It wasn’t a bad place to have house arrest. Camden stayed out of my way and spent as much time as possible in the shop or in the office, either inking the occasional client or dreaming about his new future. He was cordial to me when we did cross paths, and whenever he made himself dinner or ordered take-out, there was always enough for me. He had even offered me a beer at one point but I made a point of saying no. I needed to think clearly, more clearly than I ever had to before.
He had put away his gun somewhere and stopped throwing pots of coffee. He seemed a little embarrassed about that to be honest, but I probably would have done the same thing if I were in his shoes. Sometimes you have to shock someone to get them to see how serious you really are—I knew that all too well. And I saw that Camden was serious beyond reproach. I missed the days we had before this mess, when he was flirting with me and everything was fun. But, I guess all of that was a lie anyway.
There was no fun in the truth.
On Friday, while my friend Gus in Pismo Beach worked on securing Camden some fake Social Security Numbers, I was in the middle of making him a fake driver’s license. In order to get it done properly, we would have to go to a place to get his picture taken.
“I don’t see why I can’t go alone,” he said while we ate our All-Bran cereal like the world’s most fucked up married couple. “There’s a few passport photo places on the strip and in the mall.”
“Look,” I said pointedly, “You can’t keep me cooped up in here forever. I have to go out sometime. I’ll go crazy otherwise.”
“Too late for that,” he mumbled under his breath.
“And I have to make sure you look right and the photos are the right size and the right everything. It’s very easy to get wrong. You have no experience in faking IDs. I do.”
He obviously thought I was going to make a run for it, but I was beyond that now. I was starting to trust Camden a little bit and trust his intentions. I didn’t exactly want to help him escape with a shitload of cash and have more people to be running from, but it wasn’t too off from something I’d be doing anyway. If this was all Camden wanted to use me for, I could live with that.
He sighed and pushed his bowl of cereal away. “Well, if you’re coming, we better not let anyone recognize you. If your uncle saw you, it would look pretty bad.”
I shrugged. “I have some wigs. It’s you we don’t want people to recognize. To be more specific, we want you looking as different as possible. Are you sure Vincent or any of his cronies won’t be around between now and the drop?”
“Cronies?” he said with a laugh. “You’re making them sound like the mafia.”
I stared at him. “Yeah? They’re Italian aren’t they? They probably are the mafia.”
“That’s racist.”
“It’s racist if I said all Italians are part of the mafia. The Madanos run drugs or guns or whatever. You’re laundering their money. It’s probably safe to say they have ties to the mob in some way. My ex-boyfriend is part of a gang. He’s Mexican. Guess what? He’s part of a large Mexican drug cartel. I’m white trash with an Eastern European background. I’m also a gypsy and a con artist. We’re all stereotypes. Sometimes they come from somewhere. Sometimes when people pigeonhole you, you end up being the pigeon.”
“You’re not a pigeon,” he said. “You’re whoever you want to be.”
“Whatever. So, back to the question.”
“The answer is no. I shouldn’t see any of them until Monday.”
“Then we should get started on your new look now.”
“Should I be worried?” A wrinkle appeared on his forehead. I wasn’t letting my guard down, but my god he looked adorable.
“Well, aren’t we a little vain,” I remarked. “You’re not going to look like an idiot. I can’t do anything drastic with you anyway, you’re covered in tattoos.”
He raised his hands in the air and wiggled them. I’d forgotten how strong and elegant they were. “I don’t have any tats on my hands. They’re the last frontier for me.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” At least long-sleeved shirts would do the trick. I peered at him, moving my head from side to side. “You’re going to start wearing your Kettle Black glasses, the black ones, all the time. We’re going to dye your hair black, cut off all this shaggy surfer dude-ness and make it short and a bit spiky.”
He grimaced.
“What?” I asked, leaning in. “That not cool enough for you?”
“Never mind,” he said. “Fine. Dye my hair, cut it off, say goodbye to contacts. Anything else? Should I remove my septum ring too or do I get to keep some memento of who I was?”
He was being sarcastic and missing the whole point. I almost put my hand over his to comfort him and add emphasis to what I was about to say, but I didn’t dare touch him.
“Camden,” I said delicately, “you’re not going to want any mementos of who you were. This isn’t about a disguise; you’ll barely look any different than you do now. This is about saying goodbye to the person you are, the person you were, and hello to the person you’ll be. You’ll have to change and change is big. Change is scary. You’re uprooting everything you have worked so hard to get. You’re not going to know who you are for a while, not until you relearn how to live. If you look in the mirror and you don’t immediately recognize yourself, then you’ll know you’re on the right track.”
“Is that why you’re so sad all the time?”
I frowned. “What?”
“You know when we were in my car, heading to the show and I said I liked Guano Padano because it reminded me of you? Rough and sweet at the same time? I wasn’t lying. I was just leaving something out. It’s rough and sweet and very, very sad. When I look at you, I see sadness.”
I chewed on my lip and looked away from him. “I thought you saw justification.”
“I do. I see a lot of things when I look at you.”
I got to my feet, feeling uncomfortable. “Come on. Let’s get you a makeover.”
***
It’s funny how women underestimate just how vain men can be. Camden didn’t really have a problem with wearing his nerd glasses all the time—which, fortunately for him, didn’t make him look any less attractive—and he didn’t care that he had to dye his hair black. His brows were naturally black anyway and the combination would make his icy blue eyes pop even more.
No, Camden had a problem with having his hair cut short, purely because he didn’t like the way his ears stuck out. It was hard to believe that this was the man who was planning to run away with a bunch of the mafia’s money, but hey. Someone can look like a tattooed, muscular god and still be terribly insecure because of his Dumbo ears.
Which, by the way, also didn’t make him look any less attractive, especially since he didn’t get his hair cut that short. I had a change of heart. It wasn’t fair, really. Somehow, even being a new person and having a new look, he still managed to look hot. I’d stopped swooning over him as soon as I learned that he was borderline insane, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t still checking him out from time to time.
When we were done with the hair, we made our way to the passport photo place and I had to explain to the old, deaf man who was taking the pictures that it wasn’t for a passport but for an ID. We couldn’t say driver’s license since that was illegal and all, so we made it look like Camden owned a growing business and wanted to get security passes for the staff. That was enough for the old guy and we got three tiny photos ready to become a forgery.
It was surprising how different he looked in the photos. I was standing off camera, looking at the screen and giving him directions. Despite the glasses, the new Camden looked serious and tough, the kind of person who never forgot a face. The kind of person you didn’t want to mess with. I wanted for Camden to feel empowered by the new him every time he looked down at his ID and new name.
Speaking of, now that the hard part was over, we retreated back to his house before anyone could see me and got started on findin
g his new name. He had picked up a bottle of Buffalo Trace whisky at the store, and over a glass of it, we were brainstorming.
“Your new name is the most important step in this whole process,” I informed him, sitting back on the couch. He was sitting in the leather armchair across from me and swirling his glass. Again, I had passed on the alcohol. “You’re going to have to live with this name. You’ll no longer be Camden McQueen. Even though that sounds like a good idea right now, it’ll hit you somewhere down the road. That you can’t go back.”
He stared at the swirling bourbon. “You came back. You got to be Ellie Watt again.”
“Yeah, well that’s only because that name was clean. It might not be clean when we leave this place.”
“That name,” he said curiously. His eyes were on me. “You refer to it as ‘that name’ but it’s your name. You were born with it, were you not?”
“I was,” I said cautiously.
“Yet you’re treating it like it’s made up, like it’s not even yours. Like it won’t even stick.”
I started fiddling with the tassels on the end of the white throw blanket. “It probably won’t stick, not until I go legit. Not until I have a home.”
“A name is like a home, then. All those years without a name. All those years without a home.”
I twisted my lips. What was this, amateur psychiatry hour?
“Be that as it may, you need a name that you like, Camden. And the easiest names to remember, to believe, are the ones that have the same initials as your current name. Or your real name. Either or. There’s something very…reassuring about seeing those initials over and over again, no matter how many times your name changes.”
He watched me for a beat, then downed the rest of his drink. The glass was refilled in no time. There was something very cagey about the look on his face, and considering it was only six in the evening, if he kept up at this pace he’d be drunk as a skunk.
“Camden? Now’s the time you tell me your favorite names that start with C.”
He shook his head. “Does it have to be the same letter?”
“Trust me. It’s easier this way.”
As he lapsed into silence, I said, “Caleb?”
He made a disgusting face.
“All right, Calum.”
“God no.”
“Cade?”
“Way too evil. Next.”
“Cory.”
“Haim or Feldman?”
“Cash?”
“Might as well call me Douchebag.”
That can be arranged, I thought. “Okay, Carter.”
“Gah. When I hear Carter, I think nerd.”
“Well, if the shoe fits…”
He glared at me over his glasses.
“Cody, then,” I suggested.
“Sounds like I should have a mullet. How about Cameron?”
“Oh, I think that’s pushing it a bit too close.”
“Caithness.”
I was starting to worry.
“What?” he said, raising his arm defensively, his drink sloshing over the rim. “It’s from MacBeth. Hey, there’s a last name too. Caithness Macbeth!”
The drink was obviously going to his head and I was starting to feel a bit nervous about the whole situation.
Still, I couldn’t help but tell him, “That is the worst name ever.”
“Caithness Macbeth,” he mulled over it.
“People will know it’s a fake name,” I pointed out.
“People are illiterate. No one will know.” He pulled out his iPhone and started tapping on the screen.
“What are you doing?”
“Googling names.”
An hour later, Camden was drunk, attempting to make a fire, and we had finally settled on a name. He had wanted to do a nod to some of his Irish ancestry on his late mother’s side, so his new persona was called Connor Malloy. It wasn’t too similar to Camden McQueen, but because of the pacing, the words rolled off the tongue the same way. To tell the truth, he kind of looked like a Connor.
Though he’d always be Camden to me.
“Come sit with me,” he said. He had gotten the fire going and was sitting cross-legged on a Mexican blanket in front of it. The very same place we’d shared some wine and, uh, certain parts of each other. It felt like ages ago. It was amazing how fast everything had changed, even our names.
I hesitated. He was drunk, which was fine. I mean, I’d seen him drunk before. But things were so different and so unpredictable, I wasn’t sure who I was going to get. Camden? Connor? Caithness? Today had been the first time we’d been together in a few days, and while things were going smoothly at the moment, I didn’t want to push my luck.
“Please,” he said, patting the ground beside him.
Feeling he probably wouldn’t ask nicely next time, I got up and sat down beside him. The fire wasn’t too hot since it was a Duraflame log, but it was pleasantly warm and toasty. I brought my knees up to my chest and watched the flames dance.
“So when do I start becoming Connor Malloy?” he asked in a dull voice.
I turned my head to look at him. The flames reflected in his glasses, making it hard for me to see his eyes.
“When we run,” I said.
“Do you ever get tired of running?”
I managed a weak smile. “Why do you think I came here?”
“I thought you came here to screw me over,” he said. It was so emotionless and he watched the fire as if hypnotized.
“I didn’t come here to screw you over, Camden.”
“Please, call me Connor.”
“Seriously, Camden, listen to me. I know you don’t believe me or trust me but…you have to know, you weren’t why I came here.”
“No? Then I’m a bit disappointed,” he said sadly.
“I didn’t think I’d know anyone here. That’s why I came back. I figured everyone was either too old to remember me or had moved on. No one stays in the town they were raised in unless they have a reason. I thought I could just start over. I thought my uncle could help me. Or at least try. But he didn’t want me.”
“You could have gotten a job like everyone else. A real job.”
“I tried—“
“You didn’t try.” His eyes snapped to mine, taking me by surprise. “You wanted the easy way out. Don’t you know by now that there is no easy way out?”
His tone put me on edge. I tried to placate him with kind eyes. “I’m getting out now, aren’t I? We both are.”
A savage smile slowly spread across his lips. “But you think this is easy. Don’t you? You’re relieved that all you have to do is help me with something you’re good at. Somehow, in the end, you’ll walk away. Maybe not any richer, but you’ll walk away. And you’ll feel great about how much you helped Camden McQueen or Connor Malloy or whatever my name will be. You’ll walk away feeling like a winner. That’s not fair, Ellie. You don’t deserve to feel that way.”
I couldn’t figure out what to say because what he was saying was the truth. He removed his glasses and put them on the ground beside him. His eyes, heavy lidded with drink, drifted to my mouth. I gulped nervously, not liking the tension that was jagging between us.
“How do you think I should feel?” I asked thickly. My nerves were on fire. Everything was on fire.
“Like this,” he said. Slowly, he leaned over and kissed me. His lips were soft and tasted like bourbon. I couldn’t kiss him back if I wanted to; I couldn’t do anything but freeze. He pulled back a little, his eyes inches away. I could see my frightened reflection in the black hole of his pupil. “See? You’re afraid.”
“You want to scare me?” I whispered.
He kept his lips an inch from mine. His fingers smoothed the hair off my face, tucking it behind my ear.
“Yes,” he murmured. His lips brushed mine as he spoke. My breath hitched as his other hand slid the strap of my tank top and bra off my shoulder. I shivered from his touch, from his eyes, from whatever was buried in his heart and eating
him alive.
“Camden,” I warned, my voice shaking.
He placed his lips on my shoulder and started kissing down my arm. He was right. I was scared. I was so, so afraid. Yet a terrible part of me wanted him to continue. I was turned on and frightened, ready to run, ready to fight, ready to grab him and kiss him, devour every part of him. I didn’t know what was going on, but I was stuck in a cage with something that might or might not harm me, that might give me everything and leave me with nothing.
His lips came back up my arm and across my collarbone. Slowly. Very slowly. The slowest, softest kisses I’d ever felt. Then his mouth edged down my chest. I was sure he could feel my heart underneath, pounding wildly. With his hand, he pulled down my top and bra and exposed my right breast. My nipple was already hard and now puckered in anticipation. His lips circled it, then his warm tongue lashed it gently, teasing, tempting. He let out a small sigh then tugged at my nipple ring with his teeth. The pleasure traveled along my nerves like lightning strikes.
I couldn’t swallow. I felt like I was drowning under his touch. “Camden, please…”
Please stop, I was thinking. This isn’t right. It feels right and it feels wrong but it isn’t right. There’s a motive and it isn’t lust. It isn’t lust. It’s revenge.
Revenge never felt so good.
He nipped at me, and my back arched. A low moan escaped my lips. I wanted him. I wanted the person that didn’t exist. I wanted the wrong thing.
I sat up straight and pushed his shoulder back. He slowly raised his head. His eyes were calculating. His mouth twitched up in an unbecoming smile that chilled me despite the fire.
I pulled up my shirt and edged away from him. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“No? And why is that?”
“Because…you’re blackmailing me. You threatened to kill me the other night. I’m helping you steal the mafia’s money and start a new life and…we don’t need to make this any more complicated than it already is.”
Sins & Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1) Page 15
