Page 60 of Bad for You (MacKenzie Scottish Crime Family 3)

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Willow

With weak knees, I settle at the edge of my bed. I’m stuck between a rock and a hard asshole. My entire world’s been shaken, and I’m digging through sand, attempting to capture the tiny grains. Camdyn’s aware I have a gun. He’s offered to vindicate me. But can I trust Camdyn?

“We’ve established I’m manipulating ye, Willow. Here’s your golden ticket—use me too.” He’s picking up his fishbowl, shaking it around, and watching me die.

“We’re so bad for each other.”

In a sympathetic tone smoother than silk, Camdyn replies, “We’re not discussing us. You’re wandering about at night with a gun. The doctor—”

Fingers curled under, I snap, “Has nothing to do with me.” Okay, Willow, stop sharing with the sociopath.

Camdyn’s furtive brows knit together, and his warm blue-green eyes survey my every curve only to land on my eyes. “The doc can’t wake your mom, so you’re frustrated with him. That it, Lo?”

Screw the mind games. Cam used the nickname he gave me. Am I expected to snatch on a pair of blinders and fall to my knees given his tiny shred of kindness?

My voice wobbles. “You don’t give a fuck about me, Cam. Well, I don’t give a shit about you. I hate you. Now, get out!”

At the knocking on my door, I shout, “Come in!”

“I’m trying. It won’t open.” Hillary calls out.

“For feck’s sake,” Camdyn snaps. He places the gun back into the drawer. In tandem, we pick up my discarded panties, and he tucks a sparkly thong over the weapon. With his flannel in hand, Camdyn opens the door.

“Hey!” Hillary scowls.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bernard,” he grits out, coasting past her. “Lo, see you at school on Monday.”

My sister rounds on me. Maybe I’m radiating sadness and gloom because her rigid demeanor deflates. “Do you even like him?”

“Yeah,” I reply, voice low. My body loves him. My soul and spirit can’t fathom the slightest association with him. “What is it, Hil?”

“I heard noises.” She fidgets with her fingers. “Teen drama aside, may I pamper my little sister on her birthday?”

* * *

“What’s it gonna be?” I wriggle a brow, glancing over the Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles menu. “Is your pallet feeling presidential?”

“This is about you today, Lolo, and you already know what my petty ass is feeling.”

I tease, “A side salad?”

“Girl, please. What goes best with fried chicken wangs?” Pursing her lips like a duck, Hillary opens a handbag, so expensive it comes with papers, revealing a bottle of Dom.

Tossing on a sadiddy mask, I exaggerate, “Hmmm, I guess this calls for a few cups of OJ.”

A few minutes after we’ve ordered, Hillary blurts. “Lolo, Thad’s adamant Mom continue in her placement.”

A cold prickly silence lances our bonding moment.

“Sorry, Lolo. I was . . . gonna broach the subject later today, but it’s been sitting on my chest.” She places a manicured hand there. “I need to tell you something about Thad. We met through Aunt Azalea.”

Aunt Azalea’s nobody’s auntie. Hell, she’s unfit for the term pinned by Black families for a close yet unrelated confidant. In the Hollywood area, she’s known as Madame Azalea to a select, discreet clientele.

My eyes lower away from the sugar baby. “I’ve always known.”

“He only splurges for pretty stuff.” With a huff, she proceeds to shovel out a big info-dump in one breath of air. “The trip we took, back home to Dad’s side of the family, well, I read the story Mom wrote while she took a sabbatical in Barbados and met Dad. I read it while Thad watched barely legal girls in the resort pool. He looks shamelessly. Wait . . . He doesn’t look at you? Does he look at you? If I decide to return to college, it’ll be because I got student loans, or he’s killed over. Does he look at you?”

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