nightly encounter 》 camren [g!p]

nightly encounter ii

A/N: can we pretend there wasnt like a year between this part and the last one? please and thanks

*

You have been pacing around the room for the past half hour. The post-it you received a few nights ago is absolutely crumpled in your hand, and it's soaked with sweat by now, so you don't know if the number on it is still readable. You hope it is; it's the reason why you've been walking around your home like a crazy person in the first place. After another few steps, you suddenly stop.

"You got this," you whisper to yourself, and you try to steady yourself on the carpet. It's useless, however, as the anxiety has taken your body over completely. You look down at your arms, at your legs---you realize they're trembling. You're shaking, overwhelmed by nerves, and you assume it's best to sit down on the couch since there's a rather big risk you're going to faint.

"Jesus," you mutter, "I'm a mess." Your behind meets the soft leather. "All this because I wanna get some and am too much of a chicken to just ask outright." Your hand wanders through long black hair. God, you can only hope it's going to be pulled and absolutely disheveled later tonight. Yeah, you're still intent on going out and meeting her, even though you haven't managed to convince yourself to call her yet. Why are booty calls so hard to go through with? It's not like you have anything to hide. She was the one to come onto you (literally) last time, so she definitely wants you, and you want her, obviously, so you have no clue what your issue is.

You groan and clench your fists. Your gaze meets the ceiling. "Come on, Jauregui," you let out. It sounds utterly frustrated, and as it reverberates, it hits you how ridiculous you're being. You shake your head in disbelief and reach for the still soaked post-it that has been left on the coffee table in front of you. More or less determined to actually call this time, you take your phone out of your jeans' front pocket. You enter your password and open the dialing screen.

As strange as it is---you haven't saved her as a contact yet. The last numbers you've typed in are a giveaway, however, to the fact that you've had this half-breakdown more than once over the past days. No wonder you don't get any, your brain mocks you. You roll your eyes at the voice, but laugh at the same time. It's true.

A shrug later, you tap on the number your phone suggests, anyway, and hold the phone to your ear. The anxiety rises up again, but you power through the surge.

"Hello, this is Camila."

Fuck, you forgot just what her voice does to you. You clench your thighs together. "I-- hi, this is Lauren."

You swear you hear her smirk. "What can I do for you, Lauren?" She knows what she does to you, then. There is no other explanation for the way she says your name. She knows she can turn you to mush within seconds. And you really wish you had a playful remark to throw at her. To defend yourself. You can't just let her win.

"I don't know, Camila," you hear yourself say all of a sudden, "what can you do for me?" Your own words shock you. And you're absolutely certain they shock her too. You may have just established yourself as an equal party, but you're kind of scared of what's to come now.

(What shocks you more than that is the fact that you're seductively tracing your lower lip with your finger as you're saying the words, but you ignore it for now.)

Camila hums mysteriously. "You'll see."

There it is. She's certainly already planning some sort of revenge.