Sins & Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1)

by Halle, Karina

  “I got it.”

  “And your family’s name will be tarnished even more. Your poor Uncle Jim. He’s going to have a hell of a time with this. Gee, I hope the whole town won’t turn against him. Doesn’t really look good harboring two sets of Watt fugitives.”

  I narrowed my eyes, my jaw tense. “What’s the other choice?”

  “The other choice is that you help me.”

  I brought my chin into my neck. “Help you? Help you with what?”

  He let out a long breath and tapped the gun against his leg, looking up at the ceiling. “That might be better explained in the morning.”

  “But…but, okay, so then what happens? I can’t agree to help you unless you tell me what it is. What’s going to happen to me until morning?” The panic was starting to spread inside my lungs at a speed that even Ativan couldn’t save.

  His look was dry. “Oh, come on and use your brain. You’re really going to choose jail if you don’t like whatever help is needed? I just gave you a way out. It doesn’t matter how you can help me, what matters is that you have the chance to. I’d take it if I were you.”

  “I don’t like agreeing to things without knowing what I’m agreeing to,” I squeaked out.

  “Well, there’s always option three.” My eyes darted to his face. He smiled. “I can just shoot you in the head. I’ll destroy the tape, make it look like self-defense, and let my father take care of the rest.”

  The room grew thick with silence as I processed what he had just said.

  Finally I said, “You wouldn’t have the guts. That’s murder.”

  “It doesn’t take guts to commit murder. It takes stupidity and passion. You’re lucky I’m feeling really smart right about now.”

  He walked over to the light switch and turned it on. I blinked harshly at the light, feeling more on the spot than ever. Cornered desperation? Yeah, I was sure it was written all over my face, bleeding out from every pore.

  I didn’t have much of a choice.

  “Fine,” I said carefully. “I’ll help you out with whatever you want, just as long as you promise you won’t harm or hurt or defame my uncle in any way. My parents, I don’t care. But leave my uncle out of this.”

  “Deal,” he said. He walked to me and lifted me to my feet by my shoulders. He kept his grip tight and his eyes roamed about my face, probably enjoying the eau de cornered desperation.

  “Deal,” I replied.

  He bared his teeth in a smile before leaning into my ear.

  “I own you, Ellie Watt,” he whispered.

  The words sounded just like a cell door closing.

  Behind me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Then

  It had been a month since the girl had to show her gym class her scars, and in that month, the rumors had spread. They weren’t as harsh and vicious as they had been when kids had nothing to go on, but they were rumors just the same. Some people said she’d been a victim of a chemistry experiment gone wrong, like Bruce Banner before he became The Hulk, others thought that her family were Muslim extremists and she’d been punished for adultery. Of course, none of the rumors made any sense at all. Then again, neither did the truth.

  But for the most part, people stopped being so mean to the girl. There was just pity instead. A lot of sympathetic looks, some hushed whispers, and the occasional person backing away from her as if she had some sort of flesh-eating disease. The girl could only assume that was some other rumor going around.

  In some ways, the girl felt more at peace because the others weren’t calling her names anymore, but at other times she felt like she’d been ripped open and exposed for all the world to see. With her admission, her deformity belonged to everyone now. She didn’t have much else to keep for herself.

  At least the girl was feeling confident about her photography class. She loved working with the old-fashioned film, spending the hours toiling away in the darkroom. The only thing she didn’t like was the fact that Camden McQueen was in her class. She thought that after giving him the cold shoulder for a year, he would have given up trying to talk to her and be her friend. But he didn’t seem to know when to quit and the girl was constantly dodging him.

  That day, the class had their end of semester assignments due. They all had to take photos based on their interpretation of the word justification. The girl, thinking that she was oh so deep and clever, had taken photos of one of the bums begging on Palm Valley’s main street. As the class was invited one by one to put their works up on the board and explain their choices, the girl realized she wasn’t the only one who thought she was clever. Four other kids had chosen not only a homeless person, but the exact same one. The dude sure did make a lot of extra money that day.

  The girl went up and made a half-hearted attempt to explain her views, saying that the bum was justified in his actions because he was homeless and poor. He was allowed to beg for money because the circumstances made it acceptable. Society had shunned him and he was owed that much.

  After a few light-hearted claps from her classmates and an approving nod from the teacher, the girl sat back down and watched the rest of the assignments go up. There was another homeless fellow, a picture of a tiny kid beating on a big bully, a Great Dane eating cat food.

  Then it was Camden’s turn.

  All heads turned as he walked up to the board. Now nearly sixteen, Camden was taller, almost six feet. He walked tall, too, with his shoulders back and his face forward. He looked people in the eye, daring them to look back. And look back they did. He still wore his trench coat, though it was a bigger model, and while the full makeup had run its course, he favored sparkly eyeliner. He was pale, as if he was in witness protection from the sun, and his pants were a shiny, tight leather that no teenage boy could wear without getting beaten up for. That day he had on a shirt of The Cramps and the girl smiled caustically at the cartoonish coffin, making a joke in her head that he probably slept in one.

  Camden walked to the front of the class and looked at everyone.

  “Good afternoon,” he said rather formally. “My name is Camden McQueen.”

  A few people snickered, probably because of his unfortunate “Camden the Queen” nickname.

  He continued as if he hadn’t heard them. “The assignment we were given proved to be a bit of a challenge for me. The minute I heard the word—justification—I immediately had a subject in mind. But capturing this subject in the state of the word? That was going to be tricky.”

  Even though most people despised Camden, they were all leaning forward and listening attentively. Even the girl was pleasantly curious to see what he had in mind. That was until his eyes drifted to hers. And stayed there.

  “I was fortunate, however,” he said deliberately, his eyes never leaving her face, “that an opportunity presented itself to me one afternoon. I had a spare block and was wandering the grounds with my camera.”

  An immense feeling of dread washed over the girl like soot.

  “And while I was wandering about, I noticed the girl’s gym class was in session. A soccer game.”

  Her heart froze.

  “Or, it should have been a soccer game. There seemed to be one little problem and a yelling match between the teacher and a student took place.”

  Oh shit, the girl thought and her eyes started darting around the room to see if anyone had picked up on it. No one had—not yet. Camden had an audience.

  “This girl,” he said slowly, finally breaking his gaze and looking around the room, “the student, was the subject of this project. And as she took to the sidelines and watched the soccer game take place, I started snapping her picture.”

  The girl started to shrink in her seat, wondering if she could get under the desk without anyone noticing. Maybe, if she willed it enough, she could just disappear.

  Camden walked up to the board and started pinning black and white 8x10s up on it. The girl was too afraid to look.

  “Behold,” Camden announced like Marilyn Manson’s ma
gician, “justification in the form of Ellie Watt.”

  And there it was, in front of the entire class, black and white photos of the girl. They weren’t bad pictures, per se. In fact, Camden had possessed quite a talent for photography. Despite the paparazzi, telephoto elements to the shots, they were well developed and exposed. The girl looked beautiful with her blonde hair cascading down her back, her full lips and sensual eyes. But in that exotic face held more than just beauty. It held anger and it held pain. It held justification.

  The teacher cleared his throat, unsure of how to deal with this, while the classroom erupted into excited whispers. Everyone was looking at the girl for her reaction. Everyone.

  The girl could only sit there like a deer in the headlights, the red flames on her face the only sign that she was embarrassed beyond words.

  Finally the teacher said, “Camden, I don’t think taking pictures of your classmates is appropriate.”

  Camden shrugged. He obviously didn’t care if it was appropriate or not, if he failed or not. He was out to prove a point and he was good at proving them. “You never said it wasn’t. Besides, no one in this whole school has the right to act the way that Ellie Watt does. Except for Ellie Watt.”

  More eyes on her. She wished her school was built over Hellmouth and it would swallow her in one gulp.

  Camden continued. “When I see these pictures, when I see this face, this expression, I see someone plotting out their future. I see the bad things this girl will do. And I understand why. That is what I call justification. Thank you.”

  Before he could take his seat, before anyone could even think about clapping, the justification took hold of its subject. The girl got up, the stool clanging to the floor behind her. She leaned forward, her eyes, her fury, on the kohl-rimmed boy.

  “You stalker!” she yelled, her voice surprising her, him, and everyone else in the room. It wasn’t just that he took photos of her without her knowing, it wasn’t just that he was trying to get graded on them, it was what was happening in those photos. It was what they represented; her leg was hidden in those photos but the scars were all over her face.

  “You sick fucking freak!” She screamed the last words, rendering the whole room into silence. “All you do is follow me, pester me, bug me, and now take photos like a fucking creeper! You need a life, a hobby, and a girlfriend. And for the last time, no it will not be me!”

  And with that she slammed her sketchbook down on the table, scooped up her backpack from the floor, and left the room. She didn’t care if she was leaving in the middle of class, she had a feeling her teacher would understand. She just wanted to get away from him and that situation as quickly as she could.

  The girl ran out into the halls and went straight for the girl’s bathroom, the safest place for any teenage girl to hole up and cry. But as she sat huddled above the toilet, the tears wouldn’t come. She was so angry, so livid. Justification? Oh, she was more justified than ever now.

  She waited until the bell rang signaling the last class of the day. She had ten minutes to get to her social studies class. Ten minutes to get through the halls and put on a brave face.

  Only she couldn’t go straight to class because she had to get her textbook from the locker. She gathered some strength, pushed her long blonde hair behind her ears, and marched out into the hall as smoothly as her leg would allow. She looked straight ahead, avoiding any stares that were coming her way, those predictable glances of pity, and went to her locker. The guy next to her was putting something away and gave her a quick smile as she approached. So far so good.

  Then she felt it. That presence. She always felt it, wherever she was. She wished she had noticed it that day during gym class. This whole thing could have been avoided.

  With her heart in her throat, she turned around and looked Camden McQueen right into his bespectacled eyes, their brilliant blue color magnified by the glasses. She expected him to be angry or sad or even apologetic after she’d yelled at him in front of everyone. But his eyes were blank, as if every feeling inside him had been sucked away and he was just an empty bag. He was as cold as the metal locker her back was now pressed against.

  “You’re a bad person, Ellie,” he said without a trace of irony.

  She watched him carefully, like a trap ready to spring.

  “I’m not bad. The world is bad and I’m just trying to survive in it.”

  He smiled, both sad and self-righteous.

  “And that’s why I chose you,” he whispered, leaning in so close she had to flatten against the locker.

  Then, after he searched her eyes for a few torturous moments, he whipped around and took off down the hall. He walked as if he’d just won something, but in the girl’s opinion, they both had lost.

  Now

  I never thought I’d be able to fall asleep with my hands cuffed behind my back, but I guess when the body is tired, the body is tired. And I was fucking exhausted.

  When I woke up, the sun was already up and birds were chirping outside the window like they were welcoming the day with open wings. I was welcoming the day by feeling scared, stupid, and ashamed. I was lying in Camden’s bed for the second time in a row, only there was no hunky, naked man in bed with me. No, the hunky naked man was dressed and sitting in the corner of the room, poised regally in an armchair.

  My eyes squinted from the light. From the way he was positioned by the window, he almost looked angelic. But angels don’t have tattoos and they certainly don’t have guns in their hands.

  I sat up slowly with burning abs, the flannel sheets falling away from me. I supposed he had covered me up in the middle of the night. How nice of him.

  “Good morning,” he said, as if we were old friends. Old friends that didn’t want to kill each other.

  I glared at him. “Is the gun really necessary?”

  “No,” he admitted. “It’s just fun to have one.”

  “Like an extra penis,” I mused.

  He smiled unkindly. “Something like that.”

  I leaned over, rounding my back and letting out a moan of pain. I’d never felt so sore and stiff before. I was sure the cuffs had carved deep lines into my wrists.

  “How did you sleep?”

  “How do you think I slept?” I snapped without looking up at him. “You have my hands cuffed behind my back. I’m being held hostage here against my will and I have no idea what the hell you have planned for me.”

  He chuckled. “You’re not being held hostage. You’re free to go. In fact...” I heard him get up and walk over to me. “You’re right. You shouldn’t be cuffed.”

  I cocked my head to the side and looked up at him. He had put the gun down on the armchair, brought a pair of keys out of his pocket, and began fiddling with the handcuffs. With a joyous click, they opened up and my wrists felt sharp air and cool relief.

  He removed them and tossed them onto his oak dresser where they landed with a clatter.

  “There. Better?”

  I examined my wrists. They were raw and stung a little but were mainly undamaged. “Not really. I suppose there’s a price for letting me go?”

  He went into a wide-legged stance with crossed arms and tilted his chin down at me. “There’s a price for everything. We still have a deal, remember? You’ll help me because I need your help, and because the other two choices are…the greater of the evils. You won’t run away because I’ve got all the proof to put you behind bars ready to go at the click of a button. If you run, you’ll never escape, and all the lives you’ve tried to create will be ruined.”

  So basically what he was telling me was that I was already in a prison. Sure, you couldn’t see it, but I was stuck with him, stuck within these white walls until he decided to let me go. If he ever decided to let me go.

  “All right then,” I said slowly, pulling the flannel sheets up to my collarbone. From where he was standing he had a clear view down my shirt and I didn’t want my hostage-taker to be getting any special privileges. Not anymore.

>   “So,” I said, “when you’re finished blackmailing me, what do you plan on doing with me?”

  “You mean after you help me?”

  I nodded brusquely.

  “Then we part ways.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “And is parting ways a euphemism for something else? Say, killing me?”

  He looked disappointed in what I said. “No, Ellie. It means parting ways. It means you go one way and I go another. You head east and I head west.”

  “We’re about as west as we can go already,” I noted, eyeing him curiously. He seemed as sharp as ever but a lot more reasonable than last night. He was still scarily unpredictable, and I knew I’d never underestimate him again, but I felt like this was as good a time as any to find out what the hell our deal was based around.

  “No. There’s more west to go.”

  “So then, tell me. What’s the deal? What’s your plan? What do you need me to help you with? Is it killing people, because I don’t kill people, Camden. You might think I would because I’m a criminal, but not all criminals are the same, and I swear I do have a set of morals somewhere in my body. You might not see it, but it’s there.”

  He gave me a half smile, picked up his gun, and walked out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “Let’s discuss this over coffee.”

  I watched him leave, my pulse quickening at his avoidance of the subject, then eased myself out of the bed. “Can I go to the bathroom first?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he yelled back from the kitchen. “You won’t find any weapons in there anyway, if that’s what you were planning.”

  Actually, all I had was a bladder that was about to burst and hadn’t even thought about attacking him with razor blades or tweezers. What would be the use, anyway? Unless I actually killed Camden, which I wasn’t about to do, hence my worry over his ambiguousness, I really had no escape. He’d probably let me walk straight out of the house, but I was sure that no matter where I went, the police wouldn’t be far behind.