Page 6 of Wanting Cameron

“I’m Cam,” I say, trying to control the slur in my words. “Cameron. Rhodes.”

“Claire. You’re American.”

“Guilty,” I say. “You’re Scottish.”

“Also guilty.”

Her accent is soft, melodic. Not the clipped Edinburgh accent I’ve gotten used to at school. This is something gentler. Southern, maybe. Borders.

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“Dumfries,” she says. “You?”

“Connecticut.”

“Ah,” she says, like that explains something.

We talk for a while about nothing, really. Music, mostly. She likes some of the same bands I do. We argue good-naturedly about whether Harry Styles’s last album was overrated—she says no, I say yes. She tells me she saw Billie Eilish in Edinburgh last year and it was the best concert she’s ever attended.

It’s the first time I’ve spoken to a girl in weeks, so you think I’d be a mess. But talking to her is easy. She doesn’t judge. She doesn’t make me feel like I have to prove something or defend myself or keep my guard up every second. At St. Silas, every conversation with another guy is a negotiation. A power play. There’s an undercurrent of aggression, a threat of violence simmering just beneath the surface of everything. You have to be ready to push back, to assert yourself, to make sure no one thinks you’re weak.

It’s exhausting.

But Claire is gentle. She laughs at my jokes. She touches my arm lightly when she’s making a point, her fingers brushing against my skin in a way that makes my pulse quicken. I like her. I think she likes me too.

She’s leaning in closer now, her green eyes bright, and I’m about to say something. I don’t even know what, when I hear it.

“Claire!”

The voice is sickeningly familiar. American.

Claire’s face lights up. “Luc!”

I turn, and there he is.

Lucien Ashford.

The world’s biggest asshole.

He saunters to us, impossible to miss. He’s taller than me by at least three inches, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with the profile of a Greek god. Something about the way he looks makes me feel on edge. He owns the space around him, and I find myself slouching, trying to take up less room. I hate how I automatically make space for him, anticipating his physical dominance.

We’re the same age: sixteen. But Lucien doesn’t look it. He already has the body of a man.

Claire hugs him and disappears when he wraps his arms around her.

“Luc,” she says again, pulling back to look at him. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I came to see you,” he says, flirting. His voice is smooth, warm in a way I’ve never heard before.

“You know Cameron?” Claire asks, looking toward me.

Lucien’s gray eyes flick to me, and the warmth disappears.

“Yeah,” he says. “Same year at St. Silas.”

“Small world,” Claire says, smiling.

I don’t say anything. I just stand there, watching them, trying to figure out what the fuck is happening.