Scars of my Past Read online

  “Okay, okay, let’s go,” she said as we walked out of our dorm. She gave me a quick hug once we were outside before heading in the opposite direction as I did.

  I was so consumed with getting to my class on time that I didn’t see who was standing in the hall waiting for me.

  “Genny,” I heard him say, and I cringed as I halted in my tracks. A few students were milling around, but none of them had taken notice to my sudden stop.

  “Marc,” with a “c.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes at the way he’d introduced himself. “What are you doing here?” I asked, clutching my books to my chest as if they could protect me. I’d met him at one of the frat parties we’d gone to the previous semester. I hadn’t had any experience with guys, so when he came on to me and showered me with attention, I took his bait. He was cute in a pretty-boy way, and he was charming. I went on three dates with him. He’d been a true gentleman for the first two and a half dates. It wasn’t until near the end of the third when he insinuated what would happen later that night. We hadn’t even kissed, and he wanted to have sex with me?

  I told him point-blank it wasn’t happening. He got angry, called me a bunch of not-so-nice words, and practically kicked me out of the car. I’d been hurt and upset, but Amanda had saved the day by going out and getting more candy and chocolate than we could eat. By the next day, I was actually feeling better. And then two days later, I ran into Marc again, and he asked me when we’d go out again. I told him I thought that was a bad idea.

  He hadn’t thought so.

  I spent the remainder of my first semester, which thankfully was only a little over a week, avoiding him. It would have been harder to avoid him if everyone on campus wasn’t busy studying and trying to pass their finals.

  Then I went home for winter break. He’d texted and called a couple of times, but I didn’t respond, and toward the end, he’d stopped. I breathed easier when I hadn’t heard from him in a few days.

  So then why in the world was he standing just outside my classroom as if he’d been waiting for me?

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said as he stepped closer .

  “I just got back to campus a few days ago,” I told him as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. He gave me the creeps—something I wished I had figured out before I agreed to go on the first date with him. Funny what kind of shitty luck I’d had with guys. I’d only had two experiences—the first was Tyler, who’d ruined my world without even knowing me, and now, freaking Marc was ruining my first dating experience. After this, I was done with guys forever. Or at least for a long time.

  “You haven’t answered my calls or my texts,” he said as he continued toward me.

  “I was busy with finals and then with my family,” I said as I stepped back. But for each tiny step back, it seemed like he took ten toward me. I looked hesitantly around to see if there was anyone in the hallway, anyone who could help me. There wasn’t. We were alone.

  “You think you’re too good for me?” he asked.

  “No,” I croaked. “No,” I repeated.

  “I’ll show you too good for me,” he said just as he shoved me back. I lost my balance, falling backward as my books landed beside me with a thud.

  I was shaking, afraid of what he’d do next. My head hung down, eyeing my books as if they’d been my fortress and now that fortress was in shambles.

  And then suddenly, I was no longer afraid.

  “You think it’s okay to hit girls?” I snapped my gaze up at his words, the timbre of his voice sending a shiver down my spine.

  Marc was pinned against the wall by a guy whose posture screamed “don’t mess with me.” I couldn’t see his face, but I’d bet his eyes were alight with fire. His whole body was coiled tight, and I could make out the muscles and ridges beneath his shirt. He was bigger than Marc was and much scarier, but he wasn’t scaring me.

  “I didn’t fucking touch her,” Marc responded, but I could hear the hesitation in his voice. Whoever had come to my rescue was making an impression on Marc.

  “You didn’t fucking touch her?” the guy asked incredulously before letting out a mirthless laugh. “You won’t fucking touch her again,” he said, his voice deadly and full of promise. “You won’t even fucking breathe the same air she breathes; got it?” Marc didn’t respond. “Got it?” the guy asked again.

  “Yeah,” Marc finally choked out. “She’s not worth it,” he said as my savior let him go. Marc cast me a dirty look before practically running away.

  Stuck in my position on the floor, I was mesmerized by the display before me, but as soon as Marc ran off, I snapped back to reality. I gathered my things before standing up so I could thank the guy properly.

  “Here, let me help you,” he said and grabbed the last book off the floor. We stood at the same time, and when I finally lifted my head to look at him, and I gasped. He looked so much like … no. It couldn’t be. “Are you all right?” he asked. I was still in my fog, memories assaulting me. He couldn’t be him; he just couldn’t, but the resemblance was so uncanny. Maybe they were related. Cousins perhaps. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked again. “He didn’t hurt you, right?” It definitely wasn’t him. Tyler Haywood was an asshole of epic proportions. He wasn’t a knight in shining armor ready to take down dragons on my behalf.

  “Oh, uh, yeah, thank you. Thank you for that,” I said as I found my voice; my reservations were pretty apparent despite my true appreciation of what he’d done for me.

  “You have Writing 140 right now?” he asked. I nodded. “Me too,” he said and then stuck out his hand. “Cameron, by the way. Cameron Dents, but you can call me Cam.”

  And just like that, any lingering uncertainty vanished. I took his warm hand in mine as I studied his face for a moment. He was stunning, absolutely stunning. Dark brown hair, chocolate brown eyes, and a tan that rivaled Amanda’s. I’d already gotten a glimpse of his body, and I knew it was the kind I’d only ever seen in magazines and on TV. I blushed for the first time in a long time as I responded. “Genevieve Breitling,” I said with a wide smile.

  “Genevieve,” he repeated. “Beautiful name.”

  “Thank you, truly, thank you for helping me. Not everyone would have stepped in.”

  “Anyone worthy would have,” he said with a shrug, clearly not good with taking appreciation.

  “Well, uh, I guess we’d better get to class,” I said.

  “After you,” he said, and I led the way inside. And when he sat down beside me near the back, I realized two things. One—Cam had just given me hope that not all guys were assholes, and maybe I wasn’t done with them after all. And two—I had a feeling Writing 140 would be my favorite class.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Past

  Cameron

  Three months earlier …

  “WE’D LIKE TO offer you a spot in our spring semester class,” the woman calling from USC had said. I’d held my breath, waiting to hear what she’d say as fear, dread, and anticipation stole the very air that tried to find room in my lungs.

  “I … uh … yes, wow, thank you,” I said, shocked and grateful.

  “You’re very welcome,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “You’ll be getting a formal acceptance letter in the mail along with scholarship information.”

  It wasn’t common practice to receive a call from an admissions representative telling you that you got into college. But then again, although it did happen, it wasn’t common to get accepted in the spring semester rather than in the fall. I’d heard of a few cases, though—geniuses, kids whose parents donated way too much money, admission appeals. And, of course, cases like mine—the ones where I had something big enough to offer the school to warrant a spring admission.

  I hung up the phone and breathed deeply, expelling the air trapped inside in one quick huff. I could literally feel the tension leaving my shoulders as the relief seeped in.

  What was it like to find out you get to move far away from the home you’d known
all your life? Liberating. Absolutely fucking liberating.

  The home I knew wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. It was far from it. The things I’d lived through sent shivers down my spine every time I thought about my life. You’d think I would have fought against my binds once I was old enough to fight, right? I couldn’t. For a few reasons. The first was that no matter how strong I got, how tough I became, how scrappy I got at fighting, it was never enough. When I fought, I got beat down harder. I’d learned that if I wanted to survive, I just had to take it.

  When you’d lived with something for so long—when you’re constantly told you’re nothing, a piece of shit, a loser—you eventually believed it. You think you deserved the wrath, the pain, and the humiliation. Some people said it was a form of brainwashing. Maybe it was ... or maybe it was just a spirit being broken down.

  And the last reason was embarrassment. I was a guy, a strong guy, a popular guy, a good guy. Things like that didn’t happen to guys like me. But they did. They had.

  You’d think I would have gotten away when I went to college, right? But some things were so beaten into you that you didn’t question them. When I was told I was attending a college nearby and living at home, I did. It also didn’t help I was expected to stay local and be the hometown hero. I had let myself down enough; I didn’t want to let my town down either.

  I’m sure if the town knew what I’d gone through, they would have told me to run far, far away a long time ago. But they didn’t know that part of me. They only knew what I showed them, and what I showed them was cockiness. I gave off an air of superiority around my friends, classmates, pretty much anyone who wasn’t at home. I’d heard girls whispering, “Alpha,” when they didn’t realize I could hear them. I took it; I owned it.

  In reality, it was the way I coped with the secrets that made me a coward at home. It was a shield I’d created, a persona that differed completely from the scared little boy I couldn’t seem to shake free of.

  I took my frustrations out by having sex … a lot of sex. Girls threw themselves at me, and I was okay with that. More than okay with that. I loved it.

  It was my outlet, my way to be in control of at least some part of my life.

  I didn’t do attachments. The girls I slept with weren’t the kind I’d ever settle down with. They were the kind who wanted a night with the likes of me. They knew the score, but if they were delusional enough to think they could catch me after that, then that was on them. I didn’t feel guilty about their false sentiments. And the girls who might have caught my attention? Well, I wasn’t worthy. Not with the filth I carried deep in my heart. And if I didn’t believe that, I still wouldn’t let anyone get close enough to learn my secrets. They were mine and mine alone. I wasn’t letting anyone in because then I’d have to let them into everything … everything that was a part of me. And I had too many ugly things that were a part of me.

  One day, it all stopped. It was the single most satisfying and horrific day of my life. It was done, over with, and I was relieved. But then others knew. They understood what I’d gone through. I think I went through at least some of the stages of grief after that, which was understandable. A part of me died; a part of my life was now exposed and rotting with exposure to fresh air. I just wanted it all to go away.

  I tried to continue the life I’d built. I tried to be the guy everyone knew me to be. I partied, I played, I continued my schooling, but I couldn’t stay there anymore. There were too many memories and too many unknowns. I needed to get away, get as far away as I could.

  I contacted every school I thought I might have a chance of getting into and sent videos, mailed letters, and made countless phone calls.

  And now, it had finally paid off.

  Just a few more months and I’d be away from it all. I’d be in sunny Southern California where dreams were made and wishes came true. I just hoped it’d be that way for me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Present

  Genevieve

  CAM AND I DIDN’T speak during class because the teacher lectured the entire time. While I wrote notes down like it was a sport, he jotted down a few bullet points. If it wasn’t for the keen attention he was giving our professor, I would have thought he didn’t care.

  “I’ll see you on Thursday,” I told Cam as I gathered my things and waited for him to move down to the aisle so I could head out.

  “Yeah,” he responded before making his way out of the class. I had made it about one step out the door when I heard him call out to me. “Hey, Genevieve.”

  I turned and saw him take a couple of steps toward me. “Yeah?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t help but notice the kind of notes you take in class.”

  “I hate reading the book,” I responded, feeling the need to justify why I had scribbled down everything the teacher said. Cam hadn’t even said it accusingly, but I felt a little embarrassed.

  “Yeah, I get it,” he said as he nodded as if he understood. He probably did. Actually, most college students probably feel the same way. “Well, I thought maybe we could exchange numbers so that if either one of us misses a class or something, we could find out from each other.”

  “You totally just want a copy of my notes,” I said with a smile. I only half-teased since I was sure it was mostly true.

  “All right, that too,” he said with a smirk. “But really, I’m a good study partner to have, so it’ll be like an even exchange.”

  I wanted to say, “Who says I need a study partner?” but honestly, I knew I wouldn’t mind getting together with him to go over class notes. His expression said he wasn’t used to asking girls for help ... or maybe he wasn’t used to asking anyone for help. So I took pity on him.

  “Okay, you got me,” I responded and pulled out my phone. We swapped, and I programmed my number in his phone. When he handed me back my phone, I couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. “Cam ‘Hot Guy from Writing’ Dents,” I read the name he’d programmed in my phone.

  “Just making sure you wouldn’t forget which one I was,” he said with a wink and a shrug.

  “All right ‘Hot Guy from Writing,’” I said mockingly. “I’ll copy my notes and bring them to you on Thursday. See you then.” I walked away with a smile that covered my entire face.

  I had one more class before I met Amanda for lunch, but I couldn’t wait to tell her what had happened. When I finally got together with her, I spewed the entire situation, starting with Marc—whom she hadn’t liked from the very beginning and actually had warned me to be careful with. Of course, I hadn’t listened—stupid me.

  “Oh, my God,” she practically sang at the top of her lungs after a squeal left her lips.

  “My eardrums,” I said as I winced.

  “Forget your eardrums,” she responded and waved her hand dismissively. “Do you know who Cam Dents is?”

  “Uh, the guy I just told you about?” I said more like a question than an answer.

  “Have I taught you nothing last semester?” she asked with mock frustration. “Cam Dents is the new star quarterback I was telling you about this morning.”

  “Oh,” I responded.

  “Oh is right. And he was totally flirting with you!” she said a little too loudly.

  “He totally wasn’t,” I said. “He was trying to get on my good side so I’d do his work for him. And now it makes sense,” I said more to myself than to Amanda.

  “What makes sense?”

  “He’s probably used to everyone just doing things for him. Just lay on the charm, and the girls go crazy.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” She shrugged. “But Gen,” she said (Amanda, my parents, and Amy from my therapy program were the only ones I still let call me by that nickname), “you underestimate the power of you.”

  “What does that even mean?” I asked.

  “It means he probably was just using the notes thing as an excuse to get your number. God knows he probably doesn’t need to try to get girls. So if he’s trying with you? Well, heeeell
ooo,” she said, stretching the word out.

  “First, that’s not the case. And second, I’m not going to be a bitch to him. If he needs help, I’ll help him. But you know my thing with football guys,” I added a little shyly. “Even if you were right, I don’t think I’d be able to do anything about it.”

  “Puh-lease,” she said. “Douchebag was an asshole.” She’d taken to calling Tyler a douchebag whenever we mentioned him, which was very rare. “Not all football players are. And earth to Gen. Cam freaking jumped in and saved your ass all damsel-in-distress-like. Would Douchebag have done that? No. He would have been the Marc in this case. So don’t make any judgments about Cam until you learn more about him.”

  “We have a class together; we’re not dating. I highly doubt I’m going to learn more about him.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” she responded. “I can’t wait to tell you ‘I told you so’ when you start doing the naked tango with ... what did he call himself? ‘Hot Guy from Writing.’” We both laughed at that. “Now, tell me again how hot he was.”

  I chuckled at her question. “Like book cover model hot,” I responded, and she tossed her head back in Scarlett O’Hara fashion and proceeded to fan herself.

  “I think I might have to switch to Writing 140 this semester.” I rolled my eyes. “Or maybe I’ll just skip my class and come stare at some eye candy with you.”

  “As long as you take good notes, you’re more than welcome to steal my spot.”

  “And prevent poor Cam from the grace of your presence? Never.”

  “Yeah, yeah, cut the crap. I’m a means to an end for him. He’s probably required to have a minimum GPA or something. He saved me, so I’ll help him. End of story.”

  “All right, pessimist,” she said. “We’ll drop it for now. But …” she said as she trailed off and gave me the look—the one that said we had plans tonight.