneezed three times in a row.

  He blew out a breath. These memories had to stop.

  After ordering more drinks—not shots—the group retreated to a table at the back of the bar near the pool tables. Its vacancy in the rapidly filling bar gave Cam the impression that was “their” table.

  Did Tate drink a lot?

  Cam stood up and walked to the bar, leaning against the flip top. “Tate come in here a lot?” he asked Trevor.

  His friend didn’t answer him, even though he wasn’t serving anyone at the moment and was only washing glasses.

  “Hey, Trev—”

  “I heard you.” Trevor emphasized each word, his voice full of irritation.

  Cam bit the inside of his cheek. “Are you going to answer?”

  Trevor licked his lips, leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, like he was praying for patience, then he took a step toward Cam and leaned on the bar. “I’m not answering anything else about Tate until you talk to her.”

  Cam glared. “You’re a jerk.”

  Trevor laughed and went back to washing glasses. “No, I’m not. And you know that. I’m the best friend you’ve got.”

  Cam pushed off the bar and retreated to his post at the door, propping himself on the stool and crossing his arms over his chest. He was hidden a little in the doorway, so he could spy on Tate without her watching.

  Damn, he was a creeper.

  An hour later, he was still at the door, checking IDs. Tate and her friends had gone through two more drinks and all of them were getting louder and louder. None of them had noticed Cam, in his little hidey-hole, dressed in his black shirt and dark jeans. He was practically part of the decor, the way all bouncers seemed to blend in to the place they guarded.

  Deke’s Bar had a digital jukebox and someone put on a club hit. Cam recognized it and enjoyed a little eye candy as some cute girls began to dance.

  And then Tate stood up, starting that hip sway, and he braced.

  And panicked.

  Tate outside the diner? Drinking in a bar?

  He could handle that.

  But watching her dance? Those hips and that hair and that ass? And possibly . . . for fuck’s sake . . . another guy touching her?

  Cam might burn this motherfucking bar down.

  He didn’t even want to analyze the way his fingers curled into fists and his knuckles kneaded his thighs. The uneasiness that swept over him, beading his brow with sweat.

  Tate looked over her shoulder, shooting Van a brilliant, loose smile, reaching her arm back as her friend slipped her hand into Tate’s. Tate led the way onto the dance floor, as Van held her other arm over her head with a piercing “whoop!”

  Cam inhaled sharply. Tate and Van were a force together. Van was tall and curvy as hell. Skin dark like her brother’s, with natural hair she teased out around her head.

  In high school, Cam and Tate used to get drunk and perform dance routines that they had learned when they took jazz dance classes together. It was ridiculous, and silly, and half the time one of them would trip and fall into the other until they both ended up in a pile on the floor, giggling and snorting.

  And no one gave them crap because no one really wanted to mess with Trevor or Cam.

  They’d all had each other’s backs. Until they graduated high school and went their separate ways and the ties that held them stretched so far that they snapped.

  Cam held his breath as the girls started dancing, the beat pounding into his head as the vision of Tate’s hips swirled in front of his eyes. She still moved the same, and it was crazy how he could practically feel that ass snugging up against him as she moved, like it was just yesterday.

  He glanced at the bar, but Trevor was busy pouring a beer and chatting with customers.

  Cam crossed his arms over his chest and thunked his head back into the wall behind him.

  This night—fuck, maybe this whole goddamn summer—was going to be torture.

  THINGS WERE A little blurry.

  Van’s laugh sounded extra loud in Tate’s ears as they both moved to the beat. Tate wobbled a little on her heels. It’d been so long since she had a night out like this, and the alcohol made the three-inch spikes tricky little buggers.

  And the whole night, she’d felt this weird presence sliding over her skin. She chalked it up to the residual agitation of running into Cam, but the feeling only got worse as the night went on.

  She turned and looped her arms around Van’s neck, slowing her dancing to small shifts of her hips. Van loved to dance, and loved girls, a fact that hindered her love life in this small town. Van was currently working at a department store, saving money to head to California to try to model.

  “Wanna go sit and get another drink?” Tate asked over the pounding music.

  Van frowned down at her, placing her hands on her hips. “Is that you, Tate Ellison?”

  Tate scowled. “Yes, why?”

  “You’re throwing in the dancing towel after two songs?”

  Tate rolled her eyes and pinched the back of her friend’s neck.

  “Hey!” Van said with a mixture of annoyance and laughter. “Don’t pinch me!”

  “I’m tired.” Tate pouted. “Don’t give me crap.”

  Van’s face softened. “Oh right, you had a blast from the past today.”

  Tate tried not to wince at Cam simply being referred to as her past. Even if it was true. “And cutting my hand and the panicked phone call from my brother which ended up being a bathtub ice cream social.”

  “Poor baby,” Van said in baby talk.

  Tate held her fingers up in a pincer grip. “You’re asking for it.”

  Van laughed and pushed at Tate’s shoulders, so she turned around and walked off the dance floor.

  “I’m going to get our drinks. Go on and sit down and put your legs up, old lady,” Van said.

  Tate gave her the finger, and Van stuck out her tongue.

  Tate walked along the wall on the way back to the table with the rest of their friends, fingertips brushing the old wood paneling to keep herself steady. Damn, why did she drink so much?

  Her dad had said he was fine, that he was just going to sleep, so Tate could go out and enjoy some time with her friends. It still hadn’t stopped her from checking her phone constantly like a doctor on call.

  She totally was an old lady.

  Her eyes were on the floor in front of her, so she saw the shadow first as it crossed her path. “Tate,” said a familiar voice, and she stopped dead. Her skin prickled. And she wondered if this was the source of that weird feeling she’d had all night.

  Marcus Olsen. Another mistake she regretted. Who the hell did she piss off that all of her worst decisions were biting her in the ass today? Really. A girl could take only so much.

  And where was Van with those drinks?

  “Tate,” Marcus said again, and Tate sighed, looking up into his blue eyes.

  “Hi,” she said lamely, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear and bracing herself on the wall with her other arm.

  Marcus leaned one shoulder against the wall in front of her, letting her know he was settling in for some Tate-Marcus chat time. Oh goody.

  His eyes flicked down her body. “Lookin’ good.”

  She wanted to w
rinkle her nose, but she resisted. “Thanks.”

  “Wanna dance?”

  “I hurt my ankle.”

  “Wanna smoke?”

  “I quit.”

  “Wanna drink?”

  “Not thirsty.”

  Marcus inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Why we gotta play this game?”

  Tate narrowed her eyes. “There’s no game.”

  Marcus barked that condescending laugh he had. “You played hard to get for a while and then finally backed down. I don’t really want to play this game again, but I’ll do it if it gets you in my bed again.”

  Tate wanted to vomit. Like in one of those romantic comedies where the heroine spews all over the lobby of her new school within the first ten minutes of the movie, and then spends the next hour and ninety minutes reviving her reputation from the ashes with pluck and a great wardrobe.

  Wouldn’t that be awesome? If she could throw up all over Marcus’s shoes, and then she could begin her life over? And end up with a healthy dad and mature brother and guy of her dreams?

  Movies were awesome. But they weren’t real life.

  And sleeping with Marcus last year had been a big, fat mistake.

  “Look, Marcus, there is no game. That was a one-time thing. It was great, we both got what we wanted, but it’s not something I’m going to revisit, okay?”

  Marcus bent his head, watching his boot as he ground it into the floor, like he was putting out a cigarette butt. Tate’s fingers twitched.

  He raised his head slightly, eyeing her. “I’m not big on giving up when I really want something.”

  Why the hell did he want her? Honest to God, she had nothing to offer. Nothing. Okay, except sex. But he could get that from some other girl. She was closed for business.

  She shook her head and leaned off the wall. “Well, nice talking to you, but I’d like to get back to my table.”

  Marcus straightened. “Tate, come on—”

  “Marcus, please. No. Just no. Not now, not ever. And I’m sorry if I led you to believe there would ever be something between us, but I’m making it clear now. No.”

  Marcus’s blue eyes swirled and his mouth tightened. “Tate.” He took a step forward and grabbed her hand, not noticing the bandage on it from where she cut it earlier. His thumb pressed into the injury, and she cried out in pain.

  Marcus jerked back, his mouth open in shock as he stared at her hand. He looked like he was going to apologize but he never got the chance. Because another body was now between them.

  A big one. In a black shirt. And this body was now pressing Marcus into the wall.

  Tate clutched her hand to her stomach and groaned. Apparently this night could get worse.

  Camilo was here.

  The two men faced each other, Cam looking like he wanted to bite Marcus’s head off. Marcus held his hands up at his head and looked so visibly freaked that Tate wanted to laugh. The guys had known each other in high school, but Tate didn’t think they’d ever been friends.

  They were talking heatedly and Tate clued in to the conversation.

  “—she said no,” Cam growled.

  “I’m not a moron, Ruiz. I heard her.”

  “Then why did you grab her hand so hard that you hurt her?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I heard her cry out in pain, Olsen.”

  Tate froze at that. He heard her? Where the hell had he been standing? It wasn’t like she’d screamed. As much as she enjoyed Marcus getting pinned to the wall, she thought it was time she stepped in.

  “It’s okay, Cam.” She stepped forward, placing a hand on his arm. She opened her mouth to keep talking but lost her train of thought when Cam’s head whipped to the side and he stared at her, eyes wide, wild and pissed off.

  Oh shit.

  “You said no and he laid a hand on you,” Cam said through clenched teeth.

  Damage control, Tate thought. As much as Marcus didn’t know when to back off, he hadn’t tried to hurt her. “I know. He grabbed my hand, which he shouldn’t have done and I’m sure he’ll apologize for, but the only reason it hurt was because I cut it earlier today. He didn’t grab me hard.”

  Cam’s eyes flicked down to her bandaged hand. Tate held it up and wriggled her fingers. “See? The soft-serve ice cream machine attacked me.” She smiled weakly.

  Cam didn’t smile back. But at least his posture lost some of its aggressiveness. Didn’t the military teach them to be cool under pressure? Jeesh. Cam was never a hothead.

  “I’m sorry, Tate, honest.” Marcus spoke up. “I didn’t know about your hand. But I shouldn’t have grabbed you.”

  Tate nodded. “It’s okay.”

  No one moved.

  “Ruiz, pretty sure you can stand down now.” Marcus glared at him.

  Cam stepped back a foot, and Marcus eased off the wall. He turned to Tate and licked his lips, looking like he wanted to say something else. But Cam’s presence, his thick arms crossed over his chest as he stared at Marcus, seemed to unnerve the guy. Marcus rolled his eyes and began to back away. “Whatever. See ya around, Tate. Have fun with your bodyguard.”

  And then he left Tate alone in a dark corner of the bar with Cam.

  Tate rubbed her temples where a headache was forming. Today was the fucking worst. She exhaled slowly and focused on Cam, who stood before her with his arms crossed over his chest and still a little pissed off.

  Which pissed her off. Because really, who did he think he was? Rolling back into Paradise with his fancy college degree, thinking she needed some sort of help or protection or what the hell ever.

  Well she didn’t. She’d been taking care of her family all this time on her own, working her ass off at the diner. The last thing she needed was Cam Ruiz thinking she owed him anything. “Well, thanks a lot for your tactic at disarming the enemy, but I think I have it from here.” Tate made to walk past him, but he took a step, blocking her path.

  She pulled up abruptly and glared at him, placing a hand on her hip. “Excuse me?”

  Cam’s jaw flexed. “How’s your hand?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Do you need stitches?”

  Tate inhaled through her nose and out through her mouth and prayed for patience. “Nope, it’s fine. It’ll scab over and heal and be good as new. We done with the questions now?”

  Cam gestured behind him in the direction Marcus left. “What was that about?”

  Tate hadn’t wanted to get into this, because that would just prolong this conversation, but it’d been a long day, and she was a little drunk. “Seriously? Look, Cam, I appreciate the concern, but I don’t need this. I don’t need a bodyguard or whatever. So just finish your visit in town and mosey on out to your big, hotshot job and forget about me like you did for the last four years, okay?”

  Cam flinched slightly, dropping his hands at his sides, and that’s when she saw the logo on the breast pocket of his shirt.

  It burned into her eyes, and she felt a headache spreading from her temples toward the base of her skull.

  She pointed at his shirt. “Why are you wearing that?” Please, please, please—

  “I work here.”

  Three words. Three words that tilted her world on its side. And physically her world was tilting because she felt an arm around her waist, catching her before she hit the floor in an unceremonious puddle of Shocked Tatum.

  And then her back was against the wall, and Cam was inches away, his face no longer pissed off, but concerned.

  She blinked slowly. “Cam?” He was still so gorgeous. With those full lips and perfect skin and large dark eyes. His eyelashes were so full and thick, she used to joke about him wearing mascara. Her breath hitched. She could press forward, just a little bit, touch her lips to his. Just once. It’d been so long, and maybe she could claim she was drunk . . .

  “You okay?” he asked, taking her attention off his mouth.

  She focused on his eyes with his dark brows furrowed, and she recalled the reason she’d
temporarily lost her standing ability. “Why are you working here?”

  His lips shifted, like he was biting the inside of his cheek. Then he licked his lips. “Because I needed a job. I’m the new bouncer.”

  That headache was a wrecking ball between her ears. None of this made sense. Cam was always going to go on to big things. He was always going to get out of this town. Why was he here? Working as a bouncer in a dive bar? “But you joined the military so they’d pay for your school. And you went to school. And you graduated magna cum laude. And you . . .” How could she make him see he was better than this? “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

  Cam frowned, but didn’t step back. “I’m here to help my mom.” He still had a strong arm around her waist, and her hand rested on his biceps, which had gotten much bigger since she’d last seen him.

  She wanted to cry. Just burst into salty vodka tears right here in this bar because this couldn’t be happening. She’d done all this for him, so he would be free.

  And now he was back.

  Shackled to this town.

  How could this have all gotten so fucked up? She needed to get away from him. She needed to be alone where she could break down into a sobbing mess in private like a responsible adult. She pushed on his arms. “Please let go of me.”

  His arm loosened, but he didn’t step back. “Okay, I hear you, but can you stand? You almost fell and—”

  She pushed harder. “I’m fine!” Her voice was louder than she meant it to be, a shout, right in his face.

  She froze. And he froze.

  And then her phone rang, vibrating in her back pocket, its trill ring cutting the silence between them.

  Chapter 5

  HER EYES WERE huge, barely any hazel showing in the dark light. Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, her lips parted in rapid breaths.

  Her phone continued to ring in her back pocket, but it was like they’d slowed down the action in Utope. Everything around them was slow motion as they stared at each other, as Cam’s mind replayed their conversation, trying to figure out why Tate was worked up.

  Other than the awkwardness, why did she care so much that he was back? And why the hell did she care where he was working? He felt like he was missing something, as Tate shook in his arms and visibly blinked hard to beat back tears.