Page 20 of The Night Shift
It takes me a while to get there (fuck you very much, New York MTA) but forty minutes later, I’m at Cami’s bar, pushing through the sweaty, gyrating crowd, trying to locate her.How does it feel? Killing someone? The rapid thud, thud, thud of my heart gets louder with each step I take.Want me to show you?
I make it to the other side and my chest constricts when I spot Cami behind the bar. She’s wearing a long-sleeved, maroon top and a pair of denim jeans. Her long blonde waves are tied up in a ponytail and she’s busy making someone a drink. It’s bright blue with hints of red. I remember that drink. It’s the same one she had made for me the first time we met.
She glances in my direction, her mouth parting in surprise.
Relief loosens the fist around my heart, but like all good things in my life, it’s short-lived. I march towards her and jab a finger at her chest. “Not. Fucking. Funny.”
She eyes me up and down like she’s assessing me for something and deeming me unfit. “You’re wearing scrubs.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
She pours me a glass of wine, placing it on a napkin, sliding it towards me. “What do you mean?”
I unlock my phone and show her the text. “Why would you send me this?”
Her eyes skim over the screen. Her mouth does an open, close, open thing, acting all clueless and she shakes her head. “I-I didn’t send this.”
“Yes, you did.”
“This isn’t even my number. Why on earth would I send this to you?”
“To get me to come here.”
Her brows rise and more confusion ripples through her face, quickly transforming into hurt. Her gaze returns to the display of my phone screen. “Holly, that’s not even what I’m wearing right now.”
I look down. My stomach sinks. She’s right. Unlike the Cami standing in front of me, the Cami on my phone screen is wearing a dark blue crop top. When I look back up, Cami’s dark eyes sear into my face and I stick out my palm. “Show me your phone,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m serious, Camille.”
At first, her brows pull together and her gaze narrows. Then a second later, she laughs and says, “No.”
I don’t budge. I’m too fucking irritated to back down now. Her lips curl and she finally pulls out her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and smacks it flat on my palm. I type in her passcode and unlock the screen. But the second I start scrolling through her messages, my stomach clenches, and the guilt sets in. There’s nothing on here.
“Find anything?” Cami snaps and I glance up as she wipes a strand of hair from her face.
I don’t understand. Camididn’tsend me the text?
She snatches back her phone. “I don’t know what’s going on with you tonight, but you don’t come tomybar and accuse me of sending you some creepy text message just to get you to hang out with me.”
“Cami —”
“I’mnotthat desperate.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
She just scoffs and storms off visibly pissed off to the far corner of the bar, away from me. A lump thickens in my throat as I shrink into myself. My fingers tangle in my lap, twisting and playing with the material of my scrubs. I inwardly sigh, rolling my neck from the stress spearing into my muscles. Sudden heat pricks the back of my neck, an unsettling feeling of being watched washing over. I turn around.
There’s no one there.
Of course, there isn’t. Why would there be?
“Oh, come on, baby. You’re so beautiful.”
I look to my right and see a man at the far end of the bar hitting on some woman who seems visibly put off by him. He touches her thigh. She pushes his hand off. He smiles and tries again.
Anger simmers within me as I drain the rest of my wine. I grab my bag, weaving my way through the main area, heading down the hall towards the bathroom. I step inside and look into the mirror. My hair is a knotted bird's nest, my skin is pale and clammy, my eyes are red, and my face is puffy. I look like shit. Pushing my sleeves to my elbows, I splash ice-cold water on my face until my pulse slows to normal.
