by Debra Kayn
Jeremy frowned at his dad and left Christina's side. Angered over her treatment, she clamped her teeth together. He had no reason to bust her car window and force her into his house. She hadn't set a foot on his property until one of his men bodily dragged her into his house.
Mr. Farrell's gaze swept down over her chest and continued taking the rest of her in. She reached up and cupped her opposite shoulder with her hand to cover herself. He made her feel dirty and bad as if she'd broken the law, but she had the same rights as everyone else to use a public road. She wasn't encroaching on his privacy.
A grunt came from him and he brought his eyes back to her face. She glanced at the front of his jeans out of instinct and gasped. For a man who hated her and wanted her dead, his arousal frightened her more. Her racing heart slowed, almost too slow. She inhaled deeply, willing herself not to pass out.
Unlike the men in the yard, Mr. Farrell's broad shoulders and hulking arms could snap her in half. His long charcoal colored hair with streaks of gray hung loose past his shoulders. His dark brows, his black eyelashes, and half-hooded brown eyes stared at her with interest. Her fear climbed to a panic level. Most women would pant after a man with lazy eyes that lingered past politeness, but she wasn't most women.
"Open the door, Mr. Farrell," she said, crossing her arms. "You have no right to force me into your house."
"Cam," he said, tilting his head.
"What?"
"The name's Cam."
"Excuse me, but Mr. Far—"
"Stop the Farrell bullshit. It isn't my name." Cam shrugged. "For that matter, neither is Cam, but I rather you call me that."
"Cam Farrell isn't your name?" She backed toward the door and put her fingers around the handle.
He dipped his chin in acknowledgement of her question. "When you're an ex-convict, it's useful to have a few names. Now, step away from the door."
The reminder of his criminal status took all the fight out of her, and she dropped her hand to her side. He'd already threatened her with a knife, broke her window, and had one of his men force her into his house. She knew what men like him were capable of doing.
Three years ago, she'd anonymously contacted a prisoner to help her get over her traumatic loss of her parents. She worked her lips in worry. She'd needed answers to questions nobody else could answer, and the prisoner told her the truth. Bad men, like the one who'd killed her parents, never changed. They had no guilt to motivate them.
That safe anonymous relationship she'd forged with prisoner #18794 for two years comforted her in ways she never understood. After a while, she relaxed and found it easy to talk with him.
Cam Farrell was not behind bars or anonymous, but scary and deadly.
She swallowed, testing to see if she could even speak coherently. "I-I'm sorry. I had no business parking out on the road. I only wanted to check on your son. He's no longer one of the children I continue to follow, but I care for him. You must understand, I've been watching over him for four years. I wanted to make sure he was okay and getting along...with his new surroundings. I wasn't going to approach him or talk with him."
Cam pushed off from his position against the railing and walked into the living room. "Follow me."
She couldn't miss the slight limp in his stride, because she was studying him closely. Though she hadn't noticed the imperfection when he confronted her behind the courthouse after the judge's ruling or when he'd approached her car outside.
"I don't like to repeat myself," he said from the other room. "Come here."
She stepped away from the door and followed him. Cam stood in front of the large bay window, his gaze going out into the yard. He turned his head and he narrowed his gaze. She stopped in the middle of the room, keeping her distance.
Several awkward seconds ticked by, and he finally said, "What do you see?"
She couldn't see anything, because she was too far away. "I don't—"
"Jesus...look out the fucking window."
She pursed her lips and moved closer. At first, she only noticed the two bikers from earlier standing in the yard. Stache, the one with the long mustache tipped his head back and drank from a beer bottle. The other biker, the one with the devil tattoo and scar, shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit the stubbed end with a lighter.
"Mr....Cam." She shook her head. "I don't know what I'm looking at besides two men who are making a questionable impression on a young man in your care."
"Look at the kid," he said.
She pulled her gaze away from the men and found Jeremy with a magazine under his nose standing beside a piece of a motorcycle propped up on two plastic milk crates. His hair needed cut and she was sure the ripped jeans were the ones she bought him for his day in court and were brand new only two weeks ago.
"Let me help you out with what you're seeing." Cam turned and faced her. "I gave the kid a broken down Harley and a parts manual. He's spent the better part of a week outside putting it back together. He's smart. I'm betting he has the bike running by the end of next week and that's saying a lot, considering the kid didn't even know what a fucking socket set was when he came home with me. When he's done, he'll have a motorcycle to ride and that bike will come first in his life before girls, drugs, and friends."
She shook her head. "You can't know that. He needs friends and when summer is over and he goes back to school, he has to keep his grades—"
"You don't know shit." Cam stepped forward, barely leaving an inch between his body and hers. "All you see is a kid who says yes ma'am and no ma'am to you. He's had a shitty life, but he'll come out strong if you give him something worth protecting."
"You believe a motorcycle will motivate him?" she asked.
Cam stared down at her. She shook her head, hurting all over as if his gaze left bruises on her stomach, her chest, her thighs. Then just as quickly, she became confused and lightheaded. Her pain warmed and caressed her. "He needs a father who will love him, not put him out in the yard with a motorcycle he'll never ride, surrounded by a couple bikers who probably scare him to death. He doesn't know you. The atmosphere he's now living in is new to him. He needs security and continual support."
"Come back in a week." He walked away from her.
She trailed after him and stopped at the door he held open. "I'm not going to return here."
"You'll return." He gazed out at Jeremy. "If the kid matters to you, and I think he does."
"The case is closed." She fingered the shallow dip at the base of her neck. Her clammy skin refused to cool down. Numbed with fear, she couldn't tell if she even breathed except for the pounding of her heart. "I'll take your word that he's adjusting."
Not that she was confident Jeremy was safe living with his father and his biker friends. She walked through the door and out onto the porch. Jeremy's head swiveled toward her and he raised his hand, before dropping the magazine and jogging over to her.
She smiled for Jeremy's sake, hiding the sadness over the changes in his short life. "How are you?"
"Okay." He shrugged. "He...Cam gave me a motorcycle."
"I see that," she said.
He glanced over at the porch and lowered his voice. "He's not all bad."
"I'm glad." Her chest ached and she waited until he looked back at her. "You have my phone number in case you need anything, right?"
"Yeah." He shoved his hands in his pockets.
"Good." She walked backward. "Bye, Jeremy."
"Bye, Ms. Nickelson." He gave her a lazy wave and jogged back to his motorcycle.
Cam stepped off the porch. "Stache, walk Christina to her car and escort her into town and have her window fixed."
Every muscle in her body tensed. How had he known her first name? While working with Jeremy it was important to remain professional, and she'd never handed personal information out to Mr. Farrell.
"That's not necessary," she said. "It was my mistake for coming here. I'll fix my car."
Stache approached her and motioned for her to walk. Sh
e stared at Cam's back until he shut himself in the house and she lost sight of him. Without saying a word, she turned and followed Stache because Cam gave her no other option.
Her bank account lacked extra funds to fix the window and she had no idea where to go to repair her car. She tried never to rely on others, because doing so meant opening herself up to hurt.
Stache brushed off the broken glass on the driver's seat. She sat down carefully and flinched when Stache closed the door. Pressing a hand to her chest, her heartbeat echoed in her body. Something in Cam's eyes when he'd said her name unsettled her beyond the fear he aroused. It spoke of an intimacy she'd never granted him.
