Love Songs & Other Lies(25)
Cam’s voice is soft and cautious. “Better?”
I nod, I think. Cam lets one hand drift down to the side of my neck, his fingers curling softly around it while his other continues its lazy temple circles. All that registers is Cam’s smell. His soap and his minty shampoo fill my nose, and I might as well be seventeen. His hand falls away and is replaced by his warm skin—rough like sandpaper against my check, his breath warm in my ear. “I missed you.” The words drift past my ear, so soft they’re more like a sigh. The old feelings—the bright hot burning that’s bubbling up in my stomach and spreading through my limbs—is overtaking me, and I want to lean forward. I want to bridge this tiny gap between us, fill that space with our lips.
Then a door slams, and his fingers are lead weights on my skin.
As my eyes snap open I pull myself out of the grip of Cam’s hands. One is still resting on my temple while the other rests on my collarbone, his thumb grazing back and forth there. I twist my shoulders and let them both fall away. I look behind me, where Tad’s camera is still rolling, the red light blinking ominously. What had that looked like? I know what it had felt like, and now it’s been permanently copied somewhere other than in my mind.
I take a step around Cam. “I’m going to go lie down.” I’m trying to keep my tone as casual as possible, like we’re just two friends. But really, I’m not sure that we were ever friends.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THEN
VIRGINIA
Step One: Say Goodbye to Virginia Miller
A few text messages last night. That’s all it took for this guy—practically a stranger—to lure me into his car. At least I’m not in the trunk. We’re sitting in his car, on the way to the nearest mall, which is a thirty-five-minute drive.
“Tell me about her,” Cam says.
Tell you about my imaginary persona? My alter ego. God, this is weird.
“Start with something easy. What’s her name?” When I don’t say anything, he looks over at me with a smile. “Mine’s going to be Parker Sunset.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “Does Parker Sunset also work the pole?”
“Only because these band gigs don’t pay the bills yet.” He gives me a playful smile. “You just combine your first pet and the street you grew up on. Boom.”
“I really don’t want my alter ego to be Fish Dunewood.”
“You had a fish named Fish? How meta.”
“It was a cat named Fish, and I was seven. I thought it was funny. And I’ve already decided I’m going to be Dakota Gray. I get to keep a state name, and Gray sounds … edgy.” I fidget with the dashboard touchscreen, trying to turn on the satellite radio, while Cam asks me questions about Dakota.
It’s actually fun, once I let myself play along. I tell Cam all about her: how she loves racy clothes and her hair is black and straight—the opposite of mine. She’s wild and a little reckless; okay with losing control. She doesn’t panic and jump to conclusions, and she doesn’t have it all figured out. Dakota doesn’t care what people think—about her clothes or her voice or anything. She loves to dance. Dakota’s a seriously kick-ass guitar player and her voice is mesmerizing. And she knows it. She knows it, and she rocks it. Because Dakota Gray is fearless and badass, bold and unapologetic. Dakota Gray is everything Virginia Miller is not.
Step Two: Become Dakota Gray
Easier said than done. I’m standing outside Carnivale with my arms wrapped around my waist, like I can somehow squeeze myself out of this situation.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Maybe I can force myself to implode. Even after hours of talking about her, I obviously haven’t mastered this whole “become Dakota Gray” thing, because I’m still feeling very much like Vee Miller, Queen of Panic.
This will be the unfortunate moment I get kidnapped. They’ll shove me in the trunk of some nondescript, black four-door sedan. I won’t even be able to kick out a tail light because of these ridiculous heels. And after they drive me three states away, and dump me in a ditch somewhere, no one will even know it’s me. They probably won’t even try to identify me, because I’ll look like a runaway hooker or something. Oh, God. I’m at the climactic midpoint of one of those dramatized late-night news specials, “Virginia Miller: An Honor Student Fallen from Grace.”
Dammit, Nonni. This is all her fault.
Somewhere between cursing my angel of a grandmother, and walking a continuous loop between Logan’s car and the door, I break into a sweat. I’m having a panic attack. The skin across my chest is burning hot and prickled with sweat, while my cold hands shake at my sides. I have no idea what a panic attack actually feels like, but I want to die, and I think I’ve earned the right to overreact a little.
I can’t go in there. I look ridiculous.
The other day, when Cam had talked me into letting him pick out an outfit for me—for Dakota—I knew I couldn’t say no. I literally couldn’t say no, without lying to my eighty-year-old grandmother. And I really wanted to say no. I wanted to say hell, no. Instead, I picked out clothes for Cam and he picked out an outfit for me. Well, for Dakota Gray. That was our deal. It was simple enough, fun even. Each of us shopped separately, ringing up our purchases and handing them over, still in their bags. We swore not to look at them until this evening. It had seemed like an okay idea, back when I thought Cam was a nice guy. The kind of guy who lets you drive his super-nice car, even though he barely knows you, and everyone has warned him you’ll mangle it. A guy who has late-night conversations in the dark, letting you ramble on about your childish fears. But nice guys aren’t dead set on making you look ridiculous. Cam isn’t a nice guy.