Mel opens one eye to the familiar, if sideways, view of her living room, she can tell it's daytime. She looks down to see her party dress from last night on and a shoe hanging from one toe. She is positioned on her side with a towel spread under her head. There is a bottle of water, a couple packages of saltine crackers and two headache tablets on her coffee table. Her head protests her movement as she sits up and reaches for them all. Saying a little thank you to Bess for getting her home safe. Only a bestie would be that thoughtful, right?
She was having a hell of a time remembering what happened at the end of the night as she munched on the crackers. She remembers last call, that the wall tile in the club's bathroom felt cool on her forehead as she peed, and having an argument with someone. She hears a faint snort from the vicinity of her armchair. She looks up and screams.
....
Camus had poured her into the back of the car. Then went gingerly through her purse to find her id and a set of keys. Then he had to nearly carry her up the stairs as she slurred on about an ex fucking her ex. It hadn't made sense to him, not that he'd expected it to. When he'd figured out which apartment was hers. She'd slid down to the floor as he was unlocking the door.
"That guy at the pub was so lush," she murmured, "I just can't, he smelled so good. Had bollocks though, huh Bess. Bet they're pretty too." She smiled up at him dreamily, then vomited on his shoes.
"Fuck," he toes off his boots, leaving them in the hallway.
Camus had found the whole situation with Melissa to be, oddly, a breath of fresh air, his boots notwithstanding. He had women fawning over him far too often. Not that he was super famous, but he had followers. Those that knew him from his acting were desperate to get a piece of him. Those that didn't, well, he knew what he looked like. It was rare for him to have a front seat to someone who acted like they were repulsed by him, but also kept calling him hot. He didn't know why, but he felt drawn to her. It's not like he wanted to be treated badly, quite the opposite. He told himself he was helping her because it was the right thing to do. He also knew there was more to it than that. He tried not to think about it as he half dragged her into the apartment.
Camus had propped her up on the couch, then went to her kitchen to get water. He found meds and crackers. Maybe if he got food into her it'd help. As it was, he thought he shouldn't leave her alone. Sure she'd already thrown up, but what if she did again? He has visions of a news article about how he was the last person she was seen with and she turns up dead. Yeah, no.
When he came back she was already asleep on the couch. So much for his shower and bed. He covered her with a blanket, but did not even dare to take her shoes off. He tucked a towel under her head and put a trash can on the floor.
She would be grateful, eventually. Grateful that he had gotten her home safe. Grateful that he was a good guy and not some predator. He sat down in the arm chair and pulled out his phone. He hadn't realized he had dozed off until her scream jarred him awake.
She immediately regretted the outburst. Holding her pounding head.
"Whoa whoa," he jerks awake, his coat still on, "Hey it's me. I just wanted to make sure you were gonna be ok," he says, heart pounding in his ears.
"What the fuck! Who are you? How did you even get in here?" she says angrily into her hands.
"I'm Camus, you agreed to let me get you home safely last night. You were smashed. I got your address and keys from your purse." He pointed at the keys and purse on the table. She was a mess of smudged eye makeup and wicked bedhead.
"Wait, you're the Yank guy from the pub....Did you?" She frantically checks the clothes on her body.
"Did I what?" realization dawns on him as she feels under her skirt. "No! I didn't even take your shoes off! My god, what kind of man do you think I am?"
She sees his appalled look and mistakes it for revulsion. Well fuck him.
"How the fuck am I supposed to know? You are in my damn flat!" Her voice rises and she clutches her head.
"Listen," he says quietly, "I just didn't want you to die or something. You were like blackout drunk. I couldn't just leave you on the curb."
"Well, I'm alive, so you can piss off," she just wanted to get into the shower and into bed.
"Ok, ok," he puts his hands up in surrender, apparently not grateful yet, " Oh and you're welcome, by the way." He stands and a huge stretch comes over him. He raises his hands above his head, his back arching.
She peeks through her fingers to see a little treasure trail of hairs on his lean belly. How does this man keep getting hotter AND more annoying?
She stands a little too quickly and stumbles. His hand shoots out to help steady her. Her head pounds as she pulls her elbow away from him and his white knight bullshit. She points to the front door.
"Please, just go," her voice is quiet, almost pleading.
"Alright, I won't bug you anymore," he regrets saying it the second it leaves his mouth.
"Yeah, thanks," she mutters into her hands. Whether it's for making sure she didn't die or for promising not to bug her anymore, neither of them know.
He walks out, the door clicking in finality behind him.
She hadn't noticed that he had no shoes on.
<><><><><
Mel had tried her best to forget about Camus. She tried as she took her shower. She tried as she put her most comfy pajamas on. She tried over the large orange juice with a splash of vodka.
"Just a little hair of the dog," Missy, she could hear her dad say as he handed her a similar drink on a similar morning years ago. Grief grips her chest. He'd been gone for over a year now.
She had successfully pretended to forget Camus when she walked into her regular yoga class a couple days later. She found messy blond hair perched over a lovely triangle back, defined triceps and a gorgeous ass talking to the instructor. She gave the collection of beautiful shapes an appreciative side eye, until they turned around. Her eyes bug out to see that it's him. It's Camus.
He had just barely caught her appreciative look before she realized it was him. A wide grin spreads on his face, it's obvious that he had no idea he'd find her here. He nods in greeting. She schools her face and gives him a curt nod and goes to the other side of the studio.
She tries so hard to ignore him throughout class, but her traitorous eyes keep slipping back to him in the mirror. The graceful way he moved through the vinyasa. His steely focus as he balances in natarajasana. The flex of his triceps as he hovered in chaturanga. The lines of his quads as he bends into virabhadrasana.
Fuck.
His oversized tee and leather jacket of the other night had really hid just how in shape he was. Now, seeing his muscles flow makes her stomach flip. Oh lord this man.
She quickly rolls up her mat at the end of class but finds herself unable to sneak out, not without addressing what had happened. He is still lying in savasana breathing deep.
"Listen," she walks up to his side, "thanks for getting me home safe the other night. Just so you know, I don't normally get that pissed."
"Yeah you kept telling me that," he doesn't even open his eyes. "Also how you'd been cheated on and how you wouldn't fuck the guy from the bar no matter how hard he begged." He decided not to mention the fifteen times she called him hot. "Then you barfed on my boots. I had to throw them away. I really liked those boots."
"Fuck, I'm sorry," her face turns beet red, "Can I replace them?"
"Nope," he cracks one eye open, "they were thrifted, vintage."
She slinks out of the room with a mumbled, "shit, sorry," hoping she'll never have to see him again.
