Hush (9 page)

“And be the third wheel?” Nate says dryly. “No thanks.”

“No, we can get a group of us. Maggie and Christine and the girls.” Cam starts feeling a little more enthusiastic.

“Isn’t this supposed to be a date?” Nate asks.

“Yeah.” Cam shrugs and goes back to his closet. “I don’t know. It’ll just be more fun with you guys. More comfortable.”

“Well then,” Nate stands up. “I don’t have any thrilling plans for tonight. Text Maggie. What time are you supposed to meet Jason?”

“He’s coming here,” Cam says, distracted. “Okay, I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear to this place. Casual? Slightly better than casual?”

Nate laughs. “God, you’re getting so gay,” he jokes. Cam shoves him and then laughs too.

“That’s so offensive.”

“Here.” Nate plucks a shirt from Cam’s drawer. It’s a deep ma­roon with a shim­mering screened graphic of a tandem bicycle on it.

“That’s a T-shirt. That doesn’t fit any more,” Cam points out.

“It’s tight. It’s bright. Jason will totally dig it,” Nate says, gath­ering his towel and shower caddy.

“If you say so.” Cam looks at the shirt doubtfully, but trusts that Nate knows better than he what he should wear to a club.

“You look good,”
Jason says
almost as soon as he’s in the room. “Where’s Nate?”

“Showering,” Cam says. “And thank you.”

“Anytime.” Jason pulls him closer, starts kissing him slowly.

“What’s this about?” Cam pulls away, unused to easy physical­ity. “Nate will be back in a few minutes.”

“But he’s not here now, and you look too good to resist.”

Cam smiles, and enjoys the warm rush of flattery.

“You look pretty good yourself,” he says. He does; Jason’s hair is tousled and light and the buttermilk of his textured shirt seems to brighten the blue of his eyes. It was never exactly easy with Maggie, wanting touch or giving it, but it feels a lot simpler with Jason. Acquiescing to that urge, he leans in to kiss Jason some more. He’s just gotten his fingers threaded through Jason’s hair when there’s a flurry of knocks and the door opens.

“Hey, we’re ready—” Maggie stops dead. “Oh yeah. Um. Hi, Jason?”

“Hey,” Jason says easily. Cam surreptitiously wipes the mois­ture from his lips. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, they wanted to tag along,” Cam says, wincing. He proba­bly should have warned Jason beforehand. There’s a pause before Jason shrugs affably.

“The more the merrier, right?”

“Absolutely.” Maggie smiles, and it’s mostly real. Cam feels a bit guilty. It’s one thing for her to know he’s dating someone and another to see him with someone. Especially when she’s caught him in a kiss that certainly felt more passionate and immediate than any he’d shared with her. But she just rubs her hand over his bicep and winks.

“Nice shirt,” she says slyly.

Cam blushes and tries to change the subject. “So have you been to Decoy before?”

“Yeah, once,” Maggie says, settling comfortably at his desk chair. “It’ll be an experience for you.”

Cam huffs. “Nate said the same. Is there something specifically wrong with me?”

“No, honey, there’s nothing wrong with you,” Maggie assures him. “It’s just nothing that Cam a year ago would have wanted to do.”

“Cam a year ago?” Jason pipes in. “What does that mean?”

“You didn’t even know me a year ago,” Cam points out to her.

“Wow, hey,” Nate comes through the door, hair damp and flat against his forehead. “I wasn’t expecting an audience.”

“We’ll head down to the lobby,” Maggie says. “And see you in a few. Try not to primp too much; I don’t want to wait too long.”

“Oh fuck off,” Nate says good-naturedly. “You know you take the longest.”

“Never,” she says, gesturing to let Jason exit ahead of her. “I came into the world this beautiful. No effort needed.”

“Absolutely,” Cam says quietly, and is rewarded by a sweet, inti­mate smile.

“Wow, this is…” Cam stops
a few yards
from the club. Music pours out, bass thumping loudly. They’re early enough that there is almost no line.

“Told ya so,” Jason drawls. Cam frowns, a bit annoyed that Jason has assumed what he’s thinking. He isn’t even sure what Jason is implying.

Actually, he’s overwhelmed. This is
not
his milieu. They cross through the held-open door; Maggie gives the bouncer a friendly little wave and Jason gives him a nod. And maybe it’s the murky dark broken by the too-bright glitter of light from a disco ball combating the frenzy of multicolored strobe lights, or the way the music is so loud his bones vibrate; maybe it’s the smell of so many packed bodies, whose sweat amplifies a cacophony of perfumes and colognes, but it rubs him the wrong way, like a cat being petted backward.

“You need a drink,” Nate yells into his ear, tugging on his elbow. Cam feels the annoyed look that moves over his face before he can stop it. Luckily, Nate is persistent and also mostly immune to Cam’s rare bad moods.

He allows Nate to drag him to the long, sticky bar and lifts his hand with a grimace after accidentally resting it on the bar top. Maggie shoulder-bumps him from the side; he hadn’t realized she’d followed them as well.

“We’ll leave in a little while if you hate it,” she promises. “But let’s give it a chance, okay? Have a drink or two and see if you can’t just let go a bit.”

Jason’s hand curves into the small of his back; his body is close when he reaches for one of the shots Nate lines up on the bar in front of them. Cam makes a face but obligingly picks his up. He isn’t expecting the tap of Nate’s glass to his, and a little liquid spills over onto his fingers; Nate laughs, and he and Maggie do the same. With a breath and closed eyes, Cam tips back the shot.

The first shot is horrible; the second is worse because he knows what’s coming. It doesn’t quite burn like rubbing alcohol, so he guesses it isn’t vodka. Nate must remember the horror of Cam’s only previous encounter with that, for which Cam is marginally grateful. He’d be more grateful if whatever Nate has given him weren’t equally disgusting. He gags and covers his mouth.

“We’ll get you something else next,” Jason says into his ear. “And a chaser.” Cam wants to decline but thinks better of it. He will refuse the next offer.

They end up against the wall on the far side of the club. Jason seems content to wait while Cam gets his bearings. After a while, his irritation with the noise and heat starts to abate. There’s some­thing hypnotic about the lights and colors and the flicker­ing glimpses of people dancing. Next to him, Jason moves almost imper­ceptibly with the beat of the music.

“You should go dance,” Cam says. He has to pitch his voice louder and repeat himself.

“No, I’m fine,” Jason says, smiling at him intimately.

“No, really. Go dance with Maggie or someone. I want to watch,” Cam insists, and then laughs when he realizes the implication of his words. Jason shrugs, winks and holds his hand out to Maggie. Back against the wall again, Cam absorbs the resonance of the music. He considers sitting when one of the tables lining the peri­meter of the club is vacated, but it seems selfish to grab it just for himself.

Nate emerges from the miasma, two drinks in hand, one with a drink napkin wrapped around it. Cam bites back a sigh; he can’t even tell the color of the liquid inside. And he can’t decline if they don’t give him a chance.

Nate gestures toward the table Cam has been eyeing and slides in to claim it just ahead of another guy. This seems rather rude, but it’s so fucking loud Cam can’t apologize. The guy just shrugs, though, takes it in stride, and turns to find somewhere else to settle.

“Home base,” Nate shouts, noticing Cam’s concern about hog­ging the table. The drink Nate hands him lights with the colors of the room; it could be anything, and when he gives Nate a questioning look, Nate beams and waves at him to go ahead. Refusing whatever it is they all want to happen tonight is starting to feel like swimming upstream; rather than argue, he takes a sip. It’s fresh and cold and citrusy, with an unexpected little bite: something he can drink more slowly. Cam rolls his eyes at Nate, whose face is all smug anticipation, and gives him a facetious thumbs up.

“Hey, babe.” Jason’s voice, sudden in his ear, startles him. He kisses the crook of Cam’s neck. Cam squirms away; he is pleasantly loose—looser than he has been—but Jason is damp with sweat and his hand is too hot against Cam’s side; his kiss is too familiar. Jason ignores this and gestures toward Cam’s drink. He tastes it, makes a so-so gesture and gives it back.

“Come dance with me,” he begs. The dregs of Cam’s drink sear with increased potency—the alcohol in mixed drinks must settle. Maybe it will settle
him
, if he takes a chance.

“I don’t know how,” he responds.

Jason lights up. “Come on, I’ll teach you.”

What the hell
. It’s not as though he can make too big of a fool of himself with so many people surrounding them; he’s a whole lot less concerned than he might have been before having that last drink. He’s been watching the crowd long enough to get the general idea that not much skill will be required to pass himself off as mildly competent. He just needs fewer inhibitions.

Jason leads him into the throng, bumping past bodies, winding through them like a ribbon being threaded through lace. Cam has no idea where Jason is taking him, or why he chooses to stop where he does. Jason’s hands cups his hips, guiding him to the beat. Trying to watch him and not look around is confusing and inhibiting, but finally Cam curls his arms over Jason’s shoulders, closes his eyes and focuses only on the music and the movement of Jason’s body against him.

It takes a bit—maybe half a song, although it’s hard to tell, the way the DJ melts them together—before he starts to lose himself. The music prickles over his skin; Cam bites his lip and presses himself into Jason’s hands, incrementally more pliant and willing, when that feeling—that prickle—intensifies so suddenly it’s like being hit with a bucket of cold water. He gasps when his body jolts into a painful wakening.

He’s here
.

Cam has no doubt. He doesn’t question how he knows, he just
does
. He looks around dumbly, but too many bodies spin around him. Suddenly, all the drinks catch up to him too fast, too hard; he’s disoriented and sweating. He jerks back from Jason.

“Hey, are you okay?” Jason pulls him in. Cam pushes his hands away, struggling to scan the room over the heads of every­one danc­ing. It’s no use, not in these throbbing shadows; a small, dark-haired boy won’t stand out like a candle.

“I’m fine.” He turns back to Jason, trying to shout over the mu­sic and convey a calm he in no way feels. “I just need the bath­room.”

Jason points toward a corner, where Cam can see the faint white glow of a restroom sign with an arrow pointed at a dark hall. Cam tilts his head to indicate he’s headed there.

“I’ll meet you at the table,” Jason shouts.

Cam pushes his way through the throng with little finesse. There are definitely a lot more people here now than when he arrived; that feeling of
too much
presses back in on him. What’s dizzying him is amplified by the needle-in-a-haystack quality of the search. There’s no sense of direct pull to help guide him, just the knowledge that Wren is here somewhere.

Cam peers into faces, scans everywhere he can. At his height, he’s able to see over the heads of many people, but it’s just too fucking dark, and the insistence of strobe lights casts tricking shadows all over the place.

And then
it
surges, that amorphous, unsettling knowledge of being called toward something. Cam gasps and stops stock-still—and it’s gone. It’s gone so fast he stumbles. He spins around but sees nothing. His whole body tingles with the sort of pain that comes to a waking limb. He stands where he is, eyes closed and heart pounding, and knows it’s useless to search anymore.

When he enters the bathroom, he’s shocked. The floor is wet; the towel dispenser is empty. Suds linger in the chipped bowls of sinks. The walls are covered in paint and pen, words and drawings, graffiti both crude and wistful, obscene and poetic. And from the far stall come the unmistakable sounds of two people together.

Cam feels a rush of blood burning all the way to his hairline. In the mirror, he’s sweaty and rumpled, hair mussed, and there’s something unreadable about his own eyes. It’s disconcerting; he feels so out of his element.
I’m drunk
. He waves his hands under one faucet, cursing automatic sensors, and then tries a second when the first doesn’t comply. He lets the too-cold water run over his hands and wrists, and splashes some over his face. The noises—breathless and laughing and encouraging—spill from the far side of the room. Cam is fascinated by his response; he’s aware and too hot and
turned on
.

Cam shakes his head and slams out of the bathroom. It takes a while to wend his way through the bodies to find his friends. It’s just Maggie at the table, though, sipping something and bobbing her head to the music.

“I have to go,” he says urgently into her ear. She jolts and spills her drink. “Shit,” he says, groping for napkins and finding only damp ones from their beverages. He uses the few dry corners to dab at the wet splotch on her pants. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Her hand covers his and she ducks to look into his eyes. “Hey, are you okay?” Her smell lingers when she pulls away. Cam tries to hide the way his hands are shaking.

“Yeah, I just—I can’t find Jason and this is too many people; those drinks hit me too hard,” he says, wondering if it’s a good excuse.

“Go outside,” Maggie orders. “I just saw him, I think. I’ll find him. Text Nate once you’re out there.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Outside, the air is freezing against his damp skin, and when he gulps it into his suddenly aching lungs, Cam starts to laugh. He laughs and wanders in the opposite direction from the line into the club as he shrugs into his coat. He ignores the looks he gets and walks down the street a half block before pulling out his phone to text Nate.

Sry, but had to leave. Don’t worry abt me, I’ll see you at home

He’s surprised to get an almost immediate response.

U sure?

He texts as quickly as his numb fingers will permit.

Yes

Cam leans against the wall. The bricks bite unevenly through the thin material of his coat. Frenetic heat seeps from his body. Above him, the sky is clouded. He doesn’t move when he feels a touch on his elbow.

“I couldn’t find Jason,” Maggie says.

“Let’s just get out of here.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll text him.” Cam says, motioning to his phone. It’s awful, but Cam is glad she didn’t find Jason. Maggie gives him the look he’s learned means she’s figuring something out about him. He looks away.

“I’ll do it,” she says finally, and tugs the sleeve of his shirt. “You can’t text and walk for shit.”

Cam smiles and resists the urge to tell her about the article he read earlier in the week about the surprising number of walking-while-texting-related injuries and deaths. Lectures can wait, espe­cially when she’s doing him a favor.

At some point that night
Cam manages to pull some coherent thoughts together.

a) He needs to apologize to Jason

b) Which means he should respond to the texts Jason sent

and

c) He has to go back to that club, because it’s the closest he’s come to Wren in months and he can’t not chase down even the slightest lead.

Tacked onto these points is a P.S.: He has to acknowledge that he might be an asshole, because he’s enjoying what he’s just started with Jason, but he’s willing to drop him for even a hint of that something he felt with Wren.

Nate doesn’t come home that night, which is good, because Cam’s been drinking and that makes it more tempting than ever to try to talk about this. Cam’s not stupid; he knows that any attempt to explain some mysterious tether to a elusive boy he’s said maybe sixty words to
ever
and hasn’t seen in months would only seem crazy—crazier than anything he’s said, fool­ish and down­right bizarre. God, he’s so strange. His
life
is. Small-town, out-of-touch Cam would think…

He’s not even sure what Cam-two-years-ago would think. Because on the other side of a lot of changes and a lot—but not enough, he knows instinctively—of growing, Cam’s not sure he recog­nizes that Cam at all anymore.

* * *

“Hey, brother,” Peyton’s voice
comes
quietly through the line. Cam yawns and tries to pry his eyes open. He feels as though he’s
just
gone to sleep. And as though he ate a bag of cotton balls.

“Pey, what time is it?” he groans.

“Where I am or where you are?” Peyton laughs. Cam feels his eyes slipping shut and pulls the blankets up around his shoulders.

“I don’t know where you are,” he murmurs.

“Good point,” she says, and sings softly, “Wake up, Cam.”

He sighs and hitches himself into a sitting position. The glowing numbers of Nate’s ridiculous Captain America alarm clock tell him it’s a quarter past three. He
had
just gone to sleep.

“Are you okay?” he asks around a jaw-aching yawn.

“I’m not calling about me,” she says.

“Hmm.” The constant brightness of campus streetlights spills through the window. Cam traces the seam of his comforter. “What, is your spidey sense tingling?” he jokes.

“Absolutely.”

Cam has no idea why, but the easiness of her answer, the affa­bility and laissez faire tone of her voice suddenly
enrages
him.

“You know what,” he says too loudly, “you can seriously fuck off.” He hangs up the phone and tosses it onto the bed, then puts a hand to his head.
What the hell was that?
The phone rings again almost immediately.

“I have no idea—”

“Wow,” Peyton is laughing, but in a shocked sort of way. “You’re mad at me. I don’t remember the last time you were mad at me. That was kind of… refreshing. And sudden. Irrational?”