Bone Deep (8 page)

“Cam?” a deep voice calls out from behind her. She flinches, but her eyes stay on mine. “Who is it?”

“Just so
meone from…school, Jer,” Cam says, furrowing her brow. “He has a question about our sociology paper.” She steps out onto the porch, leaving the door propped open a few inches.

“Seriously,” she crosses her arms and says to me. “
How did you know where I lived?”

The knife burns at my back. I close my eyes, willing the porch to open up and swallow me to distract me from telling her why I’m really here. If this is Rachelle Lockwood’s house. And hers. That
means my father killed her mom.

The thought sends my stomach to my toes, just like that.

Unless…

“Did you just move here or something? To this house?” What if she’s not a Lockwood? It’s possible after Rachelle’s death, the
Lockwoods upped and moved. Lots of families do that. Especially after losing someone. There wasn’t any information about Rachelle Lockwood bearing any kids. Maybe—

Cam
shakes her head, popping the balloon of hope growing in my chest. “I’ve lived here since I was eight.” Her lips purse in question. “Why?”

The sadness in her eyes. The tears. Her frequent visits to the train station and
need for a distraction…or multiple distractions—

It all makes sense now. Though at the momen
t, staring up at me with a half smile and searching eyes, she looks somewhat less sad. Maybe even happy to see me. And right then it hits me, fast and hard like the gust of wind from a rushing train: She needs someone to take her mind off the death of her mother—the mother my father stole from her.

And based on the brightness in her eyes as she peers up at me, I’m going to have to be that someone.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and as the words tumble out of my mouth one thing becomes crystal clear. Cam can’t know who I am. She can’t know who my father is or the real reason I’m standing in front of her quivering like a fucking Chihuahua. “For, you know, not staying longer the other night. That was a dickhead move—”

“Stop.” She looks down at her bare feet, pink creeping into her cheeks. “It was
…what I needed. Dumb, maybe, bringing a stranger into my room, but, yeah, let’s just say I had a momentary lapse of judgment.” Her hands twist together. “Just forget it ever happened, okay?”

Walking away from her at this very moment would be easy: say okay, turn and leave, forget I ever met her. Probably for the better, too. She couldn’t have been the one to write the letters, though right now it wouldn’t matter if she did because I can’t get my feet to move. And I can’t force my eyes to look away from her tiny frame, braced by the edge of the door. The way her shoulders slump ever so slightly. I did this. Which
means I need to make it better.

“Come out with me,” I say quickly, and just as I take a step closer, the guy behind her calls her name from
the couch, remote control in his grip. I can’t see his face, but his dark hair is shaved on the sides and long in a line down the middle of his head. By his wide frame, he looks a little older than me, which would make him—

“Your boyfriend?” I whisper without moving my
lips, and she shakes her head.

“Older,
very
protective brother.”

A movement stirs the air behind her and she glances back. Her brother’s gotten off the couch and is padding in his
socks toward us. Shoulders flexed, arms stiff. “Cam,” the guy calls out again.

Her face puckers. “I have to go.” She
retreats back and the door inches shut. “Meet me at the station entrance tomorrow morning,” she whispers. “Ten o’clock.”

Chapter Nine

“Ryan called.
Said he needs his truck back.”

Wrenn
slips her blue smock over her head, ties it around her waist, and settles in front of her throwing wheel. A clump of clay sits in the center of the circular platform. Lately, she’s been on a roll, producing more and more vases and bowls. I don’t know how much she makes for each one selling them in local pottery stores, but it must be a decent amount seeing there’s a steady selection of food in the pantry and no breaks in our electricity supply.

Too bad she does
n’t know how to blow glass. She’d probably be pretty good.

I nod, lifting the coffee mug to my lips to
counteract the effects of my sleepless night. Thinking about how my fucked-up situation just became vastly more fucked up can do that. A girl who was just a girl I hooked up with is now a girl whose life my dad shattered. A life I now feel the need to repair.

“If he calls again,” I swallow and say, “te
ll him I’ll drop it off later.”

A different kind of crowd fills the station on Saturday mornings. No business suits or briefcases. Stiff frowns and scowls are replaced with easygoing slo
uches and talk of nice weather.

The bench closest to the train deck is warm from the sun. I scrape my shoe against the cement to brush back the scattered peanut shells beneath. A raw ache sits in my chest
, and I can’t figure out why. Because Cam lost her mom? Because I now feel obligated to do something about it? Because I want to make it up to her?

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to trick you into kissing me again.” I turn. Cam. And a smile creeps up my mouth.

“I’ve got my kissing-strangers repellent on, so I think we’re both safe.”

She rounds the bench with a grimace that matches the angry-striped pattern of her flannel shirt. “I really am sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never—”

“Hey,” I say, noticing a bit of a shake to her words, “you don’t need to explain. You had a bad day, wanted to be distracted, and the fact that you chose me, well, we’ll just call that a
momentary lapse in your judgment
.”

She buries her face into her hands and laughs. “I’m sure you’re a great guy.” Her shoulders shake with laughter, and because she’s not looking, I let my eyes linger a moment more over the messy knot of hair at the top of her head, and then down to her full lips that I suddenly want to taste again.
She tugs at the side of her skirt. It’s dark purple and sort of ruffled, and looks a little emo the way she’s topped it with a silver tank top under the flannel. The thought that she’s really pretty runs through my head about three times before I cut it short. Liking this girl would be a death wish. Suicide, actually.

“I hope I didn’t cause trouble last night. I didn’t realize your brother was…”

“An ass?”

“I was
gonna say protective.”

She sits down beside me, her leg just inches from mine. “He ju
st doesn’t want a repeat of my senior year.” I give her a questioning look, and a halfhearted laugh bubbles off her lips. “It’s nothing. Just…” Her gaze ticks around my face: eyes, nose, chin, settles on my left ear with a strange expression washing over her face—an almost-scowl. Purple fabric crinkles in her clenched fists, and she adds flatly, “Ran away, got a tattoo…you know, the typical rebel when you’re seventeen behavior…” She pauses. Her mouth opens and closes and opens again, like she wants to add something, and I think she might by the way her eyes look determinedly into mine, but after a few seconds the moment is gone.

“Seems like enough to make a big brother crazy,” I say, nudging her
short, black boot with my shoe.

She nods.
“Yeah…he’s not really in a healthy place right now.”

Because he’s protecting her from more than a stupid tattoo. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he doesn’t want to lose her, like he did his mom.
Their
mom.

She doesn’t explain, and by her puckered expression it’s obvious she’s hoping I won’t ask any more
about it. I point to her wrist.

“T
he famous runaway tattoo?”

“O
ne and only,” she says, holding her arm out to me. I take her wrist in my hand and trace the tip of my finger in a circle around the three solid-black rabbits.

“Rabbits are usually white.
I doubt you’re the type to make them a color for no reason.”

Her grin grows. “And
I doubt you’re the type not
to have a theory.”

“Maybe.” My finger stills, and the soft
beat of her pulse thumps into it. “A white rabbit could symbolize safety or peace or, I don’t know, suppleness? But—”

She laughs
. “They’re bunnies, not boobs.”

“Boobs would be
far more interesting,” I deadpan, and she gives me a
you’re such a guy
look.

“What kind of girl do you think I am?” Her arm relaxes into my hand. Warmth spreads across my palm, and I bite my lip against a smile.
Other than one who hooks up with strangers, I have no clue what kind of girl she is. Regardless, she’s one I’m happy to be sitting next to right now.

“So why black?”

Her expression suddenly falls flat. Black is the symbol of death. Or the color of charred metal. Either way it likely has to do with her mom. Jesus, I’m such an idiot.

Gently, she pulls her arm free, sets it in her lap, and it takes everything in me to not lean in close, caress her cheek,
tell her I know what it’s like to lose someone.

“
It does mean something,” Cam says, her shoulders ever so slightly curling forward. Sequins from her shirt glint in the sun’s light. Her legs come to her chest, cheek rests on the top of her knee. I can’t watch this; her closing down because of something I said. The station bell rings out over us followed by a train’s arrival. The light rush of air lifts the hem of her skirt an inch, revealing a sliver more of her thigh. She looks up at me, her chest now expanding and deflating faster than it should. “I lost—”

“C’mon,” I blurt, just as the train doors slide open. I tug her feather-light body off the bench and tow her toward the gaping
hole in the side of the train.

“Wait!” Her boots dig into the cement deck, eyes bulging like water balloons. “
I don’t…” She stops, closes her eyes for a beat of a second. “I mean, we can’t get on. We don’t have tickets.”

“Fare inspectors don’t usually work on Saturdays,” I say just as a few forty-
somethings exit the train carrying handfuls of shopping bags. I coax Cam a step farther, and her face pales. Squeezing her hand, I squint down at her and add, “We’ll be fine without a ticket,” even though I’m not entirely sure this is true. It used to be, years ago when I’d ride during Dad’s shifts. Cam swallows hard. It takes a few seconds, but she finally says the words written all over her face.

“
Krister, I’m scared. I…” Her voice fades to nothing. Careening into another speeding train… I wonder if those images plague her mind at night, too.

Softly,
I cup her face and lean down to her level, peering into her eyes as I run the pads of my thumbs over her cheeks. “I’ll let you in on a secret no one else knows. I don’t like trains, either. But I’m willing to place a bet that I can distract you long enough to stomach one stop.” Or maybe she’ll have to distract me this time, because what I left out was that I
really
fucking hate trains.

We stare at each other for what feels like a full minute, and then she resigns, letting out a stiff sigh
and the mumbled word “check”. I don’t ask her what it means, but instead cradle my hand around her shoulders and guide her over the yellow line into the train. Only a pair of women in the front and a lonely man in the middle occupy the train, so we find a seat tucked into the back corner near a window. The brown leather moans with our weight, and before we have a chance to change our minds the bell shrills, doors slither shut, and we jerk forward.

A train. Shit, e
very muscle in my body clenches tight, veins in my arms protruding like worms under my skin. Beside me, Cam is trembling. Over my other shoulder the station slides out of view and is replaced with a parallel view of Fair Drive and then the freeway, cars matching our speed. Our bodies sway back and forth with the rocking of the train, and all I can picture is being here one minute and not the next with absolutely no warning of another train flying toward us. The crunching metal. Screams. Then blackness. At least, I hope all those people didn’t have to go through more.

“Hey,” I take her tiny hand
and say. “Let’s play a game. You pick it.”

She stares at the seatback in front of her. “A game?” Her voice is raspy, as if she’s trying really hard not to cry. It
sort of kills my insides to see her like this.

I nod, lightening my tone. “Why not? How about I Spy? You know where you—”

“If you don’t like trains, either, why did you drag us on here, Krister?”

“What about that alphabet one? I’ll start. A is for…” My eyes skim the train’s interior, spotting some writing on the leather seat a few rows up. “April,” I say, pointing. “Apparently she loves Rick.”

Thin muscles tense in her arm. “Please answer me.”

I’m acting like an idiot.
Ever since finding out who she is, it’s like my insides are playing tug-of-war. I don’t want to be near her. I do. Being the distraction I now know why she needs would be insane, but leaving her to figure it out all alone would make my stomach scream.

“I
have no idea why I pulled you on here,” I shake my head and say. “I just, um, didn’t want to lose you back there, and if you spend any time with me at all, you’ll realize I suck at thinking on my feet.” I hold out my hands, gesturing to the musty train around us.

“Lose me?”

I nod. “You got this really sad look on your face. Sort of like your soul was being sucked out of you, if that makes any sense.” I expect a look of horror, telling her in so many words that she comes off dead and all, but she just crosses her ankles and bobs her head solemnly for a moment.

“Yeah,” she finally whispers, staring at the folds in her skirt.
“Listen, about back there—”

I
shift in my seat. “I don’t want to know.” The words come out fast and much too flat because I know why she freaked, and I don’t want to have to explain that I’m related to the person who made her feel this emptiness.

“You don’t? But…”

Gently, I press my extended finger over her lips. “Sometimes it’s easier to keep things inside.”

Unexpectedly, she lifts a scant smile
, gripping my wrist and lifting my hand away from her mouth. “My therapist would have a field day with that.”

My arm, where her fingers rest, starts to buzz. Like vibrating metal. “Mine would, too.”

Our eyes connect, a strange, invisible knowing passing between us. We’re both messed up in the head, and she seems comforted by this new piece of knowledge. The buzzing feeling sinks to my elbow with the sudden urge to take her hand in mine.

I recline
back a tad, shoving my hands to my sides. “But you didn’t hear that from me.” I give her a wink, and as she starts to giggle with the word “Deal,” the train rocks, and she reaches for my hand, her eyes bulging once again.

“Truth or d
are,” I say without thinking. “You go first.”

She cocks her head. “Seriously?”

“Ask anything you want. Or dare me. Just no streaking ’cause that guy looks like a cop.” I nod with my chin to the dude ten rows up. Hair military short, arms as thick as my leg. Cam smiles.

“Okay.” She thinks for a moment. “Truth. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Clearly, you’ve never played Truth or Dare before. You’re supposed to ask me something scandalous, like how many times did I wet the bed when I was little or have I ever slept with my best friend’s mom. You know, uncomfortable shit. The stuff to turn my face red.”

She stares at me blankly.

“And no, I haven’t slept with my best friend’s mom.” I make a face and she laughs. “Or wet the bed.”

“A ques
tion to make your face red. Hmm,” she says with a nod. Her gaze slips over my shoulder for a moment—the window, the freeway, then back to me with pink blotting her cheeks. “Why did you come home with me the other night?” Something sparks in her hollow, brown eyes. Hope. Desire. A plea, maybe, for one good thing in her life. I can’t let it go.

“Because you asked me to
.” The words are smooth, coming from the part of me that cringes at the thought of seeing the look of rejection on her face. “My turn. Truth: Do you always ask guys to come home with you?”

Fast like lightning, her eyes dart from mine. Down to her knees. “I don’t know.”

A clinking sound rings from the front of the train car. The woman’s purse, coins raining out from the pocket. She lets out an exasperated sigh and reaches down. The man, definitely a cop by the gun-sized bulge at his waistband, gingerly with the wobble of the train makes his way over to help.