Page 13 of The Malibu Secret

Focus, Cameron. There will be refugees who need your hands steady, your mind clear. Not daydreaming about the curve of her shoulder blade under your fingers.

Though as distractions go, she's exquisite.

Chapter Ten

TALLY

These past few weeks have flown by, and I've shocked myself by not wanting to kick Cameron out of my apartment. And it's not just because he's good in bed. It's the way he is—how he actually listens when I talk. Most nights after he comes over, after the takeout containers are empty and the sheets are rumpled, we end up dangling our legs off my fire escape, city lights blinking below us.

Last night, the words just kept flowing between us until 3 AM. I found myself telling him about the first tattoo I ever designed—the one that made me realize I could turn pain into something beautiful. He told me about holding a newborn baby during his first rotation and knowing right then that medicine was his calling.

Tonight, we’re again on my fire escape, sharing a bottle of wine, passing it back and forth, not even bothering with glasses. We’re talking about me right now, and I’m explaining how I came to become an artist. "Art saved me. Every time they moved me to a new foster home, I'd find something to draw with. Didn't matter if it was crayons or a ballpoint pen stolen from some social worker's desk. I'd make these little Play-Doh figures and hide them under my bed so they wouldn't get thrown out." I met his eyes briefly before looking away. "Couldn't exactly tell Mrs. Whatever-her-name-was how terrified I was that my mom would never get clean, you know? But somehow I'd paint this storm, or this broken bird, and later I'd look at it and think, 'Oh. That's how I feel.'"

And then he puts his arm around me, and I let him. "You're worried about your mother, now, aren't you?"

Cameron gets it. Gets that I should probably hate the woman who turned my childhood into a three-ring circus, but I don't. I fucking love her. Not some TV fantasy mom, but mine—messy, real, mine. I've spent my whole life trying to see past her chaos to the love I know is there. Even now, when she can't be bothered to visit her daughter in the hospital after a goddamn car wreck, I'm not mad. Just see a broken woman doing her broken best.

"Yes," I say, nodding as I take another pull on the wine bottle. "Every day I wonder if she's dead in an alley somewhere. Homeless people get treated like garbage—beaten, burned, worse. Or maybe this time she'll finally OD. Or some random hookup will put her in the ground." I swallow hard. "And I keep thinking I should protect her somehow, you know? But how the hell do you protect someone who's basically a ghost?"

I swallow hard. Cameron's arm stays wrapped around me, warm and steady. "You know what's funny? I actually tried the whole prayer thing once. My first foster family—I was seven—they were super religious. Dragged me to this huge church with stained glass windows that made the light look like it was bleeding. Every Sunday for a year, I'd kneel there in my stupid frilly dress and beg God to fix my mom. Like, please make her stop taking pills, please make her stop bringing home these creeps, please just make her...my mom again." I let out a short laugh. "Spoiler alert: God ghosted me."

A few more sips of wine and I dangle my legs over the sides of the fire escape. “So, tell me what drew you into medicine.”

He smiles. "I've always been the black sheep. While my grandfather built his empire and most of my brothers climbed the corporate ladder after him, I wanted something different." He counts off on his fingers. "Kalen's got platinum records, Connor's got movie premieres, and the rest—Max, Roman, Silas, Asher, Ansel—they've all got corner offices and stock portfolios." His smile softens. "After Dad left, I spent years patching up my brothers' emotional wounds. Made me realize I wanted to heal people for real." He shrugs. "Thought about psychiatry until I learned it was more about prescriptions than conversations. So I packed my bags for Somalia, then Syria with Doctors Without Borders. Now I'm at Cedars, putting people back together after their worst days—gunshots, car wrecks, whatever comes through those ER doors."

I swirl my wine glass. "So what's next after Sicily?"

"Sports medicine fellowship." He leans back. "I'm done with the ER after this."

"Sports medicine?" My eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously?"

He shrugs, those broad shoulders moving under his shirt. "The ER's killing me, honestly. And Caspian—he's Roman's best friend—wants a doctor for his chain of MMA gyms. Professional fighters need someone who understands their bodies." He takes a long sip of wine, his throat working. "Plus," he adds, voice softening, "I'd get to see my brothers more. Roman and Max both train there."

And we talked like that until the sun slashed through the blinds, bleeding gold across his face.

It's moments like this—his fingers tracing my tattoos, his voice wrapping around me—that will fucking haunt me when he's gone.

Because when he leaves for Sicily, he won't come back to me. That truth burns in my gut, carved deeper than any ink under my skin.

Chapter Eleven

TALLY

Tonight's our last real night together before Cameron ships out for a year—if he ever comes back at all. We've had a good run though. Mind-blowing sex. Food that makes me moan. He didn't just cook for me; he dragged my ass into the kitchen and showed me how. "Give a girl a fish, feed her for a day; teach a girl to fish, feed her for life," he'd say with that stupid grin.

And Jesus, the way he makes my coffee. Better than any barista. He gets these beans from some hipster roaster I can't even pronounce, grinds them in that fancy machine he bought me (which I'm definitely keeping), and adds cream and sugar like he's got my taste buds mapped. That first sip every morning? That's another thing I'll miss when he's gone.

At least when Cam's gone I can finally see my girls again. I've been dodging them because the minute I walk in with this stupid grin plastered on my face, Celeste will know. And I can't lie to her—I'd have to spill that I've been screwing Cameron Kensington, Dr. Perfect himself, and she'd lose her shit. First, she'd say I'm corrupting him (trust me, that ship has sailed), and second, she'd remind me I'm just going to break his heart and the last thing Cam needs is another fucking tragedy. She'd be right about that part. I'm still not relationship material, and Cam deserves someone who doesn't have my particular talent for disaster.

Celeste's been blowing up my phone about Happy Hour, but I keep making excuses. I don't lie, but damn, I'm Olympic-level at leaving shit out. If I can see them without bringing up where I've been, maybe I can dodge the whole truth bomb. So yeah, the only upside to Cam leaving is getting my friends back.

Tonight, I'm going to bring him into my world. There's an exhibit in a warehouse downtown—one of those industrial spaces with exposed brick and steel beams where the hipsters hang out. It's a pop-up tattoo art thing that's only running this weekend. They've got these massive blown-up photographs of intricate back pieces hanging from the ceiling, flash sheets from the 1950s under glass, and this badass chick from Seattle doing live sessions right in the middle of the floor. You can literally watch skin transform while sipping overpriced craft beer from the makeshift bar.

I'm pumped for tonight with Cameron. Last time, he dragged me to this hole-in-the-wall jazz club where he absolutely killed it on stage—his voice and that piano? Pure magic. But of course, my phone has to ring right now.

"Tal," Mom's voice wavers on the line. When her number pops up, I always answer. Could be anything—she's passed out somewhere, or some dickhead boyfriend put her in the ER, or maybe—just maybe—she's finally ready to get clean. And if it's that last one? I'd drop everything. In a heartbeat. Yeah, she turned my childhood into a shit show of foster homes and chaos, but she's still my mom. She's still the woman whose fingers could make a piano weep, who almost played with the fucking LA Philharmonic before Oxy stole her away. The same woman who somehow traps my king every damn time we play chess, even though I'm ranked 1700 and she just plays for fun. My brilliant, broken mother. So when she calls, I answer. “I need help.”

I ask where she is.