by Ronica Black
She sipped the cold wine and tried to swallow down the memories of her father, who had, according to him, been very decent in that he kept a roof over her head and food on the table and clothes on her back. According to him, she should’ve been grateful. She should’ve shown him more respect and thanked him for what he provided. Problem was, that even if she had felt like she owed him those things, he wasn’t ever around to hear her express them. Their only source of communication most days had been hand-scribbled notes left for her on the kitchen table when she came out for breakfast before school. Notes that had informed her that he wouldn’t be home for dinner, or sometimes even at all, and that food for sandwiches was in the fridge, or that she was to use the ten he had left to purchase the food herself on her way home from school.
He’d never left a location or a number where he could be reached or a number for her to call someone else should she need to.
He had just…left.
That had been his idea of decent parenting.
But she supposed she’d have rather lived with him than her mother. She’d seen Cam as more of an obligation, or honestly, just a big pain in her ass, as opposed to her child. Cam had interfered with her lifestyle, with her wandering, wild ways. And though she’d never been cruel or abusive, she’d never been deeply committed to the limited love and affection she did show her. The cruelty, that had been her stepfather’s department. He, unlike her mother, did not hesitate to voice his resentment of her for dampening their parade. He’d wanted her mother all to himself and Cam had been a roadblock, a hindrance when it came to him carrying out those intentions. He did not want her there.
So he’d done what he could to make Cam miserable. The yelling and cursing had been bad, and so had the constant criticism and unjust punishments. But those hadn’t bothered her like the pinching had. Every time he’d gotten upset with her, he’d pinched her. His favorite place had been the back of her arm where he’d squeeze her flesh and pull her around, yanking her along to wherever it was he wanted to take her while she cried in agony, her arms often so sore and tender she’d howl at the slightest touch. When the bruises would begin to appear, he’d go for her sides, just below her ribs. And he’d done it all right under her mother’s nose. Granted, the both of them had usually been drunk or high, or more often than not, both, and Cam wondered, even back then, if either of them really knew what it was they were doing to her. Her stepfather would inflict his anger and cruelty, her mother would promptly ignore it, and then they’d either carry on in their daze until they either passed out in front of her or left to go party elsewhere.
Eventually, Cam’s aunt Ginger, her mother’s sister, took notice during a visit to Phoenix and she’d stepped in and taken Cam from her mother’s residence. She’d wanted to raise Cam herself in Mexico, but Cam’s father had refused. So, Cam had moved in with him in that quiet, cold house and her mother had moved to the Northwest somewhere with her stepfather. Cam would hear from her every couple of years when a postcard would arrive in the mail, letting her know which state or which country she was in at the time. But eventually, they’d stopped coming and Cam, by that point, had hardly noticed.
She drank more wine and stared off into the hazy, pink-and-orange-striped sky, the sun halfway submerged into the ocean as it bid her a good night. It never got old. Watching the sun rise and set. It had helped her get through the aching bright light of the long endless days and the painful deep darkness of the long endless nights. Without the promise of those beautifully painted skies, she wasn’t sure if she would’ve made it, if she would’ve been able to continue. Sometimes she still wondered how she’d done it, how she’d made it through at all.
The dogs lifted their heads at her feet, ears at attention. Byron stood first and trotted to the edge of the stairs. He barked once. A single, loud alert. Then the other two joined him, giving short, raucous barks with their tails swinging boisterously.
Cam lowered her glass from her lips and followed their line of sight. A woman wearing a ball cap with a white sweater and gray leggings was walking along the water’s edge, just to the left of the house, aiming for the sunset. Cam watched her for a moment, trying to see if she knew her, but the ball cap hid her hair and her features. Cam started to return her gaze to the setting sun, but the dogs went nuts, forcing her to take a closer look at the approaching figure.
The woman, who must’ve been alarmed by the barking of the dogs, glanced up the beach at Cam. Then she quickly refocused on the sand at her feet, pulling off her cap to thread her hand through her thick hair, smoothing it back from her face, before tugging the cap back on.
“Blake,” Cam whispered. The hair, the face, the body, she recognized it all now, and apparently, so had the dogs. They yipped and whined, and just as Cam was commanding them to calm down, they took off toward the water, tearing through the sand, making a beeline for Blake.
“Shit.” Cam scrambled from the chair and rushed down the steps in her bare feet. She whistled for the dogs, but they were already with Blake, already lapping up the jovial praise and affection she was bestowing. Cam didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to see her. The image of her in that yellow bikini had been haunting her, forcing sleep away even when it did choose to come knocking on her door.
Cam called for the boys again, disbelieving what she was seeing. They’d never disobeyed before. Never chased someone down before either. Not until Blake.
What was so damn special about her?
The sense of betrayal from her beloved dogs was new territory and her heart felt like it was being dug out with a dull spoon.
“Boys, come,” she said, her hurt now morphing into irritability as she stalked down to them. Blake straightened as she neared, but the dogs were still surrounding her, hopping around, tails wagging.
“Hi,” she said, letting the dogs lick her hands.
“Boys,” Cam said again, louder and firmer. They finally stilled and turned to look at her. She snapped her fingers and pointed to the sand at her side. Byron came to her and sat. But as for his brothers, Bo and Bingo, they just stared at her like they were clueless as to who she even was.
“They’re okay,” Blake said.
“No, they’re not.”
“They’re just being friendly,” Blake said. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Cam shot her a look. “There is something wrong with that. I didn’t give them permission.”
Blake reached down to pet the dogs while boring a stare into Cam. “They need your permission to be friendly to people? Is this a rule you expect them to follow for everyone, or just me?”
It felt like Blake had just stabbed her again with her words. Anger bloomed and burned beneath her skin. She’d left overpowering and irrational emotions like this far behind. And this woman, this…Blake, was somehow bringing them back, and Cam despised her for that more than she despised the anger itself.
Blake seemed unconcerned over Cam’s reaction. She continued to shower the dogs with affection.
“Boys, come,” Cam said, her voice raspy from a tightening throat. That, too, enraged her. Why was she getting so emotional? She spun on her heel, squeezed her hands into tight fists, and stormed up to the house. She hoped her dogs were right behind her because she couldn’t turn to go after them again. If she did, and she laid eyes on Blake, all hell would break loose and she’d tear into her from stem to stern for being so rude, and for fucking making her feel all the shit she’d never wanted to feel again.
Why couldn’t she just go back to Phoenix and leave her to her peace?
Cam made it to her patio and unclenched her hands. They were trembling. She swallowed down the jagged rock in her throat. Hot tears pooled in her eyes, as she waited quietly to see if her dogs had followed her.
Please, boys. Please. Don’t do this to me.
She shook with relief as Byron hurried up the steps. Then, after seconds that felt like hours, the other two did the same.
They came. They listened. They still
love me.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
Cam bristled as a forceful wind carried Blake’s voice to her, slamming into her from behind. She clenched her eyes just as she’d done her fists and willed herself to get control.
“Have a nice evening.” The words came out on a whisper, her throat threatening to cave with something far more powerful than anger. She knew what that something was and its sudden reemergence was terrifying. It was roiling through her, spreading like a soul-eating disease, desperate to completely consume her and then break free for all the world to bear witness to the devastation it left behind.
If she tried to square off with Blake, she’d see it all.
And Cam would rather die than let her see that.
Blake made a noise that sounded dismissive and Cam was conscious of her rising emotions. They thickened the air and Cam wondered how weakly they were caged. Blake was probably just as irritated as Cam and probably very close to boiling over. But unlike Cam, she seemed to want that to happen and she was poking Cam with the sharp stick of her words and attitude wanting Cam to engage. And Cam’s disarming, polite rebuttal must’ve felt like a slap to the face and a strong blow to her pride because when she laughed she sounded flippant.
“Uh, okay, you too, Cam. You have yourself a real nice evening.”
Tiny pinpricks stung Cam’s lower legs as Blake hurried away, kicking up sand. The dogs watched her go, whining as she went. Cam climbed the steps and tried to settle once again in her chair and enjoy the sunset. But there wasn’t enough wine in her glass to effectively drown her inner turmoil and presumably not enough wine in existence to drink away the woman who was now disappearing into the deepening red and purple of the dying sun.
An unwelcome uneasiness descended on Cam. Soon she would be sitting with her empty glass in hand, encased by the draping darkness. It would settle all around her, smother her with its inky, weighted infiniteness. And she’d be vulnerable, swallowed up by it like the light of day was about to be by the sea.
It was already happening. Not just in the oncoming night, but from deep inside her, where that darkness was growing, contaminating, spreading the one thing she was truly helpless to fight again.
Pain.
Chapter Thirteen
Blake opened her eyes and squinted up at the pale blue sky. The crashing waves were louder than they’d been when she’d drifted off, letting her know the tide had come in. She sat up and inclined the back of her lounge chair. She shaded her brow as she glanced over at Sloane who was in a chair next to her.
“How long have I been asleep?”
Sloane didn’t bother to look up from her paperback. “Couple of hours.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hm.”
Blake rubbed her arms, which were pleasantly warm from the sun, and she was relieved to see she wasn’t burnt. But she still didn’t like the fact that she’d lost part of her day to sleep. It was difficult enough for her to sit and do nothing and now she was napping on top of it?
“I wish you would’ve woken me,” she said, slinging her legs over the side of the lounge to face Sloane. She brushed imaginary sand from her bare thighs, frustrated at both herself and her friend. Sloane knew she didn’t like to take naps, but more importantly, she knew they had things they needed to accomplish while she was visiting. They’d wasted enough time as it was, but Sloane just kept insisting that she chill out and relax when they were supposed to be checking out some available real estate in a local village. Sloane’s casual attitude about getting the ball rolling on bringing her dream to life was really starting to grind on her nerves. Not to mention that Sloane was supposed to be her partner in this venture. Blake had the skills and the medical know-how, and Sloane had the business sense. They were in this together. So what was the holdup?
Blake reached down and picked up the two books she’d been reading on nonprofit medical care. They were covered in sand and she shook them out, her frustration rising.
“You needed the rest,” Sloane said, turning a page.
“It’s been a week, Sloane. I’ve had plenty of rest.”
“Must not’ve been enough because you were out like a light as soon as you started to read.”
“It’s the sun,” Blake said. “It feels good. Relaxes me.”
Sloane’s lip lifted at the corner of her mouth. “That’s kind of the point.”
“I don’t have time for naps.” She slapped the books down on the small cooler between them. “There’s too much to do and not much time to do it in.”
“We’ve been here six days, B. Not an eternity. And you’re exaggerating about the limited amount of time you have.” She looked at her. “Or did you forget that Kenna and I were at your house helping you pack when your mother dropped by?” She lifted her chin as if searching the sky. “What was it she said again? Oh, right. She said you hadn’t taken time off in years and that you should stay with Kenna and me for as long as you need to. That the practice would be just fine without you for a while.”
“Right,” Blake said. “I should stay for as long as I need to. That doesn’t mean weeks. I don’t need weeks. I’m ready to go back now if I want to.”
Sloane laughed and returned to her book. “Good grief, woman. Have a couple of shots of tequila will ya? Or down a bottle of that expensive wine you brought. Or better yet, go get laid. A dozen orgasms or so will do you good.”
“I don’t need to do any of the above.”
Sloane pulled off her sunglasses and looked at her like she was crazy. “I beg to differ, my dear doctor. In my opinion, you need all of the above. Preferably all in the same evening. Because we both know you’d never relax enough to let anyone touch you without the assistance of a little alcohol.”
“That’s not true. I’ve had sex plenty of times without having a drink first.”
“Yeah, like ten years ago.”
“Noo—”
Sloane grinned. “Yees.”
“With Felicia I didn’t drink.”
“With Felicia you hardly had sex after the first few months.”
“You don’t know.”
“You tell me everything, B. Or have you forgotten that as well?”
Blake stood, hating that she had nothing good to come back at Sloane with. The badgering was becoming frequent lately and she didn’t understand why. Sloane would say it was because she was so high-strung and McKenna would say it was because of their neighbor. But they were both wrong as far as she was concerned.
She slipped on her white shorts and eyed Sloane, still hoping for a decent comeback. But movement down by the water garnered her attention. She blocked the sun from her brow and then felt her face draw with concern as a man dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a long-sleeve shirt, walked along the beach. He had a thick stack of folded blankets on one shoulder and several hard rectangular cases slung over the other. Blake could see the sweat reflecting off his face from where she was.
“Look at that guy,” she said. “Look at all he’s carrying and how he’s dressed. He must be burning up.”
Sloane looked down the beach and seemed to do her own assessment of the approaching man. “God, I wonder how long he’s been walking.”
“He’s got to be exhausted.” Blake waved at him and he nodded and came toward them.
Blake rummaged through the small cooler for a cold bottle of orange Fanta which she offered to him in greeting when he reached them. His smile was big and genuine, and he seemed eager to take the drink, but he didn’t have a free hand. Sloane helped him set his blankets on her chair. The cases he set on the sand.
“Muchas gracias,” he said, taking the drink. He hesitated though, when he saw the cap on the bottle. He tried to twist it off with his right hand, but he was using his palm rather than his fingers. He winced and his hand shook.
Blake saw the swelling around his knuckles.
“Here, let us help you,” she said, gently taking the drink from him. She handed it to Sloane, who had the g
rip strength of an ax-wielding lumberjack, and she quickly opened the bottle and returned it to him. He thanked her and drank heartily. Blake tried to get a good look at his swollen hand, but she wasn’t able to from her angle. She did examine the rest of him as he drank and he appeared to be well nourished, with a little bit of extra around the middle. He looked strong and well-built, though he wasn’t much taller than she was. He had a thick head of black hair, deeply tanned skin, and his face and neck were shiny with sweat. She smiled at him and asked him how he was in her conversational Spanish. His answer was simple, short. He said he was good. But he seemed to be having trouble focusing on her, blinking his brown, weary eyes. She noticed his dry, cracked lips. He palmed his head as if he was in pain and then swayed a little.
This man was far from good.
The physician in Blake took over, and before the man could even blink again, she had him sitting on Sloane’s chair. She drug her own lounge through the sand and sat facing him, her knees inches from his.
“May I see your hand?” She pointed.
He looked down at his hand as if bewildered, but then allowed her to take it in her own. She held it carefully, mindful to only touch his palm with her fingertips as she studied the back. She located the wound, which appeared to be a deep, one-inch cut that stemmed just below the base of his index and middle finger.
She spoke to Sloane who was paying close attention.
“Can you please get me my medical bag and a few of those bottled waters? Not the ones from the fridge. Get some that are room temperature. Those will be less shocking to him when I clean his wound.”
“Anything else? Food maybe?”
“Not yet. I’m betting he doesn’t feel much like eating right now.”
Sloane left and Blake asked him in Spanish if he was hungry. He shook his head, which she’d suspected. Then she tried to ask him how long it had been since he’d last eaten, but she wasn’t sure how and he didn’t seem to understand.
