Cameron Cole has a plan.
After yet another relationship ends because of certain shortcomings-literally-Cameron decides it's time to swear off dating and focus her energy into her junior year at the University of Charlotte. There's an internship up...
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Oh my fuck. I've done it. I'm actually doing it.
I've willingly gotten into a strange man's car. A strange man who announced his massive dick to me like it's his favorite color.
This is how true crime podcasts start, Cameron. This is how they start.
I shift uncomfortably in the passenger seat, my hand resting awkwardly on the door handle like I might throw myself out if the vibe gets even a little sketchier.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at him—his face is lit faintly by the glow of the dashboard, one hand resting on the wheel with an irritating amount of ease and the other on the gear stick.
How is he so calm? Doesn't he realize this is insane?
I let my head fall back against the seat with a quiet groan. I'm an idiot. A horny, drunk idiot.
Scar's going to kill me.
Scarlett. My roommate. My best friend. Shit.
I fumble for my phone, my fingers clumsy as I unlock it. I pull up the text thread with Scarlett to see she's already calling me and demanding to know where the hell I am.
Yeah... wandering off is a common drunk habit of mine.
I quickly type out a message, trying to make it sound like I've got everything under control.
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It's a weak excuse, but it'll buy me time. Hopefully. The last thing I need is for Scar to start blowing up my phone while I'm... wherever the hell this night is going.
I glance at him again, and my stomach twists. He's so familiar. It's been bugging me since the porch. I can't pin it down, but the nagging feeling won't go away.
The truck slows, and I realize we're pulling into a neighborhood. Rows of classic weatherboard houses line the street, their front porches lit softly by overhead lights. Some have rocking chairs or hanging plants; others are dark, the only sign of life the glow of TVs in their windows.
When he pulls into the driveway, the truck rumbles to a stop in front of a modest but well-kept house. It's got that perfect bachelor-pad aesthetic: a few mismatched chairs on the brick porch, Edison lights strung over the garage, and a fire pit just visible in the backyard. Two other trucks are parked in the driveway, their chrome grilles gleaming in the dim light.
