Chapter 9: Wait Just a Hot Second. What's He Doing?

Cami

Oh.

My.

Gosh.

My ex-husband is gay. Or bisexual. Or just curious?

I’m not judging. Obviously. But I was married to this guy for eight years.

I narrow my eyes when I realize that I was misreading the transactions list.

Those male escort services aren’t charges. They’re deposits.

"Holy shit! He’s a hooker?!"

I mean, first of all, I'm a little pissed because this asshole is making bank. I should be the one who got money from him, not the other way around. But then why is he needing money from me? Because from what I see here, he’s doing pretty fucking well for himself.

Second of all. Gross. He’s not, well, my first thought is he’s not Owen and that’s just weird because I’ve known the guy all of two seconds and to think of him as this sexy beast of a man who’d make a better living as a male escort as my ex-husband would.

And I really, really need to stop thinking of the words male escort because it’s just weird, especially in conjunction with Scott. But seriously, he’s not great looking. Doesn’t have that rocking bod that I think of when I think of an escort. Not that I think of it.

I slam my phone down on the table and walk out onto the deck. Stand out here for a second then storm back inside to wrap myself in a blanket, pour a glass of wine, chug it down, pour another and push back through the door.

I’m shook.

How long has this been going on?

Why is he doing this?

Is he sleeping with these women or men who hire him to escort them?

How did this start?

Oh my gosh. Was he doing this while he was married to me? Do I need to be tested for STDs? I take a large swallow of wine wishing it was something much harder. Like tequila. Or a horse tranquilizer that would just knock me out and make me forget the past eight years.

"How fucking long has my ex-husband been a hooker?" My voice carries over the quiet of the lake, echoing off the pine trees surrounding us. I wince and shrink down onto one of the deck chairs, looking around to make sure no one heard. Even though the only one around would be Owen and the kids. And that squirrel who’s currently staring at me from a tree trunk. Judging. Don’t worry, squirrel. It’s nothing I haven’t thought about myself.

How is this my life? I really don’t understand. It’s not normal, right? To be with a man for over a decade and find out he’s a male escort. It’s laughable, really.

I finish off my wine and scowl at the bottom of the empty glass. I’m comfortable and cozy in the bright red painted Adirondack chair covered up by my blanket and frankly don’t want to move. But when shit like this goes down in your life, wine is necessary. If nothing else, just because it tastes good and warms my belly and helps me feel sleepy.

I groan and push out of the chair, go inside and refill my glass, to the brim this time because I’ve learned my lesson (and it polished off the rest of the bottle) and come back outside to settle back into the chair that I’m already plotting on how to steal when I leave here in six weeks. The sun is starting to set, which is something I haven’t watched in a really long time. Oranges and pinks light up the sky and shimmer across the lake. If I cared right at the moment, this is where I’d pull out my phone and let the world know that I’m watching the sun set and it’s beautiful and majestic and reminds me of something I’d see on a postcard. Or, you know, an Instagram story. #sunset #itsbeautiful #nofilter #ilovetodocumentmylifebutimbeginningtothinknoonecares

That last one might be a little confusing but it’s also entirely accurate.

The problem with my career is that it’s based solely on what other people think of me and I’m a pleaser. I want to write the books that everyone is talking about because I want to reach their hearts. Put me on their Top 5 author list. When I was growing up, stealing my mom’s Johanna Lindsey and Nora Roberts books and hiding under my blankets with a flashlight reading until well after my bedtime, I dreamed of one day penning stories that would stand the test of time like theirs. I wanted to be the one whose reader had a daughter secretly hiding away to read her books. I wanted to be a household name for romance books. Oh, my mom is reading another Camilla Moore book again, the daughter would roll her eyes all while plotting on how to snag the copy for herself. Not because of the glory or money or fame. Because I had fantasies to share and love stories that were itching to get out of me and onto the pages. But somewhere along the way, I lost the love for it. I forgot why I fell in love with writing in the first place.

Sure, I could blame it on a lot of things but the truth of it is, I shifted my focus and I suffered for it. I forgot that the thing I love most is writing about a man and woman falling in love with each other. How they may have been scorned once or twice before, or maybe they fell in love so long ago and were separated only to come back together for a second chance.

I fell in love with writing because of what I’m staring at right now. Inspiration. The story behind the gorgeous sunset that was dropped to the earth and meant to fall in love watching. I close my eyes and can see it play out so vividly. A beautiful woman with long flowing brunette hair is standing along the shore and a handsome, strong man walks up behind her, wraps his arms around her so she feels safe and loved and wanted.

The man would then kiss her on the neck, whisper sweet nothings into her ear and she’d feel the words up and down her body. She’d shiver and he’d know it, smile against her skin.

She’d look just like me.

He’d look just like Owen.

And my eyes pop open, I sit up straight from the chair, push out of the stupid uncomfortable thing like my ass has Velcro stuck to the chair (which isn’t uncomfortable at all but it’s annoying me now because I realized I fell asleep in it).

Clearly, I need to get back to writing so I can stop fantasizing about the sexy resort owner who’s incredible with his niece and nephew and looks like a freaking lumberjack that could lift me up, drape me over his shoulder, and satisfy every last one of my wanton fantasies.

Is it hot out here?

No. Actually it’s about thirty degrees and I think it might be snowing.

It’s the wine.

And probably the dream I was just having.

Either way, I need to shut that shit down and open my laptop because I’m suddenly feeling very inspired.