by Mark Carver
“Wait.” Peter rushed into the next room and returned with his phone. “Check this out.”
He held it up to Cameron’s face. The screen showed a video of his sword fight with Shane. He noticed a number in the lower right corner of the screen.
140,000 views. The video was made less than twenty-four hours ago.
He looked at Peter in amazement. Peter nodded, reading Cameron’s thoughts.
“Crazy, huh? And we can’t waste it. This is your time, man. Everyone’s going to want to see that awesome sword. We can take it on a trip around the country and then sell it for a fortune when we get back. Or not sell it. I tell you man, that thing’s legendary now. I can call my guy to come down today and make a cast for replica production. You won’t believe how many inquiries I’ve gotten about it. I even got a personal call from the lead singer of Hammer Star.”
Cameron’s mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. Come with me, man. We’ll tear it up out there.”
Mindy’s welling eyes flashed through Cameron’s mind. He swallowed a sour taste and took a deep breath.
“Okay, I’ll do it. But I’ve got to get some things from home.”
Peter nodded, his face glowing with happiness. “Yeah, no problem. Do what you got to do. Just be back here before five o’clock.”
“Sure.” Cameron headed towards the door and opened it after fumbling with the handle.
“Cameron?”
He turned around.
Peter licked the last bits of cream from his fingers. “Don’t forget to change your shirt.”
Cameron looked down and frowned at the flecks of vomit that dotted the front of his shirt. He nodded his agreement and left the room.
The hotel was thankfully only a few blocks from the convention center, and after finding his car, he was soon mired in LA traffic. He cursed the heat, he cursed the idiot driver in front of him, and he cursed himself. A lot.
Why was he so stupid? Why didn’t he just tell that girl to get lost? Why did he eat that evil little pill?
Why was he such an asshole?
He pulled up to his house slowly, feeling like a criminal returning to the scene of a crime.
He almost expected to see Mindy scowling at him from her front porch. But instead, her house seemed empty and quiet. He didn’t know why he felt that way, since he hadn’t even stepped out of the car yet. But he definitely felt something. He felt…unwelcome.
He steered the car into his driveway and got out. What should he say to her. What could he say to her?
With slow, bashful steps, he crossed her lawn and went up to her front door. He raised his hand to knock, then paused. Deep breath.
You’re an asshole, but you’re a repentant asshole. Just be straight with her and let her make up her own mind.
Cameron thought that was the best piece of advice he’d heard in a long time.
He knocked twice, and waited. His ears strained to hear any sound coming from inside, any sign that she still considered him worthy of her time.
Nothing.
He knocked again, waited, and knocked again. He wilted like a dry flower, then turned and shuffled back down the walkway. Somewhere deep in his mind, he heard the General’s voice start to say something, but he didn’t want to hear it.
Shut up. Just shut up.
He headed back into his house and began packing. Every time a car drove by or a dog barked, he rushed to window, hoping and fearing that he would see her. After a couple of hours, he gave up hope. He could go see her at work, but that would be pushing the boundaries. Besides, he didn’t know exactly where she worked anyway.
The familiar sights and smells comforted him as he threw the doors to the workshop wide open. He looked at the gleaming blades, the stacks of metal, foam, and wood, the saws and files and rags and drill bits all tucked away in their places.
He breathed deeply and smiled. This was his home. These were his children. Here, in this little world encased by four aluminum walls, things made sense. There were no women to confuse him, no judgmental supermarket shoppers and restaurant managers, no nymphomaniac publicists, no arrogant tattooed party animals.
He caught his reflection in a broadsword blade.
Well, maybe one…
He filled his arms with every sword, dagger, and axe that he could bear to part with. As he staggered into the kitchen, he saw a pad of paper lying on the counter. After a moment’s consideration, he carefully set down his bundle of weapons and grabbed a pen.
When everything was packed into the car, he went back over to Mindy’s house. He was about to knock once more, but something stopped him. His shoulders sagged and he slid the note under the door. As he headed back to his car, he cast one more look back over his shoulder. He hoped she would be looking at him through a window.
The empty house seemed to glare at him. He let out an uncomfortable cough, then got in his car and drove away.
****
It was raining when he got back three weeks later. He was tired, sore, and his beard looked like rusty steel wool. It was all he could do to keep from collapsing on the steering wheel and falling asleep in the driveway. He could practically hear the shower and bed singing to him from the bedroom.
But there was something he had to do first.
He jumped out of the car, hunching his shoulders against the rain. He hadn’t heard from Mindy the whole time he was away, even after he had replaced his phone and left several messages for her. Three weeks was a long time, though and he had lots of time to think about things.
About how much she meant to him.
He shut the car door and looked at her house.
In the middle of the freshly-cut grass stood a white sign. It read “Home for Sale – Stenson Realty.”
It might as well have been a tombstone.
Cameron stared at the sign swinging lazily in the rain. With slow, robotic motions, he pulled out his new cell phone. He didn’t care about the rain pattering on the screen.
He dialed the number on the sign.
“Uh, yeah,” he said when someone answered the phone, “I’m calling about the home on Stonewood Drive, number 214.”
“Yes,” said the pleasant voice on the other end. “Would you like to schedule a walk-through?”
“Um, no, thanks. I’m just wondering where the owner is.”
“Oh. Are you a family member?”
“No. I’m…her neighbor.”
“I’m not sure exactly where she went. She said something about heading back east, though. She said California just wasn’t the right place for her.”
Cameron let the phone fall to his side.
“Hello?” the voice said. “Hello?”
Cameron ended the call. He stood there in the rain, staring at the sign, silently pleading for an answer.
He looked down at his rain-streaked phone. His tattooed face looked distorted and frightening.
His thumb scrolled through a list of names. He chose one and raised the phone to his ear.
It rang six times before a drowsy voice answered. “Yeah?”
Cameron blinked away a raindrop. He felt it trickle down his tattooed cheek.
“Chucky? It’s Cameron. I just got back. You, uh…you want to hang out or something?”
Chucky was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was warm and comforting.
“Sure thing, man.”
EPILOGUE
“Hey boss, you want to take a look at this?”
Cameron looked over the young man’s shoulder, carefully studying the detailed sketch.
“Looks good. But the hilt seems a little simplistic compared to the blade. Work on that part a bit more, then come and find me.”
The young man nodded, looking pleased with himself.
Cameron walked past the row of craftsmen grinding and polishing steel blades to razor-sharp beauty. He turned right and exited the workshop area, stepping into the well-lit foyer.
The attractive recept
ionist glanced up from her computer. “Heading out?”
Cameron nodded as he handed her several printed pages. “Got a few new orders coming in this week. Put these on the schedule at the earliest date possible. We don’t want to get backed up like we did last year.”
The girl nodded and took the papers from him. “Anything else?”
“Keep smiling.”
She did just as he said. Cameron glanced up at the new sign hovering above her head.
CMC Custom Blades.
He frowned. The lettering wasn’t what he’d asked for. It wasn’t the last two times either.
Well, it would have to wait. He had an appointment to keep.
He scratched his freshly-shaven chin. He missed the beard, but he was excited about the jawline tattoo that Ivan was going to begin this afternoon. He caught his reflection in a burnished plaque that hung on the wall by the door.
Both cheeks were tattooed with designs that complimented each other but were still different. The dagger that pointed downwards between his eyes blended seamlessly with the intricate pattern that decorated his forehead. And after today, the lower half of his face would no longer be naked. It had been bothering him for the last six months.
His phone rang as he stepped out into the priceless California sunshine.
“Hello? Hey Robyn. Yeah, things are going great. Did you get that last batch of info I sent you?... Okay, when? All right, sounds good. And who knows, maybe we can stretch it out a few extra hours… Ha ha... All right, I’ll call you later. I’ve got somewhere I need to be. Okay, take care.”
He shoved the phone in his pocket and swung his leg over the custom leather seat of his Harley chopper. After putting on his black skullcap helmet, he gave the kick start pedal a firm kick with his boot and the metal beast roared to life. He paused, listening to the musical rumble for a moment, then engaged the throttle and drove out of the parking lot.
As he gunned the engine, he could almost feel the fingers of the wind drawing dark lines across his face.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARK CARVER spent more than eight years in China before returning
to the USA with his wife and two children. Besides writing, Mark is passionate
about art, tattoos, heavy metal, Gothic literature, and medieval architecture.
He lives with his family in Atlanta, GA.
You can find Mark online:
https://www.markcarverbooks.com
https://www.facebook.com/markcarverbooks
https://www.twitter.com/ageofapollyon
