Page 66 of Lock 'em Down

“Cami?” Sam echoes.

“Cami,” Levi says, understanding dawning in his expression. He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Holy shit. I remember now. We fucked in Barcelona, yeah?”

My heart rate explodes in my temples, blocking out sound. Light fractures. I’m pulled into a vortex of spinning memories and heightened moments.

This is nothing like the blissful time stops I shared with Leif.

No, this is a fucking nightmare.

I open my mouth, but words don’t come out.

Instead, I watch as my husband cocks back his arm and launches it at the internationally acclaimed rhythm guitarist of one of the country’s hottest rock bands.

Leif catches Levi off guard and Levi’s head snaps back.

“Fuck, bro,” Levi accuses, whirling on Leif. His eyes are narrowed, his mouth twisted. But he doesn’t try to hit him back. Instead, he holds up his hands in a surrender position and again, I’m stuck by this version of Levi. Who the hell is this guy? “That came out the wrong way.”

“Cami…” Leif’s voice is a whisper in my ear. A thread I cling to. “Are you okay? Talk to me, babe.”

I stand on shaky legs. “I gotta… I need to go.” I look around, frantically searching for an exit.

And my guy, my husband, is right there. Leif scoops me up and hurries me out of the VIP section. Away from the flailing camera phones. The security. The shouting.

He protects me. He shields me. He brings me to safety.

And I melt into him, even as my body shakes, tears fall, and my two worlds—past and present—collide.

Eighteen

Leif

My thoughts are erratic, my body hopped up on adrenaline, and a new kind of panic I’ve never experienced before. I place her gently in the passenger seat of my ride and quickly round the truck to slide behind the steering wheel and drive us home.

I need to check on Cami, but I also need to get us out of the parking lot of this music festival, swarming with eyes and cell phones and nosy people.

When we’re a few streets away from the mayhem, I pull into a random parking lot and cut the engine. Glancing at my girl, I note how she’s tucked herself into a ball, her feet under her body, her forehead pressed against the window.

“Cam,” I murmur.

She turns and looks at me. Her eyes are rimmed in heartache, her irises bleeding with regret. “I’m so sorry, Leif.”

I shake my head and place a hand on her thigh. I need to touch her. Feel connected to her. Make sure she knows that I’m here for her. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“You don’t know the full story.”

“I don’t need to. I know you.”

She closes her eyes and twin tears fall to her cheeks.

Fuck, but it hurts seeing her cry. It twists my chest and burns my throat. It’s a different kind of pain too.

“Leif,” she whispers.

“Talk to me, babe. I hate seeing you hurt.”

She opens her eyes and shakes her head. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “That was Levi Rousell. He’s a guitarist for The Burnt Clovers.”

I nod, my jaw tightening. My molars grind together and my nostrils flare. Yeah, I caught that part. I’d know that fucker anyway because he was splashed across the covers of gossip magazines Annie and her ice-skating friends used to thumb through. One of the girls had a massive crush on him. I know he went to rehab and cleaned up his act and has turned his life around.

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