A.N: First of all, sorry for the time it took to write this.
Secondly, HOLY SHIT 22K. Also, some of you are getting so in-depth into this shitty fic, others are saying that this is one of their favourites. Guys, thank you but no. There are tons of better Camren fanfics. Ones less rushed and written by better writers.
And finally (most importantly) please keep in mind that Lauren is allowed to make her own morally biased choices, and therefore her own mistakes. My personal belief that no one is truly good (or bad) is present in my writing. Everyone sits on a greyscale.
Anyway, please enjoy.
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Cousin Marco's gym hadn't changed. The musky smell of sweat and blood still hung in the air, assaulting Lauren's nose every time she breathed. Her eyes were still drawn the white and red colour scheme. And the furnace-like temperature remained, if the sweat dripping down Lauren's back was any indication.
It wasn't Lauren's idea to rejoin the gym. She had been content to stay home, work on her music and tend to her night-job. Her management had other ideas, however.
Image was everything in the music industry. Truth was, the industry cared little for real talent. It needed a product, something they can market to an audience — they need results.
Lauren's image was simple: vixen, a sex symbol. And sex was something purely physical. The audience was attracted to their body — the voice was simply a bonus. Technically, everything that Lauren said under the public gaze had to be scrutinised under management's gaze prior.
Her confessing to having a special someone? Gives her audience something fantasise about. If they believe that sex-symbol Lauren Jauregui can settle down with someone, the idea that they could be the one that she settles down with is inevitable.
So why was she at the gym? Because according to the management, and using their exact words, 'We can't sell a fat rockstar. Get your ass in the gym and burn off all that holiday fat you've put on.'
It's ruthless, but it's the world we live in. Our outward appearance is all we — as we've been conditioned to do so — care about.
That didn't mean Lauren liked the idea. In fact, the rage she felt for this concept was what kept her at the gym for almost four hours every day, for the last two weeks. From cardio to weight-lifting, nothing seemed to quell the fire in her belly.
She hated being sought out solely for her body. She hated being treated as a possession and not someone with their own values and capabilities. Above all, she hated that the ideas her management had planted in her mind was giving her body dysphoria.
She hadn't cared about the way her stomach hung over her jeans. Now, she dreaded looking down or in mirrors.
She supposed it was just another way she could hate herself.
Presently, Lauren was pounding away at the sandbag swinging in front of her. She wasn't wearing gloves; she didn't get the same rush. The feeling of her bare knuckles colliding with a hard surface over and over again was euphoric.
Her knuckles were probably bruised but they were too numb for Lauren to care. The only thing she could concentrate on was trying to burn off the hate coursing through veins.
Still, she couldn't help but take a peak. She was right: her digits and knuckles were painted with shades of red, blue and purple. It reminded her of the men she housed from time to time. They were painted with bruises, too.
Uncle Tony was serious about using her home as a base of operations. While he handled the FBI and public image, Junior was meeting with associates and other members to control the Santoro situation.
Junior briefed her on his family's history: all the way from Sicily to settling in America to the Golden Age in Miami. He explained the blood feuds and the rituals and all the other nonsense. He briefed her on their (technically former) alliance with the Santoro family.
Everyone was on edge, having to walk on eggshells. No one knew how to approach a situation like this: everyone from the last blood feud had died years ago. Even the proper etiquette behind a feud was muddled with age.
Lauren was a very observant person. She noticed that every man walked differently, depending on who they were. Associates walked like Mikey did: tall, shoulders back and light on their feet. Always ready to scram at the first sign of trouble. Members, however, were very sluggish. They strolled when they walked, slurred when they spoke and slouched when they stood. They weren't planning on leaving any time soon.
Members always had bruised hands, often with previously broken fingers and scarred knuckles. Associates? They were pristine. You wouldn't find a drop of blood on those hands.
And then there was Junior. He was mix of both yet completely different. When he spoke, it was sharp and concise. When he stood, it wasn't stiff but it wasn't relaxed either. Lauren supposed this menacing, morbid stance was something he picked up from his father.
And what of Lauren? Lauren never interfered. Her job was to observe the men around her, learn how to manipulate them and relay that information to Junior for him to exploit how he wished.
Often, she would find herself cooking meals for twenty men a night, all of which Junior provided. They came to discuss business and whatnot with Junior, who qualified as a room mate at this point. These men had day-jobs and families to tend to; Lauren provided them with a hot meal they didn't have time to make themselves. A small kindness that would pay off in the long run.
Still, it left Lauren wondering.
The doors to the gym swung open, causing the rusty hinges to squeal in protest. Everyone in the gym (mostly barrel-chested, six foot Morello men) turned to look. Either it was a well-known friend or fresh meat to torment.
When Lauren recognised who had walked in, she realised it was Camila. A very angry and very beautiful Camila.
She looked around, her face scrunched up in concentration and rage. Finally, her eyes locked on to Lauren's frame. Lauren could literally see her eyes gleam with anger as she stormed towards her.
If Lauren wasn't so terrified of Camila, she would have laughed at the sight in front of her. A tiny ball of latin fury wearing six inch heels and contour was power-walking towards her, as body-builders parted a way for her like the Red Sea.
If Lauren had any doubts about being totally in love with Camila, that sight would have cured them.
Holding up her phone, Camila snarled, "Why didn't you tell me?"
Lauren frowned, asking, "What did I do this time?"
"I just got a call," Camila paused for dramatic effect, "from your management."
Lauren gritted her teeth and grumbled, "Those bastards."
She was referring to the duet they were trying to coax out of her. They were persistent bastards, she'd give them that.
Camila crossed her arms across her chest and stuck her hip out, asking, "Why didn't you tell me about this?"
Lauren shrugged and leaned against the sandbag, pouting slightly. She avoided eye-contact with Camila as she said, "I didn't want you to think I was just mooching off your career."
Camila paused for a few moments, her face scrunched up in disbelief. Finally, she said, "That is the dumbest thing I've heard all week."
Lauren scoffed and turned to face the sandbag, punching it as she said, "Whatever, Camz."
Camila grabbed Lauren by the shoulders and turned to her to face her. Lauren clenched her jaw and reluctantly looked down at Camila.
She wondered why Camila was even touching her. She was only wearing a tank top and loose shorts, showing off the thick layer of sweat on her body. She was literally dripping. Not to mention her hair was a mess and her face was devoid of any makeup.
Then again, she'd seen her in worse.
"It's not whatever, Lauren." Camila growled, "Is this about the tweet?"
Camila was referring to the #camren tweet they posted a few weeks ago. Although the majority of their fan bases enjoyed the selfie and even shipped them, others weren't as welcoming. Lauren had spent days reading those comments, fuelling her own self-hatred.
Lauren frowned, saying, "No."
"Don't lie to me, 'Lo." Camila squeezed her shoulders tighter as she said, "Don't be like everyone else."
Lauren snapped, saying, "Yeah, it's about the fucking tweet, Camz."
Camila let her hands drop to Lauren's hands. She squeezed them gently, asking, "What happened?"
Lauren scoffed and slipped her hands out of Camila's, saying, "Your fans happened."
She turned back to the sandbag as the anger bubbled up in her stomach again. She let loose, throwing punch after punch. Her hands stung once more, still yearning for the soft skin of Camila's hand instead of the coarse leather.
Through gritted teeth, Lauren recalled some of the more memorable tweets, "Why is lezzie-lauren trying to leech off Camila's career? LMAO, she got fat over the summer. Ew, she's probably trying to turn Camila lezzo too."
Lauren could see Camila shaking her head from the corner of her eye but didn't care. She had made her mind up about this days ago.
"They're just dumb teenagers Lauren, they aren't—" Camila began saying until Lauren cut her off.
"Wrong." Lauren finished for her, "They aren't wrong, Camila."
"You think you've gotten fat?" The look on Camila's face was one of pure disbelief.
"I know I have." Lauren growled, punching even harder before gesturing to the gym, "Why do you think I'm here?"
Camila shook her head once more, saying, "You haven't. And even if you have, so what? You're gorgeous no matter what size you are."
Camila spoke with so much conviction in her voice that made Lauren want to believe her. But years of conditioning from the music industry wouldn't be eliminated by a few kind words.
"Whatever, Camila." Lauren muttered bitterly, "Don't pretend like you haven't ignored the other half of what I said."
Camila swallowed, saying, "Lauren, don't."
Lauren smiled mirthlessly, adding "I guess those dumb teenagers were right about something."
"Why are you being like this?" There was a slight tremor in her voice as she spoke, causing Lauren to freeze, "We both agreed to this relationship. You knew what you were signing up for!"
Lauren knew she was right: she did agree to this. But she also knew that this wouldn't last. Whatever this was between them, the feigned platonic gestures and the restrained urges, was coming undone. It had to change before it became unsalvageable.
But now was not the time to bring it up.
"I know," Lauren sighed, softly saying, "I'm sorry."
She pulled Camila against her, slipped her arms around her waist and said, "It's just been a bad week, OK?"
She felt Camila nod against her neck before hugging back. Camila smelled strongly of ginger or maybe lavender — Lauren couldn't tell. Looking down, Lauren found that Camila was definitely dressed up to go out.
Pulling away, Lauren asked, "What's with the outfit? Not that I'm complaining because... wow."
Camila blushed, smiled and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"Austin is taking me out to dinner, tonight." Camila said, albeit awkwardly.
Lauren struggled not grimace. Instead, she forced a smile and nodded, saying, "I hope you have a good time."
Camila knew it's forced but didn't mention it, instead she wore her own small smile. Out of curtesy, Lauren didn't mention how her smile is forced, too.
Later, after Camila left and Lauren finished packing up her stuff, Lauren shuffled outside into the spring air. It was evening time so it was much cooler than when Lauren entered the gym. She huddled inside her jacket and sprinted to the car park to get out of the cold.
The car park of Cousin Marco's gym was very creepy at night. It was almost pitch black, save for the lone lamp-post that hung over the cars. Large willow trees loomed over the area and painted long, lanky shadows across the cement. Not to mention all you could hear was the sound of the wind roaring in your ear.
Still, Lauren clenched her jaw and hopped inside her car. She threw her bag onto the passenger seat and rubbed her palms across the steering wheel. Warmth pooled in from her hands and feet, slowly moving towards her centre.
She had just slipped her key into the slot when she noticed something in her rear-view mirror: The shadow of someone sitting in the backseat, watching her.
Lauren swallowed a scream. Instead, her grip on the car keys tightened and her other hand curled on the car door. She was ready for fight and flight, despite the adrenaline and blood rushing through her. She couldn't remember if she ever felt more terrified than in that moment.
In a low, hushed voice, the shadow said, "There's no need to be alarmed, Ms Jauregui."
Lauren was ready to bolt until she recognised the Italian accent. It wasn't strong but it was noticeable. Lauren relaxed slightly at this.
Upon further inspection, Lauren could see the man was dressed in a classic suit and tie, along with an overcoat. (Not exactly the attire of a killer.) She could barely make it out, however, because of how dimly it was lit. She couldn't even make out the general shape of his face. It was as if the shadows itself were talking to Lauren.
"I'm here on behalf of Don Santoro." He said, remaining absolutely still, "I apologise for any distress I may have caused you. Normally, I would have approached you in a more formal matter but under the circumstances..."
Lauren forced herself to nod, realising she was acting on behalf of the Morello family. Donning a poker-face, she said, "Of course, it's understandable."
The man nodded at this; Lauren could only tell because of the way his suit crinkled and then straightened up. Her heart had yet to find a steady rhythm.
"I've come to relay a message from Don Santoro." He began, waiting for her consent. It was a game of formalities that Lauren was new to, but had to keep face.
When she nodded, he said, "He wishes to apologise on behalf of his second son, Julian, who's actions, as of late, have been appalling."
Lauren only nodded, keeping her mouth shut before her opinions got her killed. She would refrain from mentioning any of the murders and muggings if she valued her life.
"On behalf of Don Morello, I would like to thank Don Santoro for reaching out to our family like this." When the man nodded, Lauren swallowed and asked, "But I do have one question."
He moved slightly, paused, then said, "Ask away."
"I am aware of the deteriorating relationship between our two families," Lauren began, praying she used the right words, "But Don Morello would have been open to speaking with you directly. He has no ill will towards your family."
Lauren had never felt fear like this. She was shaking so badly, but she couldn't let him see that. Instead, she focused on her breathing. This was one way to get experience, she supposed.
After a moment, the man said, "With all due respect, with the tensions growing higher with each day, I believed it was safer to speak associate-to-associate."
Lauren nodded, saying, "Of course. I will be sure to forward this message to Don Morello."
She could hear the smile in his voice when he said, "It's been a pleasure, Ms Jauregui."
And with that, he left. Like a shadow, he disappeared into the night.
Lauren locked her car twice and waited a few minutes to see if he came back. When nothing happened, she let out a sigh of relief and leaned her head against the headrest. Her breathing was raggedy and her whole body shook with fear. She felt dizzy and sick to her stomach.
Is this what her life was now? Random situations where she didn't know if she was going to live or not? Is this really what she signed up for?
Lauren shook her head and clenched her jaw. She needed to get a grip. She made her decision, it was time to own it.
She had a decision to make: call Uncle Tony and forward the message, or call Junior and get a second opinion.
She chose the latter. As she drove off into the busy streets, she dialled his number.
"What?" He answered, sounding groggy and irritated.
Lauren didn't bother correcting his bad attitude. She immediately began explaining what happened, from the apology to the unknown associate's disappearing act.
"You know that Julian won't stop, right?" Lauren said, frowning at the thought, "He'll do as pleases, with or without his father's consent."
"All my father has to know is that Don Santoro apologised." Junior said, his voice still gruff. Apparently, he had spent the day with Rosa and she really tired him out.
Lauren didn't know what to do or how to feel. As she ended the call, she wondered if there was more to that surprise rendezvous with the associate. She wondered if that was actually an associate who came on behalf of Don Santoro, or one of Julian's henchmen trying to assess the new meat.
Perhaps this was Julian's way of fabricating a truce, only to make the Morello's let their guard down.
The whole situation made Lauren's head throb. She needed a distraction, badly. And rather than going to Cat's Meow to get shit-faced, she was given a better alternative. This alternative was in the form of a text that read:
Camila: Date went horribly, pick me up.