Sins & Needles(77)

I nodded and winced as he began to wrap my leg with layers of bandages. He worked quickly and gently, his strong hands treating me like I was precious to touch. It was humbling having him dote on me like that, and for once it felt good to be taken care of. I didn’t want to brush him off and tell him I could handle it myself—I wanted him to handle it. I needed him, his touch, his attention. All of it.

When he was all done he ordered me to stay put. By now the sun was setting and casting the Vegas sky coral above the glitzy lights. He thought I should stay off my leg for a little while if I was going to be walking around for the rest of the night.

As he propped my leg up with a pillow, I said, “What about the clothes? I need some nice clothes and shoes for tonight and we’re running out of time.”

He looked up at me and shot me a cheeky smile. “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

Pfffht. As if I’d let him shop for me. “You don’t know my size. And I don’t trust your taste.”

He gave my toe a sharp squeeze and laughed. “Wow, so I pick out leopard print leggings for you one time and suddenly you think I have bad taste. Hey, just trust me. And I know your size. I’ve felt you up.”

A flash of his hands all over me flooded me with warmth. I ignored it, ignored the fact that I was lying in bed in front of him, stripped to my underwear, legs slightly askew. “Shoes?”

He leaned over and picked up my boot from the floor, peering at the sole. “Size eight.”

“But I hate high heels. I can’t walk in them.”

“So I won’t get you high heels.”

“You’ll be able to see the bandages on the top of my foot.”

“So then people will see the bandages. People get tattoos all the time here, I’m sure even the high rollers.”

“I have to have—”

“A long dress. I know. Just trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

And with that he got himself ready to go out and left me lying in bed, sore and slightly immobile. I flipped on the television and got wrapped up in a few episodes of Mythbusters before I started getting worried. Not about what clothes he was bringing me—though I was having visions of stripper platforms, cheetah-printed mini-skirts, and bikini tops—but because I wondered if that was all he was going out there to do.

I had to make a decision and I had to do it now. I couldn’t live in this indecisive, wishy-washy state of not knowing whether I could trust Camden or not. One minute I thought I could, the next I was afraid I couldn’t. It was making me feel bipolar, and in some strange way, wasn’t really fair to him. I had to decide how I felt about him and then I had to stick to it. If I got burned either way, then that was the risk.

I studied the patterns in the ceiling hoping to find a pattern in my thoughts. Camden led me on. He screwed me over as I was screwing him over. He had evidence on me that would put me in jail or at least get a warrant out for my arrest. He had a father who wanted nothing more than to serve me overdue justice. Camden had obvious control issues and his own methods of payback for all the wrongs I’d caused him. He had a meeting with Javier, Raul, and Alex and learned there was a giant price tag on my head. There were many reasons not to trust him.

But despite all my suspicions, it came down to two things. One: he’d had all these opportunities but so far hadn’t seized any of them. If he was just biding his time, I didn’t know. But it seemed the longer we were together, the more complicated things got. If he wanted to get rid of me, it was easier to do it sooner than later. The other reason was the most simple one. The most honest one. I had reason to trust him because I felt he could be trusted. Call it a gut feeling or primal instinct, but that’s what it came down to. I trusted him because I felt like I could, that I should.

Were hunches something to bet your life on? Well, I was in Sin City, where people did it every day. I’d just have to act like the high roller I was pretending to be and take the risk.

With that decision made, I felt a cloud of anxiety lift. It was so much easier to just worry about one thing. I must have been relieved enough to doze off because when I came to it was dark out and Camden was in the room holding a few heavy garment bags and shoe boxes.





“This game,” he announced, placing the packages on the floor with a dramatic flourish, “is a lot more fun when you’re playing it at Armani instead of a thrift store.”

“Who’s going first this time?” I asked as I sat up, my interest piqued.

“You,” he said. “I only have a tux. To put it on would ruin my private fashion show.”