I'm so glad that you guys like the twist! I didn't know how you all would perceive it, but I am so grateful for all the reviews! In this chapter we hear from Sam's Dad!

SAM

I hit the red "end" button on the phone. The word itself mocks me. Have I really destroyed any chance to be with Mercedes? Do I really care if I have? The answers are I don't know and Yes. In that order. I can only hope coming clean with her was the right decision. I would've thought someone like Mercedes would appreciate the gesture, the significance of what I did in the end. But maybe I was wrong. I've never really had feelings for a girl like her. Hell, I've never really had feelings for any girl, period. Not like this, anyway.

I resist the urge to throw my phone across the room. The next step is hers. It's her choice. I'm just going to have to accept that and go along with her decision. Because I won't beg. I won't ever beg a female for anything. I just won't.

MERCEDES

Tuesday melts into Wednesday. Anger and bitterness become depression and devastation. In a way, Sam really was the perfect guy. I'd wanted him to be more like Cam when, in reality, he was Cam. He'd turned his life around and made something of himself for his brother, for his father. For his family. He's the perfect blend of bad boy and successful, driven adult. He's everything I ever wanted and everything I ever needed. All wrapped up in one gorgeous, sexy package. Which is all wrapped up in lies and deceit and danger. If that's not a kick in the ass, I don't know what is.

SAM

I guess they're right when they say, "Never say never." I said I would never beg. That's laughable. It's only Wednesday and I've already lost count of how many times I've called Mercedes. I should be embarrassed. But I'm not. I'm desperate. More and more every day. I'm desperate not to lose her. But I don't know what to do next. I hate to go to her house and force her to talk to me. But I will. At this point, I can't think of anything I wouldn't do for her. To see her. To talk to her. To touch her and taste her again. Oh damn, this ain't good!

MERCEDES

Wednesday becomes Thursday. My phone is lighting up with more frequency. I keep it close so I can see if it's Dad calling. It never is. Every time I call to check on him, he assures me he's doing well and promises he'll call if he needs anything. But he never does. Maybe I should just go home for a while. Take a break from school. From life. From heartache. From Sam. I have only a few more days until Marissa comes home, anyway. And then what will happen? Will "Cam" still be a part of her life? Will he still visit? And hold her and kiss her? Does he tell her he loves her? Did he ever plan a future with her? Will he? Those thoughts always send me into a tailspin.

On the one hand, I knew "Cam" was probably sleeping with her. I mean, they were dating. Of course they were having sex. But I thought Sam was unattached. I thought he was into me. All about me. At least for the time being. As much as a guy like that ever is "into" one specific girl. But it was all a lie. It was all a lie. Wasn't it?

SAM

I take the familiar turns that lead to the prison. I'm at my wits' end. The only thing I can do, short of showing up at Mercedes's and doing some serious groveling, is to go talk to Dad. It became apparent to me a couple days ago that I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I'm hoping he'll have some good advice, some good suggestions. I need all the help I can get. And there's only one person, other than Mercedes, on the entire planet who knows what's going on.

I committed the visiting hours schedule to memory years ago. I've come to visit Dad both as Sam and as Cam. I never tried to hide my family's past from the upper crust of Atlanta society. I just tried to be involved in it in a completely different way as Cam. As Cam, I was always approaching it from a legal standpoint, like it was my duty to try to help my father by learning and doing what I could. Legally. As Sam, I never really did anything. I took the only thing he left me— Dual, something that was bought with questionable money from questionable people— and I turned it into a successful, respectable establishment. Something a kid without a high school diploma could run. Something people would expect a person like me to be involved with. I played Sam to the bone. But somewhere along the way, I became something else. Something different. Some kind of hybrid. I'm not satisfied being the loser Sam anymore. At least not only the loser Sam. I like being respectable and respected. I like being looked at like I'm worth something and like my opinion matters. I like other people knowing I'm smart without my having to try to convince them. And then fail. I like being the winner that my brother was. Only I'm not my brother. I'm a winner all on my own. Yes, his death gave me another chance at life, but I accomplished all these things on my own. And I'm the only person who will ever know. Except for my father. And Mercedes.

The guards buzz me through the gate and I check in, filling in the blanks and signing my name, identifying the name and number of the prisoner I'm here to see. After I finish, they lead me to the familiar room with one long table cut in half by a wall of glass. It's divided periodically by partitions that create tiny cubicles. They're designed to give the illusion of privacy. But in here, there's no privacy. I have no doubt that everything I say into the nondescript black telephone is taped and stored somewhere. Luckily, my father is innocent. And anything else we talk about, we can do vaguely enough so that no one else would suspect what we're discussing. Like today, when the guards usher him in and he greets me. He smiles.

"So who's visiting me today? Sam or Cam? I can't tell by the clothes."

I look down at my hastily assembled outfit. I guess, for me at least, it is pretty middle-of-the-road. Black jeans and a striped rugby shirt. It's something that either Sam or Cam might wear. That or neither of them would wear it. I'm not sure which. I can't even remember buying the shirt.

"Does it matter?" I ask dryly.

He smiles again. His eyes search my face, like they do every time I come to visit. Like he's looking for signs of change and age. Or distress. When his smile fades, I know that today he's found some. He sits up a little straighter, his eyes becoming sharp. Aware. Vigilant.

"What's wrong? What's happened?"

"I met a girl." A frown flickers across his face— the face that most people say looks so much like an older version of my own— but then it smoothes and his lips curve into a very pleased grin.

"Well, it's about time. I'll be damned." He sits back and slaps his hand on the table. He's genuinely happy for me. Well, at least until I tell him the rest. That might change his tune.

"I told her, Dad," I say, deadpan. He looks a little confused for a second before he realizes what all is encompassed in that blanket statement.

"How long have you known this girl?" I start shaking my head. I know where he's going. Always suspicious.

"Dad, it doesn't matter. I needed to tell her. I care about her. And I trust her. Besides, I thought maybe she could help."

"Bringing her into all this, that doesn't sound like you care for her at all."

"I had it worked out to keep her safe. I wouldn't put her in danger."

"You put her in danger. You're my son. You're in this whether you like it or not. And I'm sorry for that. Sorrier than you'll ever know, but what's done is done. For the rest of my life, you'll have to be careful of who you let in. Maybe one day… when I'm gone…"

"I'm not waiting around, Dad. I'm not gonna let you die in here and I'm not gonna put my life on hold because of some mistakes that were made years ago. We've been punished enough. It's time for us to get on with life. I think I've found a way to—"

"Get yourself killed. That's what you've done. Stop messing in stuff you've got no business messing in, Sam. I gave you those… items as insurance. Nothing more."

"Well, I'm sorry, Dad, but I'm tired of letting other people ruin my life. I can't live this way. You're all I've got left. I can't just stand by and do nothing."

"Son, we've talked about this. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it's just not the smartest—"

"Dad, can't you just trust me? For once, can't you just trust that I'm capable of taking care of things, of making good decisions? Of executing a well-thought-out plan?" His expression softens.

"It's not that I don't trust you. It's that you're all I've got left, too. And I've brought so much misery to your life. I want you to go and live a happy, normal life. A life like you would've had if I'd died in that fire, too."

"Dad, I could never be happy letting you languish in here." He grins.

"Languish?" I smile.

"Law school improved my vocabulary." He starts to say something, then changes his mind.

"What?" I ask.

"I was just gonna say that I was proud of you before you went to law school. Ever since you were young, you were always happy just being you. You were gonna do what you wanted to do, the rest of the world be damned. I was always proud of that tough streak. I've always admired that kind of confidence and self-assurance." I feel emotion squeeze around my throat like a fist. I guess you never get too old to crave your father's approval. Or at least I haven't yet.

"Sam, please don't let that tough streak make your decisions for you. There's a time to give up, to let things go. If you care about this girl, go find her and make her happy. Keep her safe. Give her a life away from all this. Start fresh. If you love her even half as much as I loved your mother, you'll have a good life. And that's all I want for you."

"Whoa. I didn't say I loved her." Dad smiles at me. "You didn't have to."

MERCEDES

Friday morning I make myself get a shower. I find it more than a little disgusting and pathetic that I haven't taken one all week. But today, I'm done being pathetic. I've wallowed long enough. I've got to do something. So I'm going home for the weekend. I'll call Tad on the way and see if I can pick up at least one shift. After that, I'll figure out what to do for the rest of… well, whenever I get back. Just the thought of having to come back and deal with Sam and then Marissa and school and…life is so overwhelming.

I push it out of my head in favor of a weekend spent in the familiar. In the comforting. In the safe. Safe. I never thought I'd have such a literal application for that word in my life. I pack a bag of essentials and head out, locking up behind myself. With Marissa gone and Sam/ Cam being out of the picture, I feel completely disconnected from the city. From my life. To my home. It doesn't feel like home right now. It feels like a prison of lies and heartache. The only place that feels like home is the one I'm traveling toward. I call Dad and April on the way. April is kind enough to offer me one of her shifts, which I gladly accept. It'll be tonight's shift, which is probably a good thing. I can stay busy right off the bat. Tomorrow, I'll go out and look for more lambs, even though there's no real reason. But it'll be good to get outside, to do something that doesn't require me to think. Or hurt. Or want.

"Hey, punk," Dad says by way of greeting when I walk in.

I have the sudden and inexplicable urge to go throw my arms around his neck and cry on his shoulder like I did when I was a kid. Rather than doing that, however, and scaring the crap out of him, I set my bag down and go kiss him on the cheek and ask how he's been. I spend the day watching a CSI rerun marathon on television and chatting about this and that. It doesn't completely get Sam off my brain, but it helps. I knew it would. I shower and dress for my shift, happily slipping into the emotional comfort of the black shorts and tee as much as I slip into the physical comfort of them. I get Dad settled before I go, and then I drive myself to Tad's.

Everyone is awesome. Of course. Glad to have me back. I feel tears threaten more than once when regulars ask me to come back, assuring me that they'll never be as good to me at my new job as they are at Tad's. In a way, I believe them. But in a way, I also know that's not true. Sam is at my new job.

April shows up, not to work, but to provide much-needed support from the other side of the bar. She sips her drink and waits patiently for things to slow down before she asks any questions.

"So, let me guess. 'Bad boy' turned out to be 'worst boy'?" I laugh. Yes, it's a little bitter.

"Um, I guess you could say that."

"I was afraid of that." I stop stocking beer bottles into the cooler and stare at her, mouth agape.

"You were? Well, you could've said something, you know."

"I took one look at him and knew he was trouble. He's not just hot. He's smart. That's not a good combination for your heart, Merce. At least the others have been pretty useless and stupid. But this one? Yeah, I knew if he got his hooks into you there'd be trouble." I'd like to slap her. Hard.

"Thanks for the heads-up, April," I say, trying to sound teasing but knowing my anger is showing.

"Would you have listened to me if I'd tried? No. You never do. You knew you should've stayed away from him. But you didn't. Do you really think I could've said anything that would've changed your mind?"

I don't want to admit it, but she's probably right. Sam had me breathless from day one. So did Cam. Because they were the same guy, only in different clothes and with different jobs. I think, deep down, my body knew. I responded to each of them the same way, sexually. They both set me on fire. And that's not too likely to happen with two such supposedly different personalities. Why didn't I see it? How could I be so blind?

I'm emptying the last of the bottles from the box, arranging them neatly in the cooler, when I see someone slide onto the stool beside April. I look up and stop, my arm halfway into the cooler.

It's Sam.

He doesn't smile. He doesn't say anything. He just looks at me. I wonder if that's his heart I see in this eyes. Or if it's just my imagination. Either way, I don't trust it. I don't trust him. I say nothing. I finish what I'm doing, take the box into the back, then come back out and pour him a Jack neat. I slide him the glass, he slides me a twenty, and I pay for the drink and stick the change in the tip jar. I throw a smug look at him, daring him to make a comment. But he's smart. He doesn't say a word, just nods and tosses back his whiskey. I don't need to ask what he's doing here. I only listened to one of his dozen or so messages, and it was him asking to talk to me. I saved the rest. I figured I'd listen to them eventually. Just not yet. A guy who is widely known to adore April sits on her other side and starts chatting her up, leaving me to tend to the few other customers at the bar. And Sam. I keep myself busy with odd jobs, but it doesn't really help. Every nerve, every cell, every sense of my entire being is focused sharply on Sam.

By the time the night is over, I'm on edge. He still hasn't said a word. Neither have I. But the tension is palpable. And it's killing me. When Tad gives last call, Sam looks at me long and hard, then slides off his stool and walks out. I feel aggravated and bereft and sad and frustrated and hurt. But mostly I feel like chasing him. Like asking him to stay. But I don't.

I can't.

I won't.

As we are required to do, the bartenders stay as Tad counts the till. But my mind is wandering. To Sam. Always to Sam. Taking my phone out of my pocket, I check for messages. There are no new ones, which both puzzles and disappoints me, so I randomly select one of the saved messages from him and listen to it. When his voice comes on, there is a quick, sharp stab of pain in my chest.

"Look, Mercedes, I care about you. Can't you see that? Can't you feel it? I might not have always done the right thing, but try to see it from my perspective. Do you know how hard it was for me to tell you all this? Knowing that you might leave and never come back? I was just hoping that you wouldn't do that. Leave. But you did. And I know I should let you go. But I can't. I just can't."

I hear him sigh into the phone and then it clicks off. A lump of emotion constricts my throat. What am I supposed to do? He's a liar. Some small voice pipes up to tell me that he had a better-than-average reason to lie and that he did finally come clean, trusting me with things that could literally threaten his life. Does that matter? The small voice answers that it does. It matters very much. I choose another message to listen to.

"Okay, if this is how you're gonna play it, fine! I've done all I can do. I've tried to help you, to show you I care about you, but obviously that's not enough. Maybe you're right. Maybe you're right to go. I don't even know anymore."

I listen to another and another and another. It's plain that Sam was going through all manner of reactions to my reaction. For some reason, they make my heart squeeze. The one thing that's apparent in all of them is that he's searching desperately for some way to fix things. And that I'm the one making him desperate. I know what that feels like. I know what it's like to care about someone so much they make you desperate. But it doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. But it does matter. I just get more irritated.

Tad's finished and he's ready to lock up, we all leave together. As I approach my car, I see Sam sitting on his motorcycle, right beside the driver's side. I walk past him, unlock my door, get inside, and start the engine. I consider rolling down my window to talk to him, but I decide against it. As I pull out of the lot and turn toward home, I see a single light, the headlight of Sam's motorcycle, pull out behind me. Is he following me home? What's he gonna do, cause a scene in front of my father? My father with the broken leg? My irritation rises. But so does that swelling sensation in my chest, like my heart might burst from inside my ribs. Like Alien.

Sam's messages run through my mind— his words, the sound of his voice, the things he doesn't say, as well as the things that come across so clear. I look in my rearview mirror again, at the bike's front light. Following me. Steadily, persistently following me. Like his focus is as bright and singular as the headlight. As I pass a familiar pull -off that's hidden in the trees along the road, I swerve into it, coming to a crunchy stop in the gravel. Impulsively, angrily, I throw the gearshift into park, shut off the lights, and get out, slamming the door behind me. Within seconds, Sam is pulling to a stop behind me and cutting his engine, too. I stomp over to where he's taking off his helmet and getting off the bike.

"What the hell do you want from me?" I scream, anger suddenly finding its way back to the forefront. I lash out, putting my palms in the center of his broad chest and pushing with all my might. He barely moves. "What are you trying to do to me?"

When I feel tears threaten, I turn and walk quickly back to my car. As I'm rounding the hood, I feel fingers like steel bands wrap around my upper arms and bring me to a stop. Sam whirls me to face him. In the silvery light of the full moon, I can see the livid set to his features, the flash of temper in his eyes.

"Stop! Just stop!" he spits.

"Why? What else needs to be said? I think you've told me enough lies for a lifetime."

"No more lies," he says angrily. "I don't even want to talk to you anymore. I just want to hear you tell me that you don't feel anything for me. That you want me to leave you alone and never come back. Then I'll go. If that's what you really want, I'll go."

I know this is my opportunity. In my gut, I believe that he'll do exactly what he says— he'll be gone from my life forever if I tell him to go. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I hear him gasp, as if he's waiting for me to banish him from my life. Rage drains from his face. It's replaced by something close to a silent plea. Then he whispers.

"Don't. Please don't say it." I search his eyes. For what, I don't know.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to. I need you to come back to me. Not to help me. Or to help my father. I'm done with that. I don't want your help. It all boils down to you. I just want you."

My heart is beating wildly inside my chest. I hear nothing, feel nothing, see nothing but Sam. And even so, I barely hear him whisper again,

"I just want you." Before I can give it another second's thought, before I can overthink it and torture myself with what I should do rather than what I want to do, I answer him quietly.

"Okay."

I see several emotions flicker across his face, but then I see nothing. I'm in his arms. His lips crash down on mine and the world disappears. My fingers are in his hair, holding him to me. His hands are roaming my back and hips. And then he's lifting me onto the hood of the car. Kissing my neck, untucking my shirt, touching my breasts. I wrap my legs around his slim hips and pull him into the V of my thighs. He grinds against the place I need him most. His fingers loosen the button and zipper to my shorts. I'm only vaguely aware of being thankful we are so hidden from the road. With his palm, he pushes me back onto the hood and pulls my shorts and panties down over my feet. He tosses them onto the car beside me and lifts my bent legs onto his shoulders, burying his face between them. I can't hold in the moans of pleasure his tongue elicits. I feel it making hot circles over my clitoris. I feel it lick down and slide inside me, pushing in as deep as it will go. I feel him rub his face against me. And then I feel the world explode around him, showering him with the fireworks of my orgasm. He moves and then I hear his zipper. He enters me and my spasms continue. He grabs my hips and pulls me tighter against him, my back still pressed to the warm metal of my car. I look up through half-lidded eyes and I see him watching me, so serious, so sensual. He moves his hand between us and I jump when his thumb grazes my sensitive clitoris. But he's gentle and, soon enough, I feel the tension building again. I close my eyes and just feel. The waves of one orgasm run seamlessly into the next. As my body squeezes Sam, I feel him pulse within me. He spreads through me as he fills me up, as he comes deep inside me. I open my eyes again and see his back arched and his head thrown back. It's so hot to watch him come, I feel my body reacting, milking him, and demanding everything he has to give. I want it all. I want everything he has to offer. I want it pouring out inside me. With his body still shooting hot liquid into mine, Sam opens his eyes and reaches for my hands, pulling me up and into his arms. We are as joined as two people can be. And not just physically. He showers my face with kisses and runs his hands all over my back. He doesn't need to use words. I know what he's saying. I perceive it. I feel it. And I feel the same way.