by N. N. Britt
I chuckled, a barely audible sound.
Next came some really cheesy lines about love and forever, then he fished a small box from the pocket of his pants, got on one knee, and asked Cassy if she would do him the honor of being Mrs. Wallace.
The guests swooned collectively at their embrace that was followed by a kiss.
I stared at them, unable to move, my boots glued to the ground. Something strange took root in my stomach, moving up to my chest and finally to my throat, tightening my vocal cords and binding my tongue.
I felt Camille shift. She glanced at me, her eyes big and green and frantic. There was some sort of expectation in her gaze, a question.
Why did you bring me here?
To this event that’s celebrating love and family?
Something neither you nor I will have in our near future.
But what if?
The thought stirred through me, abrupt and subconsciously, an idea of its own.
I blinked, dark panic gathering under my ribs, pushing and shoving at my lungs.
“Dante?” My name was called and I righted myself, turning to look at the person who wanted to speak to me.
It was Billy, Frank’s father. A frown creased his wilted forehead. The years hadn’t been very kind to him and he’d shrunk even more, but there was still fire in his eyes. Happiness.
“It’s good to see you well, son.” He clapped my shoulder, his hand wrinkled and crooked but strong.
“Thanks, Billy. You’re looking good too.” It wasn’t a lie. Papa Wallace was ancient and had diabetes, but gray hair and leathery skin weren’t a big deal for him, because he still knew how to rock them.
“Hello.” He bowed his head and shifted his attention to Camille. “I’m Billy, father to that boy right over there.” He smiled and jutted his chin toward the general direction of the stage, where Johnny, Carter, and Story were whispering in a small circle.
The man who’d just bound himself to spitfire Cassy Evans was accepting congratulations from Maria, Izzy’s mother, and Cassy’s family. He had his arm around her shoulder and she was pressed to him with her whole body, the red and black of their clothes crashing together in a shimmering mess beneath the abundance of muted lights.
A rebellious feeling rose within me.
Jealousy.
“Hi. I’m Camille.” She offered Billy a smile. “It’s a great party.”
“Oh, yes. It is.” Papa Wallace locked both hands behind his back, his cunning gaze sliding from her to me and back. “So what do you do, young lady?”
“I manage a bridal boutique.”
“Is that right? How convenient.” He smirked at me. Old man fucking smirked at me.
When Frank finally extracted himself from the clutches of all the well-wishers and returned to the stage, Billy moved on to the next cluster of guests.
“They look nothing alike,” Camille whispered at me as the first notes of a song I’d never heard before poured from the speakers and filled the cool space.
“He’s adopted.”
“Right, I totally forgot. I think I read about that somewhere...or Ally told me.”
“You don’t know a single thing about the people gathered here tonight, do you?” I asked softly and slipped my hand around her elbow.
She shook her head. “Not really.”
“I like that.”
“You do?”
“To you, they’re just people.” My voice strained over the melody, growing louder with each passing second. “Not wallets, not statuses, not a means to an end.”
I wasn’t sure if my words impressed her or if it was the whole theme of the evening, but she took a step toward me and rested her cheek in the crook of my neck. I didn’t pursue more contact. Strangely, this was enough, all her soft curves pressed against my constantly sore muscles.
We listened to the rest of the composition in silence.
Frank was great. He fucked up here and there, but I figured he was emotional, and no one actually cared if he could drag a note out long enough.
When the music stopped, everyone clapped excitedly. I did too.
Janet was dabbing her watery eyes with a napkin.
“Okay...” Grinning, Frank ran his hand through his hair, then set the microphone back on the stand, which protested a little on account of him not looking at what he was doing because he was anxious. “We have a couple of new, never-before-heard songs for you.” His gaze shot to Izzy, who was in the very front, dressed in bright colors. “But before we get to that part…” He paused, then looked at Cassy. “I know how much you love this one, doll. So here you go…”
I recognized Buckley instantly.
His was the most soulful music I knew. Light as a feather, but the feather cut deeper than the sharpest knife.
I remembered how Frank and I once, before his accident, before Heidi, had gotten really high and spent the entire night listening to Grace.
Then some of my childhood memories began to cram my head. First guitar. First vinyl. First blowjob. First line of coke. It all snowballed, one mistake after another, and I started shaking. The weight of my cell phone in the back pocket of my jeans multiplied and now felt like a brick, tied to my neck and pulling me underwater.
“Hey.” I nuzzled Camille’s ear, my body tensing. “I’ll be right back. I have to make a call.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” I added and weaved my way through the crowded yard and into the empty house.
“She’s seeing someone!” Malik had shouted angrily as he burst into the kitchen two days ago.
There was a laptop on the kitchen counter and I was watching a YouTube video that demonstrated how to make fish tacos. I found the fact that I didn’t know how to cook the food that had originated in the country my family was from quite scandalous, so I was dead set on correcting this paradox.
Snowflake was sleeping soundlessly under the table.
Malik stomped over to me and set his phone next to the lettuce head.
I paused the video and looked at the images on the screen.
They were of Shanice, exiting some nightclub in West Hollywood. Quite blurry. Shitty quality. Shittier angle.
Behind her, in the shadows and partially obstructed by her bodyguard, was an unmistakably male silhouette.
I took a deep breath and flicked my gaze back to Malik. He seemed distraught beyond repair.
“So some dude was leaving at the same time,” I croaked, hoping it would sooth his worry.
“Come on, brother. You know better.” He slammed his fist against the kitchen counter. My laptop gave a small sound from the impact.
I rubbed my forehead with the back of my hand and read the headline.
The Real Reason Why Shanice and Malik Dixon Are Calling It Quits
“Listen, man, I wouldn’t stress over some gossip,” I said plainly.
“Of course you wouldn’t. It’s not your wife gallivanting around the city with another dude while still carrying your last name.”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
“Am I?” He snatched the phone away. “Maybe she wouldn’t be citing irreconcilable differences right now if there were no other dick around.”
He stormed off without a word and retreated to the gym, then several hours later, I noticed a large bag by the front door.
“I’m going to Yosemite for a couple of days,” Malik explained as he hopped down the stairs, dressed warmer than the weather in Southern California required.
“What for?” I watched him cross the room, another smaller bag slung over his shoulder.
“Just need to clear my head. Gonna hike.”
“Okay, well. Call me if you need anything. Yeah?”
“I will, brother. God bless.”
And then he was gone, his Jeep disappearing down the street, into the twilight.
He hadn’t called since, despite my leaving him several messages.
And here I was, at my friend’s house, watching him propose to his girlf
riend and being all content while my other friend was losing his wife to some other guy...or whatever.
I stood on the back terrace and stared at the darkness below, the ocean looking like a screaming black hole. My phone was pressed to my ear.
“This is Malik,” the recording droned. “Say what you need to say. God bless.”
“Hey, man,” I muttered, my voice blending with the sound of the crashing waves down below. “Just wanted to check on you. See how you’re doing. Call me back.”
The silence that greeted me on the line was ominous.
I was an addict and I knew how little things could unravel months and months of hard work. I was worried about Malik. I was worried because he was my fucking safety rope. Without him, I’d fall and break into pieces.
The music pouring from the other part of the property came to an end and there was a round of applause, followed by Frank’s muffled voice, then Izzy’s.
I stuffed the phone back into my pocket and started for the back yard, my pulse thundering. When the crowd slid into view, I scanned the heads of the guests and spied Camille in the same spot where I’d left her a few minutes ago. She was alone, her gaze trained on the small stage, her posture sharp and proud.
It took my breath away, her stoicism and her desire to give Ally the best life possible.
I watched her for a full minute while Frank and Izzy were doing a duet. My heart rate accelerated, its beats matching the sound of Carter’s drums. My insides twisted into millions of knots and I realized that I’d reached the point where my brain refused to be logical around Camille.
I walked toward her, past the guests, past the pool, past the catering table, my strides wide and certain, my chest on fire.
She noticed me almost instantly, her green eyes meeting mine.
The pull between us became stronger. Every part of me could sense it growing taut.
Halting in front of Camille, I cupped her cheeks and pressed my mouth to hers, needing to know how she tasted.
Fruit. Sugar. Spice. Desire.
It was an intoxicating blend, almost better than any drug I’d tried. My head spun from the feel of her lips. They were soft and accepting. They were a perfect fit.
Somewhere nearby, music played and I was acutely aware of the fact that I’d stolen this kiss from Camille in front of dozens of people, but this time, regret didn’t stab me. On the contrary, I reveled in the idea of it.
When I pulled back, my palms still cradling her cheeks, there was an expression of pure shock on her face. A soft, barely audible gasp escaped from between her lips, the lips I’d just claimed as mine.
“Cami—” I didn’t get to finish what I was going to say.
She brushed past me and took off for the house, the click of her heels fading into the music and the noise of the party.
Oh no!
My gut told me it was no longer the beginning of anything. It was the end of what could have been the hottest thing ever, because I fucked up.
I fucked up big time.
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TO BE CONTINUED…
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Ready for the explosively hot (literally!) conclusion of Dante and Camille’s story?
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About the Author
N. N. Britt is a Los Angeles-based music journalist and photographer whose photos have graced CD covers, promotional posters, T-shirts, and billboards. When she is not writing or drinking coffee, she is probably reading or attending a heavy metal show.
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