Lies Twist The Way We Think

Chapter 18 - Who the fuck is Dean (is what y'all are probably wondering)

Days feel weird now. I feel as though my mind is constantly turning in vicious cycles, never letting me rest. It's a devil's trap, and the fool I am, I knowingly fell into it.

When I feel like shit, there are certain things I do. They're not good, for me or for anyone else. But I can't help it. I move in vicious cycles too, and I can't help it.

The phone rings once, twice. Then he picks up. "Hello?"

"Dean," I murmur, and a wave of guilt mixed with nostalgia hits me.

I hear him take a sharp breath. "Oh God. Fucking hell, Camille. Is that you?"

"Yeah. Hi."

"Are you kidding me? You were like, dead for a week, Cam. No one knew where you were." His voice is rough; it reminds me of cigarettes and other days.

"Hey," I protest, "Aisha knew."

"The hijabi? How was I supposed to know that?"

"You could have just fucking asked," I say with a sharp tone, but secretly I'm just glad he picked up the phone. Of course I am.

"Whatever. Have you seen the news?"

I frown. "Why is everyone asking me that?"

"Drake's fucking talking, Cam. I don't know what the fuck he's saying, but he's making a shit ton of money with it."

My blood freezes. "What? I thought you had him under control? Don't you deal for him?"

Dean groans and I hear faint background noises. His voice is growing louder, more irritated. "This isn't good. Listen, sweetheart, you have to—"

"What is going on?" Nash stands in the door way, his bright blue eyes shining with curiosity. I've been keeping the phone on speaker.

"Hang on, Dean. Nothing, Nash. Would you please leave?"

"Alright who the fuck is Nash and why are you with him?" Dean's tone is threatening, and I flinch. "Answer me, Cam."

"Easy, tiger. No need to be rude now," Nash attempts to say.

"What is wrong with you?" I hiss at the phone. "Goodbye, Dean."

"Camille, don't you dare—" he yells, but I hang up before he can finish his sentence. I throw a look at the door only to see Nash still standing there.

"Who was that, your boyfriend?" He sounds carefully neutral.

"My ex," I murmur bitterly. Well, that went great Camille. You're still attached to him. Of course you are. You don't know how to exist without him.

"Ah," he says and walks over to my bed, making himself comfortable as though we are the best of friends. I find myself not being opposed to that. Traitor. "You do realise that that's probably not very healthy, don't you?"

My voice is shaky, a little breathless when I answer, and I hate myself for it. I hate it so much. "Yeah."

But maybe I am destructive and selfish and maybe I don't know how to control myself, but I loved him once and that is reason enough to break the world.

"So," Nash says, "Have you started buying things yet?"

"Uhm. No."

"Well you should." He picks up an iPad— wherever the hell he got that from, I don't know— "Look around this place. Nothing indicates that you live here."

"It's only been a week, Nash. I am barely adjusting. And Grayson isn't exactly making things easier." I watch him as he taps on the screen multiple times, then I decide to sit down next to him.

I thought he'd talk about Grayson and how I should understand him. "Camille," Nash says instead. and now his voice is far more concerning. "You'll wanna look at this."

"Why would I—" I cut off when I see what he pulls up. It's a video of Drake. Fuck.

He's standing next to a reporter. The fact that his hair is combed tella me that the interview hasn't been a total surprise. What a lying,  cheating asshole. The caption across the screen reads: Friend of the Grambs family.

I am going to murder him.

"They were both always loners, especially Camille," Drake said on-screen. "She doesn't have many friends."

I have Aisha—and that is all I need. Layla, maybe. But when I think about Layla, my stomach twists.

"I'm not saying she was a bad person. I think she was just kind of desperate for attention. She wanted to matter. A girl like that, a rich old man..." He trails off. "Let's just say that she never knew who her dad was."

Nash cuts the video off there.

"Can I see that?" I ask, gesturing toward the tablet with murder deeply embedded in my heart—and probably my eyes.

"No," he emphasises. "Although you should know that Zara and Skye are taking legal actions against you, or at least they're tryin' to. Something about Elder-abuse specialists. But don't worry," he adds when he sees the expression on my face. "Alisa's got you. You've got lawyers to back you up, Trouble. And me too." He playfully nudges me with his elbow.

I half-heartedly throw a pillow at him. "Don't call me that."

"It sticks really easily," Nash assures me and throws the pillow back at me. I don't have the energy to continue. "You know they don't have a legal leg to stand on, right?" His texan accent draws the words out funny. "Alisa can probably tell you more about this."

I nod. "I'll call her later." My gaze falls onto the table with my phones and the messages. "Today has been a bit much."

He laughs. "I can imagine. You have my number, Camille. Call me when anything's wrong."

Later, I check my phone and remember the first message I got. It was from an unknown number, but now I can guess easily whom it belongs to. It's the text that says, Hey, Trouble. You're officially famous.

Typical of Hawthornes to have my number before I give it to them. Typical and not at all weird.

I groan. When are things ever going to be normal again?

Never.