Page 71 of Echoes in the Storm
I narrow my gaze on her. “Just how muchdideveryone talk about us?”
Susie rubs a nervous hand over the back of her neck. “A little.”
“Great.” I push to my feet abruptly enough that she takes a hasty step backward. “I better go see Mary.”
I get my arse handed to me on a platter. Mary’s the type that takes no shit, and if you’ve got issues outside the theatre she doesn’t care, which suits me fine. I need somebody to slap me back into line. I don’t want to be babied over a pathetic broken heart. I shouldn’t be letting Duke’s departure hurt me this much—he was only here for six days.
And yet it felt like a lifetime.
I manage to get as far as my car before my carefully stacked tower of confidence slips and topples. A part of me is thankful for the lack of streetlights near the parking lot as I rest my head on the steering wheel and burst into tears, but the remainder of me is torn apart as I sit in the very thing that reminds me of Duke the most: the darkness.
“Get it together, Cam,” I whisper to myself. I can’t let myself fall to pieces—not yet, anyway. I have to stay strong considering Jared is coming over with the new contract tomorrow. It seems Duke did one good thing before he left: he scared my ex enough to ensure I have the agent I want for the sale.
Ridiculous.I would have signed with Terry if it meant keeping Duke here longer. If only I had one more day.
I damn near jump out of my skin as a solid knock sounds on my window. “Holy, shit!” Clicking the key around one, I drop the window and frown at Bevan. “I almost died of a heart attack.”
“Better than dying because you wallowed in your heartache,” he counters.
“Touché.” I look over his shoulder at Susie standing a little way back, having a smoke. “What do you two want?”
“You.” Bevan reaches out and opens my door. “We’re heading to the pub. I’d ask if you want to come, but it’s not up for negotiation.”
“I’m not dressed for it,” I protest weakly, touched that they want to include me.
“Shut up,” Susie teases, stamping her smoke out. “It’s Burbank. You’d fit right in wearing stubbies and gumboots.”
“I said to leave you alone,” Bevan explains, “but Susie here was adamant we can’t stand by and watch you self-destruct.” He rubs a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I realise we’re just theatre buddies and all that, but you know—”
“We thought you might like company,” Susie finishes for him.
I do—not theirs, is all. “Fine. A drink can’t hurt.”
“Fine,” Bevan echoes, putting my window up. “We’re getting an Uber.” He reaches in and snags my keys. “Grab your bag, princess.”
I spend the ride to the pub wondering how in the hell I was so blind that I didn’t notice a burgeoning romance between these two.Oh, that’s right—I had a moody soldier keeping me distracted.Susie does her best to fend Bevan off, probably aware how the sight of them cosying up might affect me, but I can see it. They’re smitten with each other. I want to punch them each in the face, and then dance on their happiness.
The local rugby team pour in fresh on the heels of another victory as I nurse my vodka at the bar. Sweat and testosterone envelops me as the burly guys crowd into the only available spots to order their drinks.
Susie squeezes in between what appears to be a prop and me. “Plenty of talent for you tonight.”
Talent, aka fuckable men.
“I’m not interested.” Not when the thought of getting naked with anyone but Duke makes me feel physically ill.So ruined.
“Come on.” She nudges me as Bevan hands her a new drink. “Have a dance at least. If I wanted you to sit around feeling sorry for yourself, I would have let you go home.”
One look at her sorrowful face and I know I should. They’ve done me good, making sure I come out tonight. The least I can do istryto have fun.
The troublesome duo spends the next two hours plying me with drinks until I’m literally one of the last left on the small dance floor, shaking my arse to some song I’ve never heard before. It’s not pretty, but thanks to the numbing effects of the vodka sloshing around in my empty stomach, I don’t care.
I’m still sober enough, though, that the attention my uncoordinated dancing gets doesn’t go unnoticed.
“You need to slow down,” Mr Tall-and-Jacked-Rugby-Player says as he slides in behind me, his hands to my hips.
I move out of his reach, not wanting him to touch me, but not minding the distraction his conversation provides. “I’m fine,” I slur, slicing my hand through the air.
He chuckles, steadying me on my feet. The guy’s quite handsome: blond hair, chiselled jaw, thick neck. In another time, maybe … “How about you sit down and I’ll get you a water?”