The Wild Ones
Page 2
She shrugs one shoulder and shoots my line back to me. “Good point.”
CHAPTER THREE - Cami
The smell of bacon pulls me out of my dream with both hands. My first thought? Where am I? Once I realize the canopy above me was mine from childhood, my second thought comes in. Drogheda’s making me breakfast.
I smile. One of the best things about spending the summer at home is Drogheda, the housekeeper and my oldest confidante, and her wonderful cooking.
As I lie in bed, enjoying the familiar smells, my third thought rushes in, disturbing the peace of the morning. It comes in a vision—two twinkling greenish-gray eyes and a sexy grin.
Trick.
I should not be thinking about him. Still. But somehow that boy got under my skin. Big time.
Pick ‘treat.’ Please, for the love of God, pick ‘treat.’
Just remembering those words makes my stomach do a flip. What is it about him?
I hear a loud clank come from the kitchen. I smile. Whenever I sleep longer than what I should, Drogheda “accidentally” drops things in the kitchen. A lot. And very loudly. Eventually it wakes me up and I go down for breakfast. She’s devious like that.
Throwing back the covers, I stretch before tiptoeing across the room to quietly open the door. Ever since I was ten years old, Drogheda and I have played a game of cat and mouse the first day I’m back from school, before she gets used to me being home for the summer. I make a point to pop up unexpectedly and scare her at some point during that first day.
We did it all the way through grade school and prep school, and we’ve done it since I’ve been in college. It’s one of those traditions that, no matter how childish it is, I’ll always continue. And I’ll always treasure.
This morning, I’m getting started early. I creep in through the back entrance of the kitchen, making my way silently through the butler’s pantry. I peek around the corner and see Drogheda standing at the stove, her back to me. She’s humming softly as she so often does when she cooks. She has a spatula in one hand, flipping pancakes.
I wait until she flips the last of the four and moves to set her spatula aside before I pounce. In three long strides, I wrap my arms around her.
“Drogheda!” I cry, squeezing her tightly and kissing her rounded caramel cheek.
Drogheda screeches and reaches around to smack my butt with her palm. She lets out a string of words in her native language before she says something in her thick accent that I can understand. “Chica, you scare an old woman half to death!”
“Oh, you love it and you know it.” I reach around her and take a piece of bacon that’s draining on a paper towel. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
Drogheda turns to me, one hand holding the spatula and the other on her hip. “Of course I’m happy to see you. The house is so empty without my picaro, my poco diabla.”
I stop chewing, pointing my half eaten strip of bacon at Drogheda. “My Spanish is a little rusty, but didn’t you just call me a little devil?”
“Me?” Drogheda asks, feigning innocence. “No, chica. You must’ve misunderstood. Why, I would never call such a sweet, innocent child a name like that.”
I snort. She snatches the bacon from my fingers and pops it in her mouth then points her spatula at me.
“Ladies don’t snort.”
I grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, you go sit down. Breakfast is almost ready.”
As she always has, Drogheda fixes herself a cup of coffee and sits with me while I eat.
“So, tell me about your plans for the summer,” Drogheda urges.
“You mean besides attending every party within a hundred mile radius and working on my tan?”
She swats at me. “Oh no! Mi Camille isn’t going to grow up to be one of those useless rich women. Tell me what you’re really going to do.”
I smile. Drogheda knows me well.
“Actually, I’d like to learn a little more about the business. I mean, I’ve always loved horses and somebody’s gonna have to take over once Daddy gets too old to oversee it all.”
“Ha,” Drogheda laughs. “Your papi will never be too old. You will have to prove to him that you can be his partner first. And then, maybe one day…”
“That’s some awfully sage advice from a pretty young thing like you, Drogheda. When did you get so smart?” At fifty-two, while she certainly isn’t young, Drogheda definitely doesn’t look her age. Her rich golden skin is still smooth and soft.
“What about that boy? Do you still see him?”
I smile. “Drogheda, his name is Brent, which you know. You are so ornery!”
She curls up her lip. “I don’t care. I don’t trust that boy. He is after something.”
I grin devilishly. “I can tell you exactly what he’s after.”
Drogheda’s face gets all stern and she points a finger at me. “Don’t you dare let him spoil you, chica! He’s not worth it. Save that for someone who loves you.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “I know, I know. I’ve had the lecture a thousand times, Drogheda. You do realize that I can’t stay a virgin forever, right?”
She’d kill me if she knew it was a moot point.
“I’m not saying stay a virgin forever. I’m saying wait. Just wait.”
“For what?”
“Not for what, for who.”
“But I told you. Brent loves me.”
“No, he doesn’t. Not like he should. He loves your beautiful face and your young body and your father’s company.”
“What else is there?”
“One day, someone will love you with or without all those things. You just have to find him. You’ll know when the time is right, mi Camille, when the boy is right. And trust an old woman, that boy is not the right one.”
CHAPTER FOUR - Trick
I move out from underneath the hood of the Hemi ‘Cuda and reach for a bottle of water.
“Damn, it’s hot under there!”
“Six months at the new job and already you’re a pansy,” Jeff ribs good-naturedly.
“Pansy, my ass! Stables are just a lot bigger and cooler than this rinky dink garage.”
“I guess the next time you need to work on your Mustang, you’ll just have to find a fancy garage to work in, then, won’t you?”
“Who are you kidding? That car is cherry, man! She doesn’t need any more work.”
“It looks cherry, but I happen to know the guy that restored it. Freakin’ pansy. Hell, that thing could fall apart on the road somewhere in BFE.”
“Not gonna happen. I hear he’s brilliant.”
“A brilliant pansy?”
“Yep.”
“And humble, too. Or so I hear.”
“Seriously, Rusty,” I begin. I’ve called my best friend, Jeff Catron, “Rusty” ever since his freckles started coming in around the third grade. Even though he’d long since outgrown them, the nickname stuck. “I just don’t know if a fuel injection system is gonna work with this model. I don’t think it’s gonna fit, bro.”
Rusty growls and runs a hand through his dark red hair. “Seriously?”
“You’re the expert. You should know. I mean, I could be wrong, but I just don’t see it happening.”
He sighs. “I thought it was worth a shot. But I think you’re right. I knew if there was anybody that could make it work, though, it’d be you.”
“The brilliant pansy?”
Rusty grins. “The humble brilliant pansy.” He wipes his hands on a towel and comes around to lean up against the grill of the ‘Cuda. “I gotta check out a car for a guy tonight. Out in the field. You coming?”
I shake my head. “You’re not talking me into this again.”
“I’m just asking in case I run into trouble with it. It’d be nice if you could at least be there. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need you, man. This could be a big deal for future restorations, though. This kid comes from money. I helped out a friend of his and now he’s willing to give me a shot. Who knows where it could lead?”
Rusty’s dream since we were kids has been to be a world-class muscle car restoration expert. I know his garage makes good money, more than enough to pay the bills, but he has dreams.
Just like I had dreams.
“If I let you sucker me into this, you owe me, Rus. Big time.”
Rusty nods. “Done. Anything.”
I sigh. “All right. What time?”
“9:30.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
His face breaks into a huge smile.
How do I let him talk me into this shit?
CHAPTER FIVE - Cami
“Jenna, you should totally get that, especially if you want to make a little extra money,” I say as she twirls in front of me.
She stops spinning and stares at me, confused. “Make a little extra money? Huh?”
“Sure. If I had some singles, I’d be trying to stuff a couple in your g-string right this minute.”
“Oh. Ha. Ha,” she says caustically, turning toward the bank of mirrors behind her. “Is it that bad?”
“Good Lord, Jenna! That skirt is so short I can see London, Paris and France from right here.”
Her lip pooches out in a pout. “Well what about the shirt?”
“Shirt? Is that what you’re calling it?” Although I do like the soft pink color and the lettuce edge, the top needs at least two more inches of material to not be considered one half of a bikini.
“God, when did you become my mother?”
“When you started dressing like a stripper,” I tease with a wink.
Jenna’s shoulders slump. “Is it really that bad?”
She isn’t finding my teasing funny, which isn’t like her at all. She usually gives as good as she gets. “You know I’m just picking on you. It’s just…different. That’s all. I love the color and the trim. And the skirt is really cute, it’s just a little shorter than stuff you usually wear. That’s all. Who are you trying to impress anyway?”
She comes over and sits in the chair beside me. “Trevor and I have dated since our freshman year in high school. I know he loves me, but lately, I can’t help but feel like I’m losing him a little.”
“And this is how you plan to win him back?”
“Of course! What hot-blooded American guy doesn’t love a stripper?”
“For the night, maybe. But for longer?” I look at her skeptically.
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t try to spice things up?”
“Spice things up?”
“Yeah. You know, spread my sexual wings a little.”
“Exactly where are your wings located?” I kid as I look down at her short skirt.
She flips me the bird.
“Jenna, I’m not saying that at all. You know I, of all people, have zero advice to give. I’m just saying if it’s a temporary thing, fine. But if you feel like you’re losing him, like if it’s an emotional thing, I don’t think this is gonna help. At least not long term.”
She screws up her face and sticks her tongue out at me. That’s the Jenna equivalent of Cami, you’re right.
“You’re so smart it makes me sick.” She shoves her shoulder against mine in that gentle way that friends do.
“Have you talked to Trevor about any of this?”
Jenna wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.
“You should, you know.”
“I know, but it’s not that easy.”
“Well, find a way. He’s a nice guy. Maybe it’s fixable.”
“I hope you’re right,” she says, sighing. Jenna stays slumped in her chair like Eeyore for a few more seconds before she perks up. She looks at me. “You totally get me, you know?”
“I know. And it scares me.”
She grins, which is always a good sign. “So, stripper or no?”
I laugh. “Maybe one night as a stripper wouldn’t hurt anything.”
“And it might be fun.” She waggles her eyebrows comically.
“All right, all right. Settle down. I think we’re about to go into territory that makes my brain bleed.” I have a strict policy about Jenna grossing me out with her TMI tendencies.
“You shouldn’t think of it that way, Cam. You should look at my life as your own personal ‘What Not To Do’ manual.” She turns to me with a wicked smile in place. “Of course, it more often serves as the ‘What To Do’ manual.”
I roll my eyes as she struts back to the dressing room.
********
“It looks gorgeous,” Jenna says from the edge of my bed as she watches me curl my hair. “If you keep messing with it, you’ll ruin it.”
I push the handle to release the last curl. It falls into a gentle spiral. My hair has a natural wave. It’s not curly in that enviable loose-curl way and it’s not straight in that enviable poker-straight way. It’s just wavy, wavy in that has-a-mind-of-its own way. Basically, I have two options in life: a curling iron or a flat iron.
“Why are you so worried about it anyway? You never go to this much trouble for Brent.”
“What? I can’t spice things up, too?”
“Since when does your relationship with Brent need spicing up?”
“It’s not that it needs spicing up. I just thought it could use a little…” Greenish-gray eyes flash at me from my memory. It could use some of that, some of what Trick made me feel in less than five minutes.
CHAPTER THREE - Cami
The smell of bacon pulls me out of my dream with both hands. My first thought? Where am I? Once I realize the canopy above me was mine from childhood, my second thought comes in. Drogheda’s making me breakfast.
I smile. One of the best things about spending the summer at home is Drogheda, the housekeeper and my oldest confidante, and her wonderful cooking.
As I lie in bed, enjoying the familiar smells, my third thought rushes in, disturbing the peace of the morning. It comes in a vision—two twinkling greenish-gray eyes and a sexy grin.
Trick.
I should not be thinking about him. Still. But somehow that boy got under my skin. Big time.
Pick ‘treat.’ Please, for the love of God, pick ‘treat.’
Just remembering those words makes my stomach do a flip. What is it about him?
I hear a loud clank come from the kitchen. I smile. Whenever I sleep longer than what I should, Drogheda “accidentally” drops things in the kitchen. A lot. And very loudly. Eventually it wakes me up and I go down for breakfast. She’s devious like that.
Throwing back the covers, I stretch before tiptoeing across the room to quietly open the door. Ever since I was ten years old, Drogheda and I have played a game of cat and mouse the first day I’m back from school, before she gets used to me being home for the summer. I make a point to pop up unexpectedly and scare her at some point during that first day.
We did it all the way through grade school and prep school, and we’ve done it since I’ve been in college. It’s one of those traditions that, no matter how childish it is, I’ll always continue. And I’ll always treasure.
This morning, I’m getting started early. I creep in through the back entrance of the kitchen, making my way silently through the butler’s pantry. I peek around the corner and see Drogheda standing at the stove, her back to me. She’s humming softly as she so often does when she cooks. She has a spatula in one hand, flipping pancakes.
I wait until she flips the last of the four and moves to set her spatula aside before I pounce. In three long strides, I wrap my arms around her.
“Drogheda!” I cry, squeezing her tightly and kissing her rounded caramel cheek.
Drogheda screeches and reaches around to smack my butt with her palm. She lets out a string of words in her native language before she says something in her thick accent that I can understand. “Chica, you scare an old woman half to death!”
“Oh, you love it and you know it.” I reach around her and take a piece of bacon that’s draining on a paper towel. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
Drogheda turns to me, one hand holding the spatula and the other on her hip. “Of course I’m happy to see you. The house is so empty without my picaro, my poco diabla.”
I stop chewing, pointing my half eaten strip of bacon at Drogheda. “My Spanish is a little rusty, but didn’t you just call me a little devil?”
“Me?” Drogheda asks, feigning innocence. “No, chica. You must’ve misunderstood. Why, I would never call such a sweet, innocent child a name like that.”
I snort. She snatches the bacon from my fingers and pops it in her mouth then points her spatula at me.
“Ladies don’t snort.”
I grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, you go sit down. Breakfast is almost ready.”
As she always has, Drogheda fixes herself a cup of coffee and sits with me while I eat.
“So, tell me about your plans for the summer,” Drogheda urges.
“You mean besides attending every party within a hundred mile radius and working on my tan?”
She swats at me. “Oh no! Mi Camille isn’t going to grow up to be one of those useless rich women. Tell me what you’re really going to do.”
I smile. Drogheda knows me well.
“Actually, I’d like to learn a little more about the business. I mean, I’ve always loved horses and somebody’s gonna have to take over once Daddy gets too old to oversee it all.”
“Ha,” Drogheda laughs. “Your papi will never be too old. You will have to prove to him that you can be his partner first. And then, maybe one day…”
“That’s some awfully sage advice from a pretty young thing like you, Drogheda. When did you get so smart?” At fifty-two, while she certainly isn’t young, Drogheda definitely doesn’t look her age. Her rich golden skin is still smooth and soft.
“What about that boy? Do you still see him?”
I smile. “Drogheda, his name is Brent, which you know. You are so ornery!”
She curls up her lip. “I don’t care. I don’t trust that boy. He is after something.”
I grin devilishly. “I can tell you exactly what he’s after.”
Drogheda’s face gets all stern and she points a finger at me. “Don’t you dare let him spoil you, chica! He’s not worth it. Save that for someone who loves you.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “I know, I know. I’ve had the lecture a thousand times, Drogheda. You do realize that I can’t stay a virgin forever, right?”
She’d kill me if she knew it was a moot point.
“I’m not saying stay a virgin forever. I’m saying wait. Just wait.”
“For what?”
“Not for what, for who.”
“But I told you. Brent loves me.”
“No, he doesn’t. Not like he should. He loves your beautiful face and your young body and your father’s company.”
“What else is there?”
“One day, someone will love you with or without all those things. You just have to find him. You’ll know when the time is right, mi Camille, when the boy is right. And trust an old woman, that boy is not the right one.”
CHAPTER FOUR - Trick
I move out from underneath the hood of the Hemi ‘Cuda and reach for a bottle of water.
“Damn, it’s hot under there!”
“Six months at the new job and already you’re a pansy,” Jeff ribs good-naturedly.
“Pansy, my ass! Stables are just a lot bigger and cooler than this rinky dink garage.”
“I guess the next time you need to work on your Mustang, you’ll just have to find a fancy garage to work in, then, won’t you?”
“Who are you kidding? That car is cherry, man! She doesn’t need any more work.”
“It looks cherry, but I happen to know the guy that restored it. Freakin’ pansy. Hell, that thing could fall apart on the road somewhere in BFE.”
“Not gonna happen. I hear he’s brilliant.”
“A brilliant pansy?”
“Yep.”
“And humble, too. Or so I hear.”
“Seriously, Rusty,” I begin. I’ve called my best friend, Jeff Catron, “Rusty” ever since his freckles started coming in around the third grade. Even though he’d long since outgrown them, the nickname stuck. “I just don’t know if a fuel injection system is gonna work with this model. I don’t think it’s gonna fit, bro.”
Rusty growls and runs a hand through his dark red hair. “Seriously?”
“You’re the expert. You should know. I mean, I could be wrong, but I just don’t see it happening.”
He sighs. “I thought it was worth a shot. But I think you’re right. I knew if there was anybody that could make it work, though, it’d be you.”
“The brilliant pansy?”
Rusty grins. “The humble brilliant pansy.” He wipes his hands on a towel and comes around to lean up against the grill of the ‘Cuda. “I gotta check out a car for a guy tonight. Out in the field. You coming?”
I shake my head. “You’re not talking me into this again.”
“I’m just asking in case I run into trouble with it. It’d be nice if you could at least be there. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need you, man. This could be a big deal for future restorations, though. This kid comes from money. I helped out a friend of his and now he’s willing to give me a shot. Who knows where it could lead?”
Rusty’s dream since we were kids has been to be a world-class muscle car restoration expert. I know his garage makes good money, more than enough to pay the bills, but he has dreams.
Just like I had dreams.
“If I let you sucker me into this, you owe me, Rus. Big time.”
Rusty nods. “Done. Anything.”
I sigh. “All right. What time?”
“9:30.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
His face breaks into a huge smile.
How do I let him talk me into this shit?
CHAPTER FIVE - Cami
“Jenna, you should totally get that, especially if you want to make a little extra money,” I say as she twirls in front of me.
She stops spinning and stares at me, confused. “Make a little extra money? Huh?”
“Sure. If I had some singles, I’d be trying to stuff a couple in your g-string right this minute.”
“Oh. Ha. Ha,” she says caustically, turning toward the bank of mirrors behind her. “Is it that bad?”
“Good Lord, Jenna! That skirt is so short I can see London, Paris and France from right here.”
Her lip pooches out in a pout. “Well what about the shirt?”
“Shirt? Is that what you’re calling it?” Although I do like the soft pink color and the lettuce edge, the top needs at least two more inches of material to not be considered one half of a bikini.
“God, when did you become my mother?”
“When you started dressing like a stripper,” I tease with a wink.
Jenna’s shoulders slump. “Is it really that bad?”
She isn’t finding my teasing funny, which isn’t like her at all. She usually gives as good as she gets. “You know I’m just picking on you. It’s just…different. That’s all. I love the color and the trim. And the skirt is really cute, it’s just a little shorter than stuff you usually wear. That’s all. Who are you trying to impress anyway?”
She comes over and sits in the chair beside me. “Trevor and I have dated since our freshman year in high school. I know he loves me, but lately, I can’t help but feel like I’m losing him a little.”
“And this is how you plan to win him back?”
“Of course! What hot-blooded American guy doesn’t love a stripper?”
“For the night, maybe. But for longer?” I look at her skeptically.
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t try to spice things up?”
“Spice things up?”
“Yeah. You know, spread my sexual wings a little.”
“Exactly where are your wings located?” I kid as I look down at her short skirt.
She flips me the bird.
“Jenna, I’m not saying that at all. You know I, of all people, have zero advice to give. I’m just saying if it’s a temporary thing, fine. But if you feel like you’re losing him, like if it’s an emotional thing, I don’t think this is gonna help. At least not long term.”
She screws up her face and sticks her tongue out at me. That’s the Jenna equivalent of Cami, you’re right.
“You’re so smart it makes me sick.” She shoves her shoulder against mine in that gentle way that friends do.
“Have you talked to Trevor about any of this?”
Jenna wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.
“You should, you know.”
“I know, but it’s not that easy.”
“Well, find a way. He’s a nice guy. Maybe it’s fixable.”
“I hope you’re right,” she says, sighing. Jenna stays slumped in her chair like Eeyore for a few more seconds before she perks up. She looks at me. “You totally get me, you know?”
“I know. And it scares me.”
She grins, which is always a good sign. “So, stripper or no?”
I laugh. “Maybe one night as a stripper wouldn’t hurt anything.”
“And it might be fun.” She waggles her eyebrows comically.
“All right, all right. Settle down. I think we’re about to go into territory that makes my brain bleed.” I have a strict policy about Jenna grossing me out with her TMI tendencies.
“You shouldn’t think of it that way, Cam. You should look at my life as your own personal ‘What Not To Do’ manual.” She turns to me with a wicked smile in place. “Of course, it more often serves as the ‘What To Do’ manual.”
I roll my eyes as she struts back to the dressing room.
********
“It looks gorgeous,” Jenna says from the edge of my bed as she watches me curl my hair. “If you keep messing with it, you’ll ruin it.”
I push the handle to release the last curl. It falls into a gentle spiral. My hair has a natural wave. It’s not curly in that enviable loose-curl way and it’s not straight in that enviable poker-straight way. It’s just wavy, wavy in that has-a-mind-of-its own way. Basically, I have two options in life: a curling iron or a flat iron.
“Why are you so worried about it anyway? You never go to this much trouble for Brent.”
“What? I can’t spice things up, too?”
“Since when does your relationship with Brent need spicing up?”
“It’s not that it needs spicing up. I just thought it could use a little…” Greenish-gray eyes flash at me from my memory. It could use some of that, some of what Trick made me feel in less than five minutes.
