I couldn’t swallow. I felt like I was drowning under his touch. “Camden, please…”

Please stop, I was thinking. This isn’t right. It feels right and it feels wrong but it isn’t right. There’s a motive and it isn’t lust. It isn’t lust. It’s revenge.

Revenge never felt so good.

He nipped at me, and my back arched. A low moan escaped my lips. I wanted him. I wanted the person that didn’t exist. I wanted the wrong thing.

I sat up straight and pushed his shoulder back. He slowly raised his head. His eyes were calculating. His mouth twitched up in an unbecoming smile that chilled me despite the fire.

I pulled up my shirt and edged away from him. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“No? And why is that?”

“Because…you’re blackmailing me. You threatened to kill me the other night. I’m helping you steal the mafia’s money and start a new life and…we don’t need to make this any more complicated than it already is.”

He looked down at his hands where he was tracing small patterns on the surface of the rug. “Do you know what else I think you should feel, Ellie? Aside from fear?”

“What?” I eked out in an exhale, my body tensed.

“Humiliation.” His eyes glittered like a cat before the pounce. “Just like you humiliated me.”

Shit. I had to play my cards right here or things were going to get very messy, very fast.

“I already feel humiliated, Camden. You beat me at my own game. You set me up to fail. I got caught because I only saw what I wanted to see. I was following my ego. I don’t have your money. I’m sitting here with you and not because I want to. Because I have to.”

“Because you chose to.”

“And it’s humiliating,” I admitted, pounding the words out like a stone.

He observed me for a few silent seconds. I could see the wheels of his brain turning, see him fighting something behind those eyes, something deep inside. He wanted to make me feel like he felt. He wanted to humiliate me so badly. To make me feel small, to make me feel weak, to make me feel helpless. Just blackmailing me wasn’t enough. He wanted to do something that would really make me understand. I just prayed he wouldn’t try it. That he would fight those demons and win. Because the moment he’d try and force me to do something I didn’t want to do, I’d be more than humiliated. I’d be ruined. And I’d never be able to look at his face feeling there was someone in there worth rooting for. Despite everything, I wanted to like Camden.

He leaned in closer to me, getting to his knees. The wall was behind me, and beside that, the fire. I was cornered, trapped. I was powerless, helpless. I could fight back and maybe win. Maybe save myself from him. But I wouldn’t save myself from my fate, the fate he set for me.

The revenge burned within him. He looked like a man possessed. He put his hand out for my face, his fingers contorted, like he was ready to grab me by my hair and force me to the ground. Like he wanted to cause me pain.

I looked him straight in his eyes, trying to see the good person I believed was still in there. The man who had called me rough and sweet and sad. The one who I’d stare up at the stars with. The one who believed that letting go and moving on was the better alternative to making other people pay.

The good person that I wasn’t.

His hand paused in the air, inches from my face, and shaking now. Was it with rage? Was it with control? I was holding my breath in this thick atmosphere, waiting for his next telling move.

A flash of clarity sparked in his rigid features. His hand came down to my cheek where he cupped my face. His hand was very cold, but it was gentle. And it meant me no harm.

“Good night, Ellie,” he said, clearing his throat. His eyes were wet, his brow furrowed in wild concern. “I think I’ve had too much for today.”

I watched him, unblinking, unmoving, unable to breathe, until he removed his hand and got unsteadily to his feet. He stumbled across the living room, bumping once into the coffee table and then into the wall, then finally disappearing down the hall. His bedroom door closed with a slam.

A rush of air flowed out of lungs and the feeling came back into my fingers. I’d been clutching my hands so tightly together that my nails had dug into my palms.

I grabbed the throw blanket from the couch and huddled up by the fire until it went out. It was the only warmth left in the house.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Suffice it to say both Camden and I were in edgy, introverted moods the next day. He was hung over and silent. I was walking on eggshells and trying to give him space. I’d gotten an email from Gus saying he was couriering us the Social Security Cards first thing Monday morning before the drop, so at least everything on that end was shaping up.

At some point in the afternoon, Camden had decided to practice his guitar in the living room, just jamming out like a madman. He was singing along too. I love men who can sing well. Unfortunately, he couldn’t. But at least it was on-key. No, Camden’s skill lay in his guitar playing, and being hung over didn’t seem to affect it all. Maybe it was his way of working things out. I hoped so. He had about as many issues to work out as I did.

Of course, I tended to rely on drugs to get me through that. I was running low on Kava pills and was feeling particularly anxious, so I fished out the Ativan and popped a couple under my tongue while I was in the bathroom. Camden had asked me the other day if I liked what I saw when I looked in the mirror. To tell you the truth, I barely looked. Sure, I put on makeup and made myself look pretty. But I was never really looking at myself. I observed the person in the mirror like I was looking through a window at someone else. If I looked really closely, I would have seen glassy eyes, dark circles, and black hair that had a strip of blonde roots coming in.

With Camden strumming in my usual space, I retreated to the spare bedroom instead. I left the door open to avoid that whole jail cell feeling, then lay down on the narrow bed. To take my mind off myself and let the drug do the work, I thought about Camden and Ben. I thought about how awful it would be to make a mistake with your life and never see your child again. To keep a room for him in your house just in case you were ever fortunate enough to have him visit. To have that room sit there, waiting and alone, for someone that might never come.

I must have been pulled under into an Ativan-induced coma, because when I woke up, it was completely dark in the room. The only light was coming from the hallway, the light from the kitchen. To my relief, the door was still open.

And through my extremely groggy head and dry mouth, I discovered the reason I awoke. Why my heart was already pounding harder than usual.

There were voices in the house.

Camden. And someone else. A man.

I quietly eased myself out of bed and crept to the doorway. I slowly popped my head around the corner. I saw shadows dancing on the walls, shadows of two people in the kitchen. I jerked my head back around the door before anyone could see me and I listened.

The sound of a chair being pushed back. “I’m sorry,” Camden said.

“You’re always sorry, aren’t you?” a man replied. His voice was deep and emotionless, a bit like the way Camden could be sometimes. “Always sorry for your shit little life.”

And now this man was beginning to sound familiar.

“I didn’t even think you’d notice, that you’d even care,” Camden wailed. Yes, wailed.

“Of course you didn’t. Because you’re too selfish and too stupid to ever think. I noticed! The whole town noticed! How do you think it looks to me? Huh? Here you are, twenty-six years old with no girlfriend. Just some whore for an ex-wife and a son that I’ve never seen, and you’re using your name—our name—in an ad for gay men!”

What?

“It’s not an ad for gay men. It’s an ad for the shop. One of my clients happens to be gay. He’s one of my biggest supporters and has the most tats and—“

A fist pounded against the table, rattling the items on it. There was no question that Camden was talking to his father. I shuddered at the memories I had of him.

“Look at it!” his father boomed, and I could hear the rustle of paper. “Right in our newspaper. Visit Camden McQueen’s Sins and Needles for all your tattoo needs. And you use a picture of this guy, this fag.” He said the word with such disgust that I had to fight the urge to run out of the room and hit him. “The name McQueen doesn’t just belong to you. I wish it didn’t belong to you. It’s my name. I’m the Sheriff. I rule this town. Do you know how people are looking at me now? They always thought you were one of those fairies. Elizabeth and I were so happy when you got married. Then you screwed it all up!”

“This has nothing to do with Sophia,” he said meekly. I’d never heard this big, bad Camden ever sound so small. I swallowed hard.

“This has everything to do with Sophia!” his father roared. Another hit to the table. “Why don’t you just admit to me that you’re gay, that you’re one of them, those fruits over in Palm Springs. God, it’s so obvious, isn’t it? The way you used to wear makeup and dress like a girl.”

“I didn’t dress like a girl.” His voice was rising. “I dressed like a goth. It’s a fucking subculture, Dad. I grew out of it. I’m not gay, and if I were, it would be none of your business.”

“Oh, it’s my business all right. You live here, in my town, you make it my business.” A pause. Another hit to the table. Louder this time. Camden’s dad was losing it. “God, the way you never had any real girlfriends in high school, except for that slut. No wonder she dumped you, you probably wouldn’t sleep with her.”

This time the pause could have shattered the room. My jaw had unhinged itself a little. I had a feeling Camden probably looked the same.

“And what slut is that?” Camden asked carefully. I recognized that edge to his voice.

“Who do you think? Ellie Watt. That scum of the earth, conning whore.” He spat out that word like it was lodged in his throat. “Her parents made me look like the world’s biggest fool.”

I silently praised my parents for probably the first time ever. I also praised Camden for not immediately turning me over to this guy.

“Ellie isn’t a whore,” Camden said.

“She’s a gypsy tramp, just like her parents. She never belonged in this town, just like you don’t belong in this town. I guess I should be happy you never married a gimp.”

Now that word…that was pushing things a little too far; I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming.

Camden didn’t have that problem.

“Fuck you,” he seethed.

Another pause. This one slogged on as if through syrup.

Finally his father said, “What did you just say to me?”

Oh, shit.

I heard Camden get out of his chair. His voice lowered. “I said, fuck. You.”

The kitchen exploded in sound. Someone got punched hard. Then punched again. The hit, the sound of fist on flesh and cracking bone, filled the room and shot down the hall. Someone hit the cupboards in the kitchen and dishes fell to the floor.