Page 42 of Puck Struck
“I know.”
Cam swallows hard. “But I can’t?—”
“You can,” I say. “You just did.”
His smile fades. “You don’t get it. It was a mistake for us to do that.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He shakes his head and steps away. “I can’t let myself have this. Have you.”
“Tell me what you mean, Cam. Make me understand why this can’t happen.”
“You don’t want to know the truth, Logan,” he says. “Not really.”
“Yes, I do.”
He’s halfway to the exit sign when he turns back, a painedexpression etched into his features. “You’re better off not seeing what’s underneath. I’m not who you think I am.”
I step forward, but he’s already backing away, already retreating into that armor he wears so well. It covers him like he’s Iron Man, for fuck’s sake.
When the door slams shut behind him, my heart free falls into my shoes.
He kissed me like he meant it.
Then walked away like he didn’t.
Now I’m left standing in the dark with nothing but his taste on my lips and a truth I’m not ready to admit…
That I’m already falling for him.
And I don’t know how to stop.
FOURTEEN
cam
I shootup out of bed, a gasp knotting in my throat. Fisting my bed sheets, I struggle to take a few deep breaths. The nightmare clings to me, with teeth and claws that refuse to let go. Splintered memories of hotel rooms, faceless men, and the constant, crushing fear that someone would find out what I was doing pollute my mind. I fumble for my phone, squinting at the screen.
4:17 AM. And three new notifications are waiting for me.
My thumb hovers over them, shaking as I bite down hard on my lip. I already know what I'll find but swipe to read them anyway.
Better start packing, Connor. The clock's ticking.
I warned you about the restraining order. Now you're going to pay.
I see you've found a new friend. Would be a shame if he found out about us.
My heart hammers in my chest, each beat thundering in my ears. The last message includes a grainy photo of me and Logan outside the rink yesterday, his hand on my arm, our faces close. Too close.
Restraining order.
Fuck. I know who’s sending these messages.
I know the voice. The threats. That devious, calculating tone.
James Harmon.
