Sins & Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1) (9 page)

She looked over at Janice who only raised her eyebrows in curiosity.

“I am not and he’s not my boyfriend!”

“Sure, sure,” Vicky said with a laugh. “You guys are inseparable.  Like total fuck buddies. You know, sometimes I think you’re not as much of a loser freak as I thought and then I see you drooling after that she-man like he was made of chocolate. Makes everyone sick.”

The girl pushed her fries away from her, shaking her head, choking with frustration.

“You’re mad. You’re all mad. He’s just a friend.”

“A friend you’re in love with,” Vicky teased menacingly. “The only reason we’re even talking to you today is because he’s not here. If you want some real friends in this town, like us, like Janice here, you better keep that in mind.”

“I am not in love with him,” the girl said through grinding teeth.

“Oh yeah, prove it,” Vicky said. She nudged the girl on her shoulder and she followed her line of sight. Camden had just entered the cafeteria, apparently back at school for the day, and was walking down the center of it. He hadn’t spotted the girl because he would have never looked at the tables at the front of the room. He was heading for the back where the losers and freaks sat.

“Prove it,” Vicky egged  her on. “Tell everyone that he’s not your boyfriend. Tell him that. Because he seems to think it. And everyone else does too.”

The girl watched Camden as he walked by, as if in slow motion. His shiny pants and knee-high patent leather boots, Freddy Kruger shirt, and his dog-collared neck with spikes. His trench coat floated around him like a swirl of crows, his limp hair held back with a rubber band that came with bananas you bought at the store. His eyes were lined with slick blue liner and his lips were painted purple for a change.

Why the hell do you have to be such a freak, Camden?
the girl thought bitterly to herself. She was filled with anger that it was his fault now that she was an outcast. She could never help her flaws but he just flaunted his. He liked pissing people off. He liked being the martyr. And he wanted to bring her down with him.

“Do it,” she said. “Or are you just as pathetic as he is?”

Before she knew what was happening, the girl found herself getting to her feet. She found herself yelling Camden’s name.

He stopped and was stunned to see her surrounded by their worst enemies.

With his eyes and everyone else’s eyes upon her, she swallowed hard, put one hand on her hip and yelled, “Your mother called! She says she wants her lipstick back.”

It wasn’t a particularly funny joke, nor was it anything that Camden hadn’t heard before. But the fact that his only friend had said it, the fact that the whole cafeteria had burst out in laughter, was devastating. She saw the look on his face, the way it crumpled from within, and it pained her so deeply to have hurt him so.

But with that feeling of remorse came another stronger and more peculiar one. It was pride. And acceptance. Vicky, her bitchy clique, Janice, everyone else in the godforsaken school, they were all laughing at something the girl had said. They were laughing with her. And not at her.

The girl sat back down and Vicky gave her a high five and a genuine smile. The girl turned her body away from Camden, who was still standing in a daze in the middle of the aisle, his head no doubt pegged by French fries, and pretended he didn’t exist. She pretended that she’d never miss that piece of integrity that she lost that day.

She pretended she had to do what was best for her, no matter the cost to others.

And she never looked back.

Now

I don’t know what it is about seeing a musician in their element, but somehow their element (which must be fire, if it has to be any of them) turns them into an animal. It simmers their being into something sexual, sensual, almost primal. Camden was no exception.

From the moment Kettle Black took the stage at Coppertank, all eyes were on Camden. It wasn’t that he had the flashy mystique of Snooty Neo, the singer, or the pushy “I call the shots” persona of mustache man-boy, the bassist. Instead he had this quiet command of his own universe. He wasn’t the most skilled guitarist I’d ever seen, and he certainly wasn’t too involved with the show. But when he was playing, you could see he was 100 percent in the moment.  It was just him and his guitar, just him and the music and nothing else. It made you wonder what kind of secrets this man had because he seemed to only divulge them to the instrument in his hands.

Speaking of hands, just watching his long, delicate fingers work up and down the neck with ease was making me pant a little. I couldn’t help it. His arm muscles flexed with power and art, damp stains of sweat forming down his chest, making his shirt cling to him even more. And yet for his septum ring at the end of his nose, the tats and his steely eyes and his hard body, I knew there was the face of a young boy on his leg, a symbol of his hidden softer side. There were glasses on his face because he was smart. He was like a caring, hulking, nerd. And I wanted him.

When the show was over and they had played an encore of The Cramps “Human Fly” and “Fever” to a rowdy and ridiculous crowd, Camden joined me down at the front of the stage.

He thrust a cold beer in my hand and grinned at me. “Stole them from backstage.”

I tried to tell him what I thought of the show but I just turned into a raving fan instead. “Seriously,” I stated, “you’re awesome. You’re almost better than Poison Ivy.”

He looked bashful and wiped the sweat off his brow with the edge of his t-shirt, perfectly displaying his taut abs, lightly sheened and golden in the low bar light.

“Pretty ironic that the guitarist in The Cramps was a woman,” he noted.

I was momentarily distracted by his stomach. “Um, well you’re definitely no woman.”

“That’s not what you used to say. You know, behind my back.”

My eyes flew up to him. My gut tightened. He was smiling good-naturedly and drinking his beer. I couldn’t tell if that was a dig at me or if everything was completely cool.

My mouth flapped soundlessly as I grappled for words but he punched me lightly on the shoulder. “I’m just messing with you, Ellie.”

He laughed but I could only give him a closed smile in response. That comment made me extremely uneasy for some reason. I hoped he really was messing with me. But of course, wasn’t I messing with him? I had almost forgotten about the scapegoat and was startled as my eyes caught him as I looked around the bar.

He was staring at us a few yards away, taking methodical sips of his drink while giving us the stink-eye. Camden followed my gaze and lightly touched my wrist.

“Who is that guy?” he asked, his voice low even though the bar was too loud for the guy to hear him.

I looked away, not wanting to stir the pot too much. “I have no idea. I noticed him by the bar earlier, staring at you.”

He raised his brow. “Staring at me? I think the guy is staring at you. I can’t blame him. You’re the prettiest girl here.”

I gave him a wryly appreciative smile. “Thanks. But seriously, that guy is sketchy as all hell. Wonder what he wants?”

“Should I go ask him?” he asked, moving a step forward. I reached out and grabbed his arm to stop him. That wouldn’t be good.

“No,” I said and quickly composed myself. “You know how weird some men can be in places like this. I’m sure he’s just harmless. Maybe he thinks he knows you from somewhere. Or maybe he’s a customer. You can’t remember them all.”

Camden rubbed at his chin. “Maybe.  Though you’d think I’d remember those googly eyes. Well anyway, is it cool if we leave after these beers? It’s getting late and the drive home is killer.”

I told him sure, secretly thrilled to be getting out of there now that my plan was put in motion. I was also a wee bit apprehensive about how our date would end. Would I go to his place? Would he come to mine? Would we drive out to Joshua Tree, which seemed like a different world when it was night, sit on the top of his jeep, and share a few beers (what, like I hadn’t been fantasizing about that)?

We said our goodbyes to the rest of the band and a few people Camden knew, garnered one last watchful glare from scapegoat, and then we were off, roaring down the road back toward Palm Valley.

Guano Padano provided our cinematic soundtrack, and by the time Camden was pulling his car down the palm-lined road back to Uncle Jim’s, we’d been chatting non-stop and were almost breathless. The cold desert wind rocked the jeep as we came to a stop and messed my hair around my eyes. I was glad he couldn’t see them properly. I was nervous as all hell—something new to me—and was feeling as awkward as a thirteen-year-old. I tried to remember that Camden had already kissed me all those years ago, but it didn’t change a thing.

I unsnapped my seatbelt and twisted in my seat to look at him, pushing some of the hair out of my face.

“Thanks so much for the great evening,” I told him, sounding more like a cliché by the minute.

“Thanks for coming,” he grinned. A fresh crop of goose bumps sprouted on my arms. Damn, he was going to have to hide those lips somewhere before I stole them.

“Well…” I said. I was starting to fidget, unsure if I should stay and wait for him to either kiss me or suggest we continue our date, but he just kept smiling. And then he put his hand on the gear shift as if he was going to put it in drive.

“Well, I hope you have a great time in Palm Valley. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

The smile melted off my mouth.

What?

“Uh, yeah, totally,” I said, feeling more stupid by the second. I grabbed my purse and hopped out of the jeep, looking back at him with a stunned expression.

He raised his hand in a wave. “Goodnight, Ellie.”

I copied him. “Good night, Camden,” I whispered.

He gunned the jeep and it took off around the cul-de-sac and down the road. I didn’t walk into the house, I just stood there at the foot of the driveway, watching as the jeep’s red lights got smaller and smaller and then eventually disappeared as he turned onto the other road. Then the roar of his engine was gone and I was engulfed by the sound of crickets and the blanket of stars above my head.

What the hell? What happened to asking me out on another date? Or trying to get laid? Or at least a kiss? I thought the whole evening had been going well and suddenly it was, “see ya.” Not even a “we should do this again sometime” and other polite promises. Nothing!

I slowly turned on my heel and slinked back to the house, feeling like a balloon with its air let out. I had really counted on Camden liking me. I had counted on a lot of things. Now I couldn’t be sure of anything.

And for all the effort, for all my plans of scamming the guy, the thing that hurt the most was the rejection. I thought we really had something. Somehow, all these years later, Camden McQueen had managed to put me in his shoes.

To put it mildly, I didn’t like it.

***

You know when you’re upset over something and you look forward to the light of morning because you’ll have some sort of clarity over the situation, as if you’ll work out your problem while you sleep?

Yeah, that didn’t happen here. I woke up angry and annoyed. Part of it was that my old bed in the spare bedroom had scratchy, dusty sheets that probably hadn’t been changed since I was a teenager, but mainly it was because of Camden. He must have been in my dreams or something because my first thought as I opened my eyes to the sharp sunlight streaming in my window was “damn him.”

Apparently I don’t take rejection very well. I also don’t like it when my plans get messed up. When I have to recalculate. You think I’d be used to the latter and at least some of the former, but when I’d been rejected in the past I never took it personally. I never had time or the nerve to get involved with people, and when I did—such as with Jack back in Cincinnati—I was never really invested. My heart was a shallow instrument.

And yet here I was, lying in my bed, sheets tangled all over me, staring up at the ceiling where I used to tape pictures of my favorite bands, and feeling a little sorry for myself. Where had I gone wrong? I started analyzing every detail from the night before, from the way he smiled at me to the feel of his arm around me. He obviously wanted his bandmates to know we were an item, or that I belonged to him in some way. Perhaps that’s all it was. Maybe they made fun of him for not bagging chicks or something. I had a hard time believing that considering most women were falling all over themselves to talk to the 6’0” tat-covered hottie. He could have anyone he wanted, if he wanted them. But Camden wasn’t your usual guy. At least he hadn’t been.

I mulled it over and over and the only thing I could come up with was that he just didn’t like me “like that.” Which sucked, both for my secretly fragile self-esteem and for my ticket out of this place. In order for my scam to work, I needed to get into his place and take a look around. I needed to have a better look at his security system—if he had any—and find out where his safe was. Otherwise I’d be setting myself up for major trouble, something I had to avoid in this town for the sake of Uncle Jim.

Speaking of the devil, I could hear him puttering around in the kitchen and could smell the bacon frying in its own fat. My stomach growled and I rolled over into the fetal position. I’d spent $120 last night in the name of the game which left me only $80 to start a new life somewhere. My options looked bleak.