Camila thought for a moment, tracking a finger over words carved into the tabletop. “She's never said a word. All I know is she's really pissed and she won't call anyone in the family.”
Ben blew a puff of breath into the phone. “I don't know the whole story, but my mom said back in Bolivia your mom stole her boyfriend, who's my dad, and got knocked up. Our abuelo blamed my mom for it, saying she was the older sister, or for having my dad around, or whatever. So, he sent them both to America in shame.”
Camila looked up, choking on emotion. Her mother had been sent away in shame because of her? Ben’s father was her father, too? “Go on,” she whispered.
“Well, my dad followed them to America and apologized to my mom. She took him back, and they got married and had me. But then ten years ago, your mom showed up and hooked up with my dad or whatever. My mom caught them fooling around. It's your mom’s fault they're divorced.” Bitterness and anger coated his voice.
Camila pressed her hand to her head, trying to nail down all the pieces of his story. Her father was Aunt Bea's husband. But that would make Ben her…half-brother? Mama broke up her sister’s marriage? Mama had never seemed remotely interested in men. She'd never brought one home, never stumbled in the door late with hickies on her neck or numbers scrawled on napkins. Camila shook her head. “That doesn't sound right.”
“What doesn't? That your mom's a whore or that she broke up my family, because it all makes sense to me.”
“You can't say that about my mom! You don't even know her.”
“I know what she did,” his voice was loud, sharp. “I don't really need to more than that.”
She flicked her eyes back to the window and found Michelle staring out at her. “How do you know your mom's not lying?” God, she was running out of time and was being sucked into a childish argument.
“I know my parents are divorced,” he said. “I remember them screaming, her throwing plates, him trying to apologize. Now I have to see my dad on long weekends and holidays thanks to your mom.”
“Well, it's our dad's fault, too.”
“Don't call him that!” he shouted into the phone. “He's not your dad.”
“From what you just told me it sounds like he is.” Camila watched as Travis headed her way. She clenched her fists. Everything was falling apart. “Look, whatever happened, it's in the past. We're family. We should put this behind us.”
“You're only saying that because you need something from us.”
“Now you listen.” She stood up, her hands trembling.
“Camila, what up, man?” Travis was at her elbow. “Everything okay?”
She gave Travis a one-minute finger. “Ben,” she said, cupping her hand around the phone, “My mom is missing. I'm all alone. She's gone manic. If we don't get help…” a sob rose up in her throat. She couldn't cry. Not now.
There was a long pause. When he answered, his voice was ice. “She should've thought of that ten years ago.”
The line went dead.
Camila turned slowly to Travis, dropping the phone.
“You okay?” he asked, touching her arm tenderly.
“I'll be fine,” she lied.
Wednesday 9:02 p.m.
Camila stood in a cone of light, peering into the alley. The sky was deep purple, the first stars showing. The bag of trash she’d offered to take out lay forgotten at her feet.
“John!” she whisper-shouted. Her eyes searched the shadows. She peered into the dark alleyway. The dumpster was a black rectangle next to the brick wall. She didn’t see him anywhere. “John!”
She stepped forward into the puddling blackness. Goosebumps ran the length of her arms and she stopped, her eyes scanning the alley. Earlier someone mentioned a murder seven blocks from here. A homeless man had been torn to pieces. That must’ve been what happened to John, someone attached him, but he’d escaped. But what if the killer found him again?
She took a step back into the cone of light. He wasn’t out there. She was surprised at how much she'd looked forward to seeing him. After that awful phone call, it was the one thought that had carried her through the rest of her shift. She’d thought out how she’d clothe him, feed him, and send him on his way. Now it seemed silly. He wasn't a lost cat. He was a guy, a very large guy who she did not know.
She flicked her eyes to the heavy, gray clouds gathering above. Where would he sleep if it rained?
Camila wandered out front and started to pick up the scattered paper napkins and plastic spoons dropped beneath the rickety picnic tables. She scooped up a half-eaten waffle cone and tucked it in the garbage can. She smiled at the elderly couple still sharing a hot fudge sundae and gave a good rubdown to their aging terrier before they finished up and left.
The last customers gone, she sighed, big and heavy.
A deep base rumble shook the ground as a black sports car pulled into the parking lot. The headlights flashed in her eyes, making her throw a hand up to shade them. The door snapped open and a figure strode toward Camila.
“Where’s Fer?” The boy glared at her, annoyed. He was short—five-foot-six with spiked blond hair and straight white teeth. A spattering of pimples dotted his chin, but not enough to mar the smug handsomeness of his face. It took Camila a moment to place him: Gage, one of Fer’s brother’s friends.
Camila pointed toward the window, happy to divert his attention from her. “She’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Home.”
“Well, then call her. Tell her Gage needs to talk to her.” He sat back on a picnic table and splayed his arms across the tabletop. His cellphone pinged in his pocket and he drew it out. The blue light on his face made his eyes look sunken.
He looked up and his face darkened, noticing her still standing there. “You slow or something?” He knocked his knuckles on his head. “Anybody home?”
Camila couldn’t move. Heat rose up her neck. It’d been a long time since Gage had smeared chocolate on her desk in 6th grade and told everyone her family was so poor they ate dog shit for dinner. She remembered the hot tears dribbling down her face as the class snickered.
Stick and stone, mi amor. Stick and stone.
She looked down at Gage. His smug smile still hung at the corners of his mouth. “Find her yourself,” she said.
Gage dropped his jaw, his eyes suddenly finding her. “What’d you say?”
Camila gripped the trash bag tighter and thrust out her chin. “I said find her yourself.”
Gage stood up, flashing a smile that never reached his eyes. “Well, aren’t you sassy?” He took a step closer.
“You should leave.” Her body tightened. She could knee him in the groin and run, but what if he came after her?
“Get away from her,” a voice growled.
Both heads turned. Tall and broad-shouldered in his pink Lizzy’s T-shirt and spandex running shorts, John stood at the edge of the parking lot. His fists were clenched at his sides, veins on his arms popping. And his eyes were locked on Gage.
Gage took a step back. “You work here, asshole? Or do you just like pink?” He flashed his teeth again, but Camila could see the fight draining out of him. John was a foot taller and had a good fifty pounds of muscle on Gage. Gage’s eyes flicked between John and his car, parked across the lot.
Coward.
John took a step forward. “You’re still too close to her.”
“What’re those, women’s panties?” Gage snorted, nodding to John’s shorts. He stepped backwards toward his car, the keys white-knuckled in his hand.
John closed the gap and positioned himself in front of Camila. His muscles filled every inch of his pink T-shirt. He made Gage look like an underfed twelve-year-old.
“Go while you’re still able.”
Gage looked between John and Camila. “Tell Fer to have Shaun call me.” He turned and stomped to his car. The engine flared and he peeled out, the boom of his speakers thudding into the twilight.
John turned to Camila, h
is stiff, corded arms pulsing with anger. “Did he hurt you?” His eyes traced her for injury.
“Just my ego.” She tried to laugh, but it was hollow. “Thanks.” She looked up into his brown eyes. “You got here just in time.”
John paused and eyed Gage's tail lights. “He looked like trouble.”
“He is.” Camila wrapped her arms around herself. “Come on,” she said. “Follow me.”
They stepped around the building and stopped next to the dumpster. The smell of day-old food festering in the hot sun was overwhelming. It would cling to her long after she slung the bag in. Maybe garbage duty wasn’t such a hot idea.
She threw the bag over the lip of the dumpster and rubbed her hands on her shorts. John watched her every move as if she might break apart. “I’m okay,” she said. “Relax.” She put her hand on his arm. He was as hot as asphalt pavement on a ninety-degree day. She flicked her eyes to his face. “Are you okay?”
He nodded. “Who was that guy?” A vein on his neck throbbed.
“Just some idiot. Never mind.” She looked him over. “Have you eaten?”
He nodded.
She put a hand on her hip. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
His face softened. “Okay, no, I haven't eaten.”
“See, I knew it.” She blew out her breath and looked back toward Lizzy’s. “I gotta finish up. Will you wait?”
He nodded again.
She ran in and found Travis in the pantry. In the narrow closet, Travis slid the cylinders of canned fruit topping onto the shelves.
“Travis,” Camila said.
“What up, C? How’d trash duty go?” He tossed hair out of his eyes.
“Fine. Hey, are we done? I gotta go. I mean, if that’s okay.”
Travis’ face fell. “Yeah, hey, listen, I was thinking ’bout catching a flick. You down?”
Was he hitting on her? “I gotta go. Family stuff. Do you need me to stay?” Camila asked, her eyes flicking to the back door.
Travis waved a dismissive hand. “Naw. I got this. Go ahead and do whatcha gotta do.”
“Thanks, Travis!” She gave him a big smile. Then she spun and trotted out the back door.
She walked up to where John waited for her in the alley, the dark pressing around them, making her skin tingle. “We can walk back to my place, and I’ll get you some supper. Okay?”
He cleared his throat as if his voice was rusty. “That would be nice.”
They walked quietly side-by-side. Overhead the storm clouds thickened, plunging the world into early darkness. The air hung heavy and damp. A distant rumble and a flash of lightning crackled across the horizon. They passed a liquor store, wafting the delicious smell of pizza. John's head turned. Camila really hoped Mama had food in the fridge.
Mama. What if she got home and Mama was there? Well, that was what she wanted, right? Then she could stop worrying she was dead in a ditch somewhere. But this wasn’t the first time Mama took off when she was manic and stayed away for two, three, even four days without calling.
But if Mama were gone, they’d have the house all to themselves. Camila felt awful for even thinking it, but she let her eyes stray to John, quietly walking next to her. He towered at least a foot over her, his muscled arms swinging in time with his footfalls. The scruffy beard only added to the rugged handsomeness of his face. She wanted to be alone in a house with John. What hot-blooded woman wouldn’t? He was the kind of hot you found in magazine ads for Gucci or Hugo Boss.
Then again, women who let random guys into their bedrooms ended up on Dateline with actors portraying their last hours alive.
Plus, there was Mama’s hoarding. He couldn’t see that.
They rounded into her trailer park as the first raindrops began to splat on the warm pavement. Ms. K’s dog gave a few tired growls and tucked himself under the stoop. They slipped past a rusty Dodge with a mismatched door, the rain pinging steadily off the roof.
“Sorry. It’s not the nicest neighborhood, but it has its charm.” Camila wondered what John thought. Her trailer park had to be better than a dumpster, but still…
“It’s nice,” he said. “Homey.”
“That’s a polite way to put it.”
When they came to her trailer, her heart was pounding. Walking to the stuffed carport, she pointed inside to a green, fraying lawn chair. “Can you wait here? I gotta check something.”
Could he even hear her over the deafening rain on the metal carport roof?
He sat in the lawn chair, gripping the rusting metal arm rests, and smiled. “I’ll be right here.”
She ran up the steps and plowed into her front door.
Camila stood on the welcome mat, dripping. No sounds from inside. The trailer looked untouched from when she’d left this morning.
“Mama!” She listened. “Mama, you here?”
Nothing. Mama was out there somewhere in the rain.
An awful, selfish part of her was happy Mama was gone. She was a terrible daughter. She would rot in hell. But, what could she do with no car in a torrential downpour? And Mama had always come home unscathed before.
John was outside in the rain. She needed to make a quick decision.
She turned to step outside, but stopped with her hand on the screen door. Should she invite him in? She scanned the cluttered living room. A rancid smell wafted from the kitchen trash. Something that looked like old pizza lay on the carpet next to the couch. Could she really bring him in here? Then there was the whole inviting-a-strange-guy-into-her-home thing.
Walking to the kitchen drawer, she pulled it out, checking that Mama’s old, but loaded, handgun was in the drawer. Just in case.
She peered out the screen, rain splashing into her face. John sat, drenched to the core, blinking water out of his eyes with long dark lashes, the shirt she gave him clinging helplessly to his chest. She stared at his abs and sucked in a hot breath. Above, lightning split the sky and a rumble of thunder cracked overhead, loud enough to make them both jump. John ran both hands over his arms and shivered.
She pushed the screen open and leaned out. Rain pelted her face as she shouted, “Come on.”
He ran up and stepped into her house.
John
Wednesday 9:18 p.m.
They stood inside the foyer, water dripping on the fraying rug. The smell of her strawberry shampoo, brought out by the rain, filled his nose. Her dark brown hair hung limp to her face in wet coils as she blinked up at him. Her cheeks blazed pink from the walk and perhaps from the fact that he was standing two feet away? He hoped so.
“So,” she said, gesturing around the trailer, “this is my place.”
Every square inch of carpet was covered by saggy cardboard boxes, mismatched shoes, and purses. A trail of papers littered the walkway between the foyer and the kitchen. Around the couch, cigarette boxes, ashtrays, old magazines, and TV dinner trays made uneven piles.
Camila gnawed nervously at her lip; her hands twisted together at her waist. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, just looked around her home. “My mom, she’s a little…okay a lot messy. If you’ll give me a minute to tidy up…” She spun, grabbed trash from the floor, and shoved it in an overflowing garbage can. Then she hurried over and began stacking food-encrusted plates together.
He walked up and put his hand on her arm. Her skin was warm and supple.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Yesterday I was eating in a dumpster.”
She met his eyes, setting the plates back on the end table. “John, are you homeless?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
She gave a sad smile. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. At least it’s summer, right?”
“Good point.” She stared up into his eyes again. “Still. This is embarrassing.” She looked around her trailer.
“Camila, I don’t care that your trailer’s a mess.”
She blew out a breath. “Good. Cause it’d take all week to get it clean.”
He chuckled. “No kiddin
g.”
He watched the unease fall from her face. Her eyes locked on him. They traveled down to his chest, her cheeks flushed and then she darted her eyes away.
“So, what’s first?” she asked. “Food or shower?”
He ran a hand through his wet hair. “Shower.”
She started down the cluttered hallway. “Follow me.”
Pausing at the doorway, the fluorescent light buzzed to life, and she pointed him to the tub and shower combo. She left and returned with a clean, if rust-stained, bath towel, disposable razor, and washcloth. Before she pulled the door shut, she stopped and fixed him with a worried look. “If my mother comes home, just let me do the talking.”
“Why?”
“She might be mad you’re here.”
He furrowed his brow. “Is she going to come home?”
“Dunno.” Then she clicked the door shut.
John pressed his forehead to the door. That girl.
He could still smell her strawberry shampoo.
Wednesday 9:32 p.m.
The rain drummed on the roof as John walked out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel on his wet hair. He wore a navy V-neck T-shirt and black athletic shorts with drawstring ties Camila had left at the bathroom door. The clothes smelled a little musty, like they'd been in bags for a couple of years, but he didn’t mind. He’d thrown away those women’s jogging shorts and hoped to God he never had to see them again.
Camila had cleared off the kitchen dinette and put water on to boil for macaroni and cheese. She’d also changed into a thin pink tank top and black yoga pants. And had she put on lipstick? He watched her move, hands gracefully setting the table. The symmetry of her body, the way her clothes hugged every curve. And they were alone. Heat traveled up his chest.
Stop it, he told himself. Don't get carried away.
Suddenly a memory gripped him. A hand on his. Tender. Loving. Then someone was calling his name, but it wasn’t John. She was calling something else. Jo? Joseph? She was calling and calling, but he couldn’t answer. He was running in the opposite direction. He was late and he couldn’t even say goodbye.
20 Shades of Shifters: A Paranormal Romance Collection Page 154
