by Leen Elle
LEEN ELLE
AMAZON KINDLE EDITION
PUBLISHED BY :
Leen Elle
Just For You
This Novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Leen Elle
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be used or reproduced, in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER One
CHAPTER Two
CHAPTER Three
CHAPTER Four
CHAPTER Five
CHAPTER Six
CHAPTER Seven
CHAPTER Eight
CHAPTER Nine
CHAPTER Ten
CHAPTER Eleven
CHAPTER Twelve
CHAPTER Thirteen
CHAPTER Fourteen
CHAPTER Fifteen
Chapter One
Find Yourself Another Place to Fall
There it was, staring her in the face like an apparition of some dream. It was, to Imogen, the embodiment of her childhood; she stared, stunned, at the small, square book which, though it had some minor differences, like worn edges and faded color, looked to her nearly the same as it had the day she'd left it on the bench in the park in Grand Isle, Louisiana.
Now it rested, squeezed in between a book on German philosophy and Stephen King's It on the bookshelf of a man she had quite literally bumped into mere minutes before, in Chicago, Illinois.
One might have described her facial expression as a deer-in-headlights, but a very sharp and sudden pain brought her back to reality.
"Ouch!" she screeched, simultaneously wincing and clawing at the armrest of the loveseat she was currently sitting in.
The stranger, the one she had run into, looked up at her from a thick dark fringe of lashes with a scowl on his face. "I barely touched you," he mumbled.
Imogen made a noise and tried to rid her throbbing ankle from his sure hands in an effort to paw at it herself. She was unsuccessful; the man's grip was strong and firm.
"Stop moving," he demanded, his attention going back to her bare foot. With his left hand he raised her foot to her chest level and held it steadily while he reached for the bandages with his free hand. "Grab the ice bag. You're going to need to hold it on your ankle in a minute."
Cameron Moody was annoyed. He hadn't even seen the girl when he ran into her; for a split second after it happened, when he found himself lying half-way on top of her, he was almost sure she appeared from thin air.
He was already running late that day for his mind-numbing day job in the city, one which he speculated was slowly taking his IQ down a few pegs with every day he spent there. Menial as it was, Cameron hated to be late, for anything. His running into a stranger already twenty minutes late for work was bad enough, but it was the icing on top of his cake that, in the collision, he had somehow twisted her ankle too.
He wanted to walk away from her. He tried to walk away from her, but something stopped him. It was an unfamiliar and most unwelcome feeling that flared in the pit of his stomach when he watched her whimper as she attempted to walk away. He had heard the word once, this feeling as described by someone else: humanity. She couldn't stand on her left foot. He couldn't let her limp away without at least bandaging her up.
"C'mon," he had said, taking her a bit roughly by the arm and helping her wobble her way up to his apartment. Luckily for the both of them, it wasn't far off- the accident happened right outside his building.
That was the sequence of events which led Cameron Moody, not without the obligatory rolling of his eyes, to invite Imogen Campbell, who hadn't yet had the opportunity to thank him for his generous hospitality, up to his humble apartment while he played doctor for the injury he caused.
Cameron worked on bandaging her ankle when Imogen spotted the book which was so familiar to her and became enamored of it.
"I'm Imogen Campbell," she said without ceremony.
Cameron said nothing.
"Don't you have a name?
"What if I said I didn't?"
"Everyone has a name."
Cameron could feel the cold distance between them as strangers slowly beginning to give way to the warm intimacy of a budding acquaintanceship. The panic button in his head went off. Exchanging names was one step closer to another human being, something Cameron wasn't particularly keen on.
He refrained from entertaining her with any more conversation. Surely she would take the hint and be quiet.
"If you're not going to tell me your name then I'll just have to resort to giving you a generic one of my own, Mr. Smith."
"Mr. Smith it is." With deft fingers he secured the bandage around Imogen's ankle and carefully set her foot down onto the floor.
9:33 a.m.
"Why are you so afraid to tell me who you are? It's the least I can do, thanking the man who injured me but then took care of me."
"No good deed goes unpunished, Imogen." He stopped and pointed a finger at the ice pack. "Put that on your ankle."
She did so without breaking eye-contact.
Cameron closed his eyes and ran a hand over his forehead. "See, it's self-preservation. I'm not giving you my name so that I'm not punished by the universe in the future for helping you out."
Imogen's eyebrow went up. "That's not fair. You just used my name when I don't even know yours. At least give me an initial. Something."
Cameron sighed. He had known this girl for thirteen minutes and already he was drained.
"C."
"C? Okay, that's a start. C…"
9:35 a.m. Thirty five minutes late.
She was at Ca- when he interrupted.
"God. If it'll make you feel better, my name is Cameron."
In retrospect, he would view this moment and this action- telling her his name- as the moment he sold his soul.
A slow smile crossed her face. "Cameron," she repeated. "I was getting there. Nice to meet you."
He stared at her open hand like it was anthrax presented to him in an open envelope. She wiggled her fingers.
He gave her an insincere smile and moved to the desk. "You too, Imogen."
Unfazed, Imogen dropped her hand into her lap, the sound of flesh smacking fabric ringing through the air, and looked back at Cameron's bookshelf. Her gaze settled once more onto the all too familiar book. There was a deep aching in the pit of her belly and her fingers twitched with the desire to touch it, to hold it, to open its pages. Her eyes were moving back and forth as if she were already reading the words printed inside of it.
Cameron was busy rolling down his sleeves and fixing his tie, thankful for the momentary silence, when he noticed that Imogen was completely absorbed by something on the shelves. He turned half-way to face her, shoving his arms through his jacket.
She looked almost like a child, the expression on her face innocent and full of wonder. She seemed to have forgotten all about the pain in her ankle.
He waited a minute or two and still she didn't move an inch.
9:39 a.m.
He cleared his throat. "See something interesting? Trust me, that German philosophy is not as appealing as it sounds. Couple hours with it and you'll see what I mean."
"What is this? You're trying to start a conversation with me now?" Her eyes sparkled in a way he didn't like.
"Fine, I won't talk anymore—"
"Stop it. I'm teasing. You should lighten up. Can I ask you a question?"
"No bother asking for my permission as pretence; I know you're going to as
k me no matter what my answer is."
Where the hell was his briefcase? He pushed his tie to his chest and started searching around for it, on the floor, on the desk, next to the sofa…
"How did you come by that book?"
"What book?"
The briefcase wasn't under the desk, or next to it, or on top of it.
"This one, right here. The small book with the brown cover."
He didn't have to look to know which one she was referring to. "I don't know," he grunted, shoving boxes a few inches to the left, trying to spot that damned briefcase. "I think it was in my mailbox or something. Someone just put it there, no note or anything."
Imogen blinked. "Have you ever read it?"
"No, not entirely." Aha, there it was, behind a filing cabinet next to the door. He must've chucked it there as he walked into the room, his hands full with Imogen. "I opened it once and read through it, but there wasn't anything important in it. It's a journal, full of inconsequential thoughts and nonsensical ramblings by amateur philosophists, better known as ordinary people." He waved a hand in the air as if dismissing any other inquiries she might have had.
"Random musings on life, hu? It might be more important than you think, Cameron. You don't have to have a degree to be insightful."
"Au contraire, mademoiselle. That is where you are wrong. A degree means education and an education means intelligence. I prefer to let the intelligent elite do the outrageous thinking."
If Imogen had a disposition in which she was easily put off, she might have been put off then. She had never met anyone like Cameron in her entire life, and she wasn't sure at this point if this was a good or a bad thing. Always the optimist, Imogen refused to let Cameron's cynical view of life get to her right away. But she was intrigued; his raw skepticism of anything and everything was almost seductive because it was new to her.
"Do you have a degree?"
"Not the one I wanted."
"But you have one."
"Of course."
"And do you consider yourself part of this elite, as you call them, then?"
"Not at all," he said in a mockingly light tone as he looked at his watch.
9:42 a.m.
"Shit," he whispered. "I'll be an hour late."
"You have somewhere to be?"
Cameron couldn't resist. If he had to defend himself, he'd say she walked right into it. "What was your first clue, Sherlock? The fact that I raced you up here? The fact that I've been checking the clock every three minutes? The fact that I'm now trying to subtly get you out of my apartment?"
Subtly wasn't exactly how Imogen would have described Cameron's attempts to get her to leave.
"I'm an hour late for work. I hate to rush you out…"
He wanted to smile as he said the words. He loved rushing her out.
"…but I really must be going. I have a job and other responsibilities I've grown tired of which I need to see to, unfortunately, and as much as I'm enjoying sitting here with you in my apartment talking about stupid anonymous journals and whether or not the common man is intelligent enough to make profound commentary on his own meaningless life, I do, as a matter of fact, have somewhere to be."
Imogen took his outburst with a smile on her face. She allowed herself to be heaved up by Cameron and escorted out the door. She stood next to him outside his apartment as he locked the door, wished him a good day as he glared at her, and waved to his back as he retreated down the hall and into the lobby.
She couldn't be sure where the feeling came from, exactly, but she knew that was not the last time she would ever see Cameron. Anyone else might have shrunk from the knowledge, but Imogen looked forward to it with an almost perverse anticipation. Next time, she promised to herself as she hobbled to the elevator, she'd get to thank him properly for setting her sprained ankle.
Chapter Two
Sunny Afternoon
Cameron had sweat stains under his armpits and the collar around his neck when he walked through the door of City Bank. He blatantly ignored the stares he got from coworkers and customers alike, heading straight for the door leading to the employee's lounge behind the front desk.
His boss took the liberty of exercising her power over him.
"You're an hour late."
Cameron felt his blood pressure rise and his heart rate spike. Fresh sweat broke out on his forehead. The sound of his teeth grinding together was audible in the momentary silence. He figured his chances of getting fired were lower if he kept the rude comments to himself.
"Did you hear me?" she asked. "You are an hour late." Her long finger pointed at the clock, the minutes ticking away like drum beats in Cameron's ears. "Do you mind explaining to me why?"
Cameron read the clock. 10:12 a.m. Even though he ran to the bank at full speed, nearly knocking over many more people on his way, he still didn't make great time.
He ran a long hand through his hair and threw his bag down on the table, moving then to the sink where he wet a paper towel and ran it across his face.
"I'm sorry, Susan. It's--- it's a long story that you're not going to buy, even though it's completely true. I promise I won't be late again."
Susan's eyebrow arched and she crossed her arms over her chest, shifting her weight onto her right leg. "Try me."
Cameron laughed to himself. "Just suffice it to say that my alarm clock didn't go off this morning."
Half true. But Susan didn't need to say anything. Though he didn't see it, he could almost feel the change of expression on her face.
"I'm here, aren't I?" he turned toward her and shrugged. "I mean, at least I still came in today. I could have said 'fu--- screw it all' and lay in bed, but I didn't."
He wasn't surprised that Susan's eyes were glazed over with boredom.
"Can't you people ever come up with anything new and exciting? These old excuses really wear on me."
By her tone, Cameron knew he was in the clear, and he dropped his chin to his chest and ran the wet rag over the back of his neck.
"This is your last chance, Moody. Next time you're late?" She placed her forefinger against her neck and made a cutting motion and the appropriate noise.
Cameron rolled his eyes and went back to patting himself off, thinking to himself that losing his crappy job would be the cherry on top of his year.
* * * *
It was a beautiful day; just the type she loved. Hidden birds chirped their songs in the dense thickness of the trees, the sun shone high and bright in the morning sky, and it was a comfortable 72° Fahrenheit. In her mind, she was a girl of six years again, walking along the pier again, watching the boats out on the horizon while the birds sang noisily above her, the warm breeze rustling the green leaves of the willows.
She hobbled along the sidewalk, taking her own sweet time. No one offered to help her, but Imogen didn't stop. By the time she got to the street around the corner from her new apartment building, her ankle was throbbing and she was almost sure it was swollen but she told herself she wouldn't be long here and that she'd heat up a bath for herself as soon as she got home.
It was cool and refreshing inside the lobby of the small building. Imogen closed her eyes as the air breathed new life into her, her long hair blowing in its soft breeze.
It was more crowded there than she thought it would be, but most of the people were at their mailboxes, opening and skimming over new credit card offers. She smiled and said hello to the bellhop who tipped his hat at her.
The water in the bathtub was so hot that Imogen could see the steam rise up and feel it hit her face. She closed her eyes and slid carefully in, a bit disappointed at her misfortune that morning. It was such a nice day; she wanted to spend it outdoors rather than cooped up inside.
She planned all along to spend it at the park, and that was where she was headed when she literally ran into Cameron. To Imogen, it all felt like it happened simultaneously in slow motion and fast-forward. She never even saw him coming.
Imogen slid back in the tub,
resting her head on its back edge. But she wasn't in her tub anymore; no, she was somewhere off, far away.
The smacking of body against body reverberated in her ears. There was something hard underneath her hands, something that gave in easily when she pressed her fingers into it, attempting to grab hold for safety: flesh. There were hands on her shoulders, fingertips pressing almost painfully into her back. Her equilibrium was thrown off and the street and people and buildings and cars in front of her eyes became a large, colorful blur. The scene then was as if an artist swept his brush across the masterpiece he decided wasn't good enough anymore.
Hands protected her head when she fell. Someone rolled so that she would be spared the brunt of the fall. It took Imogen more than a moment to realize that she was no longer standing up, but that she was half-splayed across the pavement and half-splayed across a body that wasn't hers.
