Page 9 of Craved

Except I still have to be good. Because being bad is worse. If I’m bad, he’ll hurt me. Or he’ll make me eat the candy, too. And I don’t want to be like Mommy.

“Camilla! Get your little butt in here and make me eggs.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to make myself small. I hear the pounding of his steps as he walks by the chaise. It’s low to the ground with fringe. I used to be able to slide under from the long side, but I don’t fit that way anymore. This time I did what Maxim said, and I wriggled under from the short side with the back rest.

It’s a good hiding place. But he’ll find me. Daddy’s magic, after all.

Except he doesn’t. I see his feet go past me four times, and he never bends down to look. Then he says more bad words, mutters something about having to eat fast food crap for breakfast, and slams out the front door.

I close my eyes, silently thanking Maxim. He’d said the chaise would be my new magical place, and he was right.

I force myself to count to fifty, then I wriggle out from my hiding spot. I creep into the kitchen to check on my mother. She’s on the floor, her eyes barely open. She looks at me, then sneers, then tells me I’m an arrogant little bitch.

I don’t know exactly what that means except that it’s bad.

Maxim once asked me if my mom was always like that, and I’d said I didn’t know. He says that he heard his father talking on the phone one day, and he paid attention when he realized that Mr. Wilder was talking about a neighbor, and that the neighbor was my dad. He said my mom was once one of my daddy’s most promising students. He’d taken an interest and tried to develop her talents, but he must have pushed too hard, because she started taking drugs, and now she’s an addict, and all that talent has gone to waste.

I told Maxim that I already knew my Daddy was a bad man, and he told me I didn’t have to worry. That we were best friends, and he would never, ever let anyone hurt me.

And because it was Maxim, I believed him.

* * * *

My carry-on and my computer bag are waiting by the open front door when my ride arrives, and I still haven’t called Maxim. Annoyed with myself for procrastinating like an anxious teen, I hold up a finger to signal the driver to wait. Then I pull my phone from my back pocket and dial the number I’ve already memorized for Foundational Tech Services.

I half-expect the number to turn out to be a fake, but when I dial, I get an official-sounding recording with a crisp and professional voice. Not that I’d been expecting an evil-sounding drone, but there’s still something about the normality of it all that unsettles me.

Or maybe there’s something about the man for whom I’m about to leave a message…

Get a fucking grip.

With that stern command in my head, I force myself to follow the voice’s after-hours instructions, then press the pound key to access the dial-by-name option.

I dutifully tap out W - I - L, and am a bit agog that I’m immediately transferred to his voicemail.

“You’ve reached Maxim Wilder,” the familiar voice says as my heart does a little flip. “I’m not available to take your call, but please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If you need immediate assistance during working hours, please press the star key to be transferred to the front desk.”

Weirdly, strangely, totally normal…

A second later—long before I’m ready to speak—the sharp beep explodes in my ear. I open my mouth, shut it again, then hang up the phone.

Apparently, I’m still a little girl and not a hardened and professional intelligence officer.

Fuck. My. Life.

I dial again, hoping that the second time’s a charm. This time when the message begins, I stand up straighter. I’m confident. I’m in control. I’m—

Beeeeep!

—flustered as shit, but here goes.

“Maxim. Hey. So, you may not remember me, but this is Cami Green.” I wince. Of course he remembers me. “I, um, well, I was going through some of my old things, and I thought of you. So I Googled you, which sounds perverted now that I think about it—Seriously, what is wrong with me?—and I ran across an article about the place where you’re working.”

I pause, forcing myself to take a breath. “Bottom line, I’m heading to New York for a few days on vacation, so I thought I’d succumb to curiosity and sentimentality and call you. I’m getting in tonight, and I should be at my hotel by around eight your time. I’m staying in the Flatiron District, and I’d love to have a drink and catch up. I swear I’m not mad about the way you ghosted me. I mean, I was, but I’m over it. Anyway, call or text me back,” I add, then rattle off my number, end the call, and sag against the door frame.

I sounded like a neurotic, hormone-addled teen. But maybe that’s the way all women sound calling their ex who also happens to have been their first fuck. And first love. And who is now an international criminal with terrorist intent.

Yeah, I think. Perfectly normal.