The Opportunist (Love Me with Lies, #1)(62)

Caleb brought this on, damn him. I was happy, in a delusional sort of way, but happy nonetheless. And now—and now, all I can think about is his crooked smile and his smell and the way his eyes rake over the world in amusement. I psychoanalyze my relationship with Turner and when I can come to no sound conclusion, Cammie and I meet to discuss the matter.

We chose a small French café down Las Olas Avenue and drink coffee from a French press.



“He’s a filler,” Cammie says with more conviction than a suicide bomber.



“What does that mean?” I am studying the menu, contemplating an almond croissant.



“You know—stuff something into your heart quickly to stop it from cracking open…from bleeding out...”



“Like, I dated Turner to stop thinking about Caleb?”



Cammie nods.



“Why couldn’t you just say that?”



“Because, when you speak figuratively, it makes you sounder smarter.”



I blink at her a few times before tossing aside my menu.



“So what do you suggest I do, smarty pants? I already had his wife acquitted of her crimes.”



“Wait,” Cammie says. “I’m not even talking about Caleb, here. All I’m saying is that Turner is wrong, wrong, wrong for you.”



I sigh. Why does everyone keep saying that?



Two weeks later, I am at my absolute wits end with ‘faking it.’ Turner is all over me and I am tired of pushing him away and finding excuses. I decide to take a day to myself. I part with my frowning fiancée at the front door, giving him a hasty kiss on the lips. He’s calls after me, asking when I am going to be home, but I ignore him and keep walking. When the elevator doors close, I slide to the floor and place my head between my legs. I feel like I can breathe again. Shopping sounds nice or maybe some time at the spa, I know a girl who can get me in at the last minute. But then my thoughts titter and drift to the man that I am still in love with, and I know that a day anywhere, is a day away from him. So, I settle for the next best thing, something that I haven’t done in a very long time. I pull my cell phone from my too expensive purse and hit number ‘one’ on my speed dial.

“Cammie, it’s me,” I whisper into the phone, although I am obviously alone and no one can hear me. I feel guilty for what I am about to say. “Do you remember the old days in the Detective Gadget mobile?” There is a long pause in which I check the screen to make sure we are still connected.

“You’re out of your mind,” she says finally. Then after a long pause, “Who are we spying on?”

“Who do you think?” I ask, toying with the strappy thing on my purse.



Another pause.



“NO! Absolutely…NO! I can’t even believe…where the hell are you?”



“Come on Cam, if I had another friend to ask, I would…”



“You certainly would not ask anyone else to do something so psychotic. And, if you did, I would be highly offended.”

“I’m on my way to your house,” I say throwing my car in reverse and curtailing out of my spot—diva style.

“Fine. I’ll be ready and waiting. Make sure you pick up the coffee”.

Thirty minutes later, I arrive at Cammie’s neat, cul-de-sac house and park my car haphazardly in her driveway. She has flower boxes on the windows and garden gnomes in the peonies, a lovely cottage for such a witch to live. She opens the door before I can ring the bell and pulls me inside by the waistband of my pants.

“What car are we taking?” she says all businesslike.



“I thought you didn’t want to.”



She snatched the coffee from my hand and looks at me over the rim.



“Of course I want to, but I would look like a bad person if I didn’t object at all.”



I shrug. I stopped trying to soothe my conscience years ago, but to each his own.



“Your car. He’s never seen it, so we have less chance of being spotted.”

She nods while grabbing a duffel bag off the couch.



“Do you know where this joker lives?”



“I totally know,” I mock her tone and follow her into the garage. “I am his lawyer—duh!”



“Yea? So, what position do they—” At this point Cammie says something really crude. I flinch. I have grown to dislike the ‘f’ word. Pretty and delicate Cammie started swearing after Steven, who cheated on her twice and stole seventeen hundred dollars from her dresser drawer. Ever since that fateful afternoon when she found Steven copulating with his secretary, she developed an obsession with saying the ‘f’word, and calling girls ‘trashy bitches’.

“Probably the same position Steven and Tina were in when you found them doing the nasty,” I say.



“Touché,” she replies. “So are we spying on the trashy bitch, too, or just Mr. Wonderful?”



“Caleb,” I say decidedly. “I want to spy on Caleb.” Cammie nods her head and puts her black SUV onto the highway.