Page 20 of Craving Oblivion

“Do you still? Knowing what you had to give up?”

I squinted at the large clapboard building in front of me. Did I want it?

Cam’s tone became brisk. “Becoming a father puts a lot of things in perspective. I’m not going to be traveling as much. I want my kid to have no doubt who’s the most important person in my life.”

His gaze flicked to me, and though he didn’t say it, I understood his message: I was the product of famous, wealthy parents. I was also on the road, forced to be “on” pretty much twenty-four-seven. Which made the drugs and booze seem like necessities to get through the grueling days. He didn’t want his child to come in contact with the temptations he’d led me toward, no matter how unwittingly. I’d lapped all that shit up. I couldn’t blame him for worrying.

“Maybe I’ll pull a Shania Twain and make another record in fifteen years,” he said with a smile. “Maybe I won’t. I just know that now’s not my time. Jenna and the baby, they’re what matter.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Sure wish my parents had thought that way.”

His gaze remained steady. “I never told you why Carter and I didn’t talk for years. I thought he had an affair with my wife.”

“Jenna?” I gasped, the shock of such a suggestion rolling through me like wildfire. Fuck. I didn’t know Jenna as well as I wanted to, but I’d been so sure she and Cam were perfect together. If I couldn’t trust Cam’s relationship with Jenna, then I’d been right to think love was fake, a manipulation.

Cam laughed. “Nah. Jen’s as solid as they come. In love, anyway.” His soft smile remained indulgent. But it faded. “I told you ‘all in good time’ about my first wife. It’s time. She was into drugs.”

Shame rolled over me, and I wanted to drop my gaze. I used all my willpower to keep my eyes on his.

He nodded, a rueful smile curving his lips. “She wasn’t strong—or brave—like you, son. She was broken, emotionally, which is part of what drew me to her.” He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I guess I’ll always have a hero complex.”

I snorted. “You sure did want to save me.”

Cam put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me closer. I didn’t like people to touch me. Ever since that model in San Francisco, I’d been weird about personal space. But this felt…safe. Right. I soaked in the warmth of his hand on my skin, the feel of being wanted enough, cared for.

Tears formed in my eyes. Must be the damn hangover. I’m falling apart.

“You’re going to get well.”

I cleared my throat of emotion. “I’d better go in.”

“Think about my offer.”

“Will do.”

Chuck opened my door, and once I’d stepped out, he pulled me in for a bear hug. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

10

Aya

I straightened my spine, which had the benefit of better showing off my cleavage in my midnight-blue Monique Lhuillier embroidered gown. I had to admit I looked stunning. My long, thick, dark hair was pulled up in a sleek, sophisticated twist, and I wore the most fantastic blue pumps with peacock-blue accents that matched the rich embroidery of my gown.

Unfortunately, I didn’t much care.

Even the sumptuous 8 Northumberland Avenue’s Grand Room, right on Trafalgar Square, was somewhat underwhelming. Ever since my last encounter with Nash—weeks ago now—I’d felt detached.

I focused my attention on the table where I sat, so far alone. The finest china and daintiest crystal settings were accented by fancy lotus flowers on the jade linen napkins and the low, but elaborate centerpiece of greenery, white lilies, and red berries.

I scanned the room, vaguely noting the crystal chandeliers and gilt trim, telling myself I sought Alistair, but the same restlessness I’d felt since seeing Nash reared up again.

“I hate you.”

Why had I said that? I didn’t hate him—not then, and pathetically, not now. I’d wanted so desperately for him to hold me, to tell me he was there, that no one would hurt me again.

“I hate you.”

I closed my eyes against the harsh words. Against his shattered expression. Against the slew of articles I’d devoured recently that gave me the smallest insight into Nash’s life. There was little to work with. Pictures of him mourning his grandfather, head bent, had crushed me. He’d looked so alone, so lost.

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