He looked down at his hands where he was tracing small patterns on the surface of the rug. “Do you know what else I think you should feel, Ellie? Aside from fear?”
“What?” I eked out in an exhale, my body tensed.
“Humiliation.” His eyes glittered like a cat before the pounce. “Just like you humiliated me.”
Shit. I had to play my cards right here or things were going to get very messy, very fast.
“I already feel humiliated, Camden. You beat me at my own game. You set me up to fail. I got caught because I only saw what I wanted to see. I was following my ego. I don’t have your money. I’m sitting here with you and not because I want to. Because I have to.”
“Because you chose to.”
“And it’s humiliating,” I admitted, pounding the words out like a stone.
He observed me for a few silent seconds. I could see the wheels of his brain turning, see him fighting something behind those eyes, something deep inside. He wanted to make me feel like he felt. He wanted to humiliate me so badly. To make me feel small, to make me feel weak, to make me feel helpless. Just blackmailing me wasn’t enough. He wanted to do something that would really make me understand. I just prayed he wouldn’t try it. That he would fight those demons and win. Because the moment he’d try and force me to do something I didn’t want to do, I’d be more than humiliated. I’d be ruined. And I’d never be able to look at his face feeling there was someone in there worth rooting for. Despite everything, I wanted to like Camden.
He leaned in closer to me, getting to his knees. The wall was behind me, and beside that, the fire. I was cornered, trapped. I was powerless, helpless. I could fight back and maybe win. Maybe save myself from him. But I wouldn’t save myself from my fate, the fate he set for me.
The revenge burned within him. He looked like a man possessed. He put his hand out for my face, his fingers contorted, like he was ready to grab me by my hair and force me to the ground. Like he wanted to cause me pain.
I looked him straight in his eyes, trying to see the good person I believed was still in there. The man who had called me rough and sweet and sad. The one who I’d stare up at the stars with. The one who believed that letting go and moving on was the better alternative to making other people pay.
The good person that I wasn’t.
His hand paused in the air, inches from my face, and shaking now. Was it with rage? Was it with control? I was holding my breath in this thick atmosphere, waiting for his next telling move.
A flash of clarity sparked in his rigid features. His hand came down to my cheek where he cupped my face. His hand was very cold, but it was gentle. And it meant me no harm.
“Good night, Ellie,” he said, clearing his throat. His eyes were wet, his brow furrowed in wild concern. “I think I’ve had too much for today.”
I watched him, unblinking, unmoving, unable to breathe, until he removed his hand and got unsteadily to his feet. He stumbled across the living room, bumping once into the coffee table and then into the wall, then finally disappearing down the hall. His bedroom door closed with a slam.
A rush of air flowed out of lungs and the feeling came back into my fingers. I’d been clutching my hands so tightly together that my nails had dug into my palms.
I grabbed the throw blanket from the couch and huddled up by the fire until it went out. It was the only warmth left in the house.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Suffice it to say both Camden and I were in edgy, introverted moods the next day. He was hung over and silent. I was walking on eggshells and trying to give him space. I’d gotten an email from Gus saying he was couriering us the Social Security Cards first thing Monday morning before the drop, so at least everything on that end was shaping up.
At some point in the afternoon, Camden had decided to practice his guitar in the living room, just jamming out like a madman. He was singing along too. I love men who can sing well. Unfortunately, he couldn’t. But at least it was on-key. No, Camden’s skill lay in his guitar playing, and being hung over didn’t seem to affect it all. Maybe it was his way of working things out. I hoped so. He had about as many issues to work out as I did.
Of course, I tended to rely on drugs to get me through that. I was running low on Kava pills and was feeling particularly anxious, so I fished out the Ativan and popped a couple under my tongue while I was in the bathroom. Camden had asked me the other day if I liked what I saw when I looked in the mirror. To tell you the truth, I barely looked. Sure, I put on makeup and made myself look pretty. But I was never really looking at myself. I observed the person in the mirror like I was looking through a window at someone else. If I looked really closely, I would have seen glassy eyes, dark circles, and black hair that had a strip of blonde roots coming in.
With Camden strumming in my usual space, I retreated to the spare bedroom instead. I left the door open to avoid that whole jail cell feeling, then lay down on the narrow bed. To take my mind off myself and let the drug do the work, I thought about Camden and Ben. I thought about how awful it would be to make a mistake with your life and never see your child again. To keep a room for him in your house just in case you were ever fortunate enough to have him visit. To have that room sit there, waiting and alone, for someone that might never come.
I must have been pulled under into an Ativan-induced coma, because when I woke up, it was completely dark in the room. The only light was coming from the hallway, the light from the kitchen. To my relief, the door was still open.
And through my extremely groggy head and dry mouth, I discovered the reason I awoke. Why my heart was already pounding harder than usual.
There were voices in the house.
Camden. And someone else. A man.
I quietly eased myself out of bed and crept to the doorway. I slowly popped my head around the corner. I saw shadows dancing on the walls, shadows of two people in the kitchen. I jerked my head back around the door before anyone could see me and I listened.
The sound of a chair being pushed back. “I’m sorry,” Camden said.
“You’re always sorry, aren’t you?” a man replied. His voice was deep and emotionless, a bit like the way Camden could be sometimes. “Always sorry for your shit little life.”
And now this man was beginning to sound familiar.
“I didn’t even think you’d notice, that you’d even care,” Camden wailed. Yes, wailed.
“Of course you didn’t. Because you’re too selfish and too stupid to ever think. I noticed! The whole town noticed! How do you think it looks to me? Huh? Here you are, twenty-six years old with no girlfriend. Just some whore for an ex-wife and a son that I’ve never seen, and you’re using your name—our name—in an ad for gay men!”
What?
“It’s not an ad for gay men. It’s an ad for the shop. One of my clients happens to be gay. He’s one of my biggest supporters and has the most tats and—“
A fist pounded against the table, rattling the items on it. There was no question that Camden was talking to his father. I shuddered at the memories I had of him.
“Look at it!” his father boomed, and I could hear the rustle of paper. “Right in our newspaper. Visit Camden McQueen’s Sins and Needles for all your tattoo needs. And you use a picture of this guy, this fag.” He said the word with such disgust that I had to fight the urge to run out of the room and hit him. “The name McQueen doesn’t just belong to you. I wish it didn’t belong to you. It’s my name. I’m the Sheriff. I rule this town. Do you know how people are looking at me now? They always thought you were one of those fairies. Elizabeth and I were so happy when you got married. Then you screwed it all up!”
“This has nothing to do with Sophia,” he said meekly. I’d never heard this big, bad Camden ever sound so small. I swallowed hard.
“This has everything to do with Sophia!” his father roared. Another hit to the table. “Why don’t you just admit to me that you’re gay, that you’re one of them, those fruits over in Palm Springs.
God, it’s so obvious, isn’t it? The way you used to wear makeup and dress like a girl.”
“I didn’t dress like a girl.” His voice was rising. “I dressed like a goth. It’s a fucking subculture, Dad. I grew out of it. I’m not gay, and if I were, it would be none of your business.”
“Oh, it’s my business all right. You live here, in my town, you make it my business.” A pause. Another hit to the table. Louder this time. Camden’s dad was losing it. “God, the way you never had any real girlfriends in high school, except for that slut. No wonder she dumped you, you probably wouldn’t sleep with her.”
This time the pause could have shattered the room. My jaw had unhinged itself a little. I had a feeling Camden probably looked the same.
“And what slut is that?” Camden asked carefully. I recognized that edge to his voice.
“Who do you think? Ellie Watt. That scum of the earth, conning whore.” He spat out that word like it was lodged in his throat. “Her parents made me look like the world’s biggest fool.”
I silently praised my parents for probably the first time ever. I also praised Camden for not immediately turning me over to this guy.
“Ellie isn’t a whore,” Camden said.
“She’s a gypsy tramp, just like her parents. She never belonged in this town, just like you don’t belong in this town. I guess I should be happy you never married a gimp.”
Now that word…that was pushing things a little too far; I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming.
Camden didn’t have that problem.
“Fuck you,” he seethed.
Another pause. This one slogged on as if through syrup.
Finally his father said, “What did you just say to me?”
Oh, shit.
I heard Camden get out of his chair. His voice lowered. “I said, fuck. You.”
The kitchen exploded in sound. Someone got punched hard. Then punched again. The hit, the sound of fist on flesh and cracking bone, filled the room and shot down the hall. Someone hit the cupboards in the kitchen and dishes fell to the floor.
I heard heavy breathing, a few sniffs.
“Don’t you ever disrespect me again,” his father growled.
“I’m sorry,” came the very quiet voice of Camden McQueen.
“Sorry? Sorry?” His dad sounded like he was about to let loose again.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” Camden whimpered.
The sound of clothes being smoothed, hands being wiped off.
“All is forgiven,” his dad said easily, as if they just had a minor spat. Maybe this was a minor spat to them. It would explain a lot of what I saw in high school.
I heard footsteps walk into the hall and I pulled myself further into the dark of the room.
“Oh, and Camden? Next time you want to put an ad in the paper,” his father said, pausing near the steps. “You make sure to run it by me first, okay?”
I couldn’t hear his response so I could only assume he nodded. I waited in the dark until I heard his father go down the stairs and out the door. Perhaps Camden McQueen would have no problem becoming Connor Malloy.
I tiptoed to the door in time to see Camden storming past me. I caught a glimpse of a bloody lip, a bright red cheekbone, eyes that didn’t dare look at me.
“Camden,” I called after him. But he kept going, into his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him, making me jump. Making my heart ache.
I poked my head into the hall and padded my way to the kitchen. A page from the local newspaper was on the table.
It wasn’t a huge ad, but it was big enough. Aside from the serious headshot of Camden in the corner, there was only one person in the ad, the man that his father objected to. He had a winning smile and was covered in gorgeous tattoos. He was also fit as a fiddle and wearing a black speedo, surrounded by oily men lying by a pool. He couldn’t have looked gayer if he’d tried.
Camden knew exactly what he was doing. He chose this man, not only because he probably was one of his biggest clients and certainly one of the most photogenic, but he knew it would piss off his father. He did this out of spite. He probably laundered money out of spite too. I knew a thing or two about that emotion. Spite was the fuel to right all your wrongs. And like any fuel, it could consume you.
I stared at his photo, lost in it. Here was Camden, gorgeous and outwardly successful, but fueled by nothing but spite underneath. All this time later the boy with the lipstick was still inside. Still kicking and screaming. Camden’s father underestimated him. Everyone had underestimated him. Especially me.
Then
`
In the twelfth grade, the girl had found a bit of peace. Perhaps because it was the senior year of high school and everyone knew they were almost out of there. They didn’t have much time left with each other and maybe they were growing up too.
The girl had never talked to Camden McQueen after that incident in art class. In fact, he dropped out of that class soon after. It was almost a shame—he received some high marks for his pictures of the girl—but she only felt relief. Every time she saw his face, she felt disgust, but most of all, guilt. When she didn’t see him, didn’t talk to him, it was much easier to pretend that he didn’t exist and that she’d never turned on him in the first place.
She hadn’t talked to him until one English Lit class in senior year. It was the only class they had together, but she sat on one side of the room and he sat on the other.
The bell had rung only moments ago and thanks to her spare block, she always got to class early. She had taken her seat and looked up when a bunch of her classmates—the middle of the run, good-natured crowd that got along with everyone—came in the room talking excitedly.
“I can’t believe we have a murderer running around our own town,” one of the guys said, slamming his books on the table with enthusiasm.
“Aw, come on, Mike,” said the guy in the football sweatshirt, taking a seat behind him. “The guy wasn’t a murderer. I think he was arrested for shoplifting or something.”
“Nuh-uh,” protested a guy who sat in front of the girl. “I talked to Phil Hadzukis, and Phil Hadzukis cousin’s friend works at the police station. They saw it happen. It was a murderer. Or maybe like an assaulter. But he was serious news.”
“And now he’s gone,” Mike said. “Imagine, he could be anywhere.”
“What are you guys talking about?” the girl asked. Mike looked her up and down with an appreciative grin. She rarely spoke to them unless she was spoken to.
“Didn’t you hear?” Mike said. She shook her head, obviously no, she hadn’t. “The Sheriff captured some criminal last night, some real bad guy, and locked him up. A few hours later, the guy escaped from his jail cell. Sheriff went crazy, running around town with his guns out like he was Clint fucking Eastwood or something.”
She frowned. “Sheriff McQueen?”
“Yeah. He wasn’t even drunk.”
“I think he was wasted,” spoke sweatshirt guy.
“He was pissed off is what he was. Put a perp away only to have him escape later? That’s gotta blow, dude.”
She bit her lip and anxiously looked to the door as more kids started filing in, hoping she’d see Camden. Hoping he was okay.
“Well, I don’t think you guys should worry too much about the criminal,” she told the boys. “Whoever he is, he’s not stupid. He’s long gone by now.”
“I forgot,” said Mike, “you must know a lot about this. Didn’t your parents almost get arrested by Sheriff McQueen?”
She was used to this by now. She gave him a haughty look. “Almost got arrested. Almost is the key word. They weren’t.”
“Because they ran,” said the sweatshirt guy. But he looked a bit nervous when she speared him with her gaze.
“I wish my parents were cons,” Mike mused, looking into the air dreamily. “All my dad does is sit on his fat ass all day.”
“Cuz he’s a bus driver,” the other guy said.
But the girl was no longe
r listening. Her eyes were drawn to the front of the class where Camden was walking in. He no longer wore the trench coat, which made him just a little less scary. But he still wore black nail polish and morbid clothing. His hair was to his shoulders at that point and more neatly kept. But he was still Camden the Queen to everyone.
And he was sporting a black eye.
The girl couldn’t help but gasp at the vicious black and blue circles that were rimming his puffy eye. The glasses did nothing to hide it. It wasn’t anything new to see him looking beat up—he’d often taunt some of the jocks like he was a freaking martyr—so that’s probably why no one was too shocked to see him like that.
“Yikes,” Mike said under his breath. “The Queen got his ass beat again.”
But the girl knew that wasn’t the truth. The girl had seen his father enough times to know that Camden’s injuries were a result of his father losing the criminal and taking it all out on him. She had a feeling, deep in the pit of her stomach, the moment the boys had said something.
The rest of the class went by slowly. The teacher didn’t even do a double-take at Camden, but the girl did. She kept sneaking glances at him at the back of the room. He never looked up at her or at anyone. He kept his eyes on The Lord of the Flies and that was it.
When the bell rang, however, and class was dismissed, the girl couldn’t walk away without saying something to him. She watched him scoop up his books and leave the room. She quickly followed him out and down the hall until she had the nerve to say something.
“Camden?” she asked timidly.
He stopped abruptly. She almost slammed into his army jacket.
He slowly turned, knowing who it was, not wanting to show his face. But he did. It looked even worse up close.
The girl gathered her courage and gave him a small smile. “Hi.”
He didn’t say anything back, just raised his brow in distrust.
She looked down at her feet, his black eye too much for her to take. She felt drawn to him, pained for him in ways she didn’t really understand. As if all of this was somehow her fault. It wasn’t, but that was guilt for you.
Sins & Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1) Page 16
