Bad Things

31. Taking Back Destiny

Heat traveled up his neck at the thought. He kept his eyes trained on his feet and continued on. Reaching down into his pocket, Shawn pulled out the paper on which he'd written Coach Harold's directions. He read over them quickly, but before he could fold them back up and shove them into his pocket, his eyes trained on a small note scrawled in the corner in Camila's hand. There were several messages written there, most notes of encouragement and strength: You deserve this. Everything will work out. Don't forget you're cocky for a reason .

Shawn couldn't help but grin at Camila's confidence and how much she thought of him—regardless of whether or not he deserved it. But there was one message, one tiny line written absently in her messy, artist handwriting that made his heart thud and his stomach squeeze more than any of the others.

You're my favorite first.

To anyone else who read that line, the meaning behind it wouldn't have been immediately apparent. But Shawn knew, and he smiled to himself at the memory.

It had all come about the week before, after he'd left the diner, his emotions and mind exhausted beyond anything he'd ever felt before. Meeting his little brother and hearing his biological father claim him as his own were never things Shawn had expected to happen. He hadn't known how to begin to understand and deal with the feelings both things brought. As he'd walked out to his car afterward, his brain a land mine of painful memories and insecurities, the only thing he'd wanted was Camila.

Not her words or her touch so much, but her presence. Just her presence. Of everything else in the world, she was the one thing that calmed him, quieted his mind. And, God, he needed some damn quiet.

He'd driven as quickly as the speed limit allowed, his thoughts straying back to the look on Jackson's face when Benedict had told him the truth of who Shawn was, the shock, followed by disbelief, followed by acceptance, followed by happiness. No one had ever looked at Shawn with that much . . . joy before. And Shawn had no damn idea how to process it. Not any of it.

When the old farmhouse with the address Camila had given him came in to view, Shawn had literally skidded his car to a stop and leaped from his vehicle, his feet sprinting toward the front door, needing to see her, needing her. His heart had nearly exploded in his chest when her mother tried to turn him away, claiming Camila wasn't feeling well and was asleep.

"Please," he'd said, his voice cracking like a twelve-year old's. "Please. Just let me see her for a minute. I won't wake her. I won't . . . Just please."

He knew he probably looked like a lunatic, like a crazy obsessed teenager begging to see his girlfriend. But he couldn't help it. He needed her. He needed her so damn much.

Finally, her mother relented, and Shawn had to restrain himself from sprinting up the stairs too. But all of his desperation dissipated when he'd stopped in front of the open door and saw her lying there, her body curled onto one side, hands positioned under her slightly flushed cheeks. His chest loosened and his mind lightened, and he couldn't stop himself from crawling into bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and pulling her light body against his. Her warmth and comfort seeped into him and calmed every single nerve that had just been on fire.