by Ace Gray
Strong arms hook underneath my armpits, firmly catching me and easily supporting my weight. My feet still skitter on the patch but whoever has played good Samaritan patiently waits for my Bambi legs to cooperate.
“You might want to ask for boots for Christmas.”
My back bristles at the snarky tone and I struggle against AJ’s grip.
“Cam,” he sighs. “Cam, stop.”
“Get off me.” Suddenly there are worse fates than landing squarely on my ass. Even if my tailbone still aches from this morning.
“You’re going to eat shit if I let go.”
“I don’t care,” I shriek loud enough for a few people, including my mother, to turn.
“I’m not going to drop you. I’m sorry if that makes me the bad guy.”
AJ takes it upon himself to scoot me forward to the solid snow. I rustle out of his grip but he keeps a hold on my hand. His grip is far from romantic but I get the sense he doesn’t want to let go.
Apparently, I’ve added delusional to angry and terrified.
I turn to weave up the bleachers and make the mistake of stopping to glare at AJ since he still holds my hand. He’s even more attractive than last night—probably a little less than this morning. His Carharts hug his muscled thighs and they’re almost as delicious as the pajama pants. His gray thermal clings to every contour of his unreasonably strong arms—arms who’s sculpt is burnt into my brain, and determined to make me continually nauseous. The trim down vest he’s wearing pulls across his chest, which is equally disturbing to my addled mind. A beanie softens the harsh lines of his face even though it covers his wily hair.
As I’m staring, I try to step up to my mom’s level. Another mistake. I don’t step fully onto the aluminum stair before shifting my weight. This time I’m going down and there’s nothing AJ or I can do about it. This will be the fast, boom, chin to step, type of fall. My hand shoots out trying to grab the people around me. Down and wool slips through my fingers and I gasp.
But instead of going down as hard as my rigid body anticipates, I’m yanked sideways.
My eyes squinch shut in anticipation of the pain. And humiliation. Only a moment passes before I realize that those are the only things I feel. Well them and a heartbeat. The heartbeat that made me go a little crazy last night.
I open my eyes to find AJ looking down at me where I’m awkwardly cradled to his chest. He lets out a deep breath and his fingers flex into me. Unless I’m going completely crazy, he seems to lean toward me, arcing gracefully over my trapped body. I swallow a lump the size of the hockey pucks flying into the boards just beyond us and confirm I’m going completely crazy when my neck reaches ever so slightly toward his.
“Heya, AJ.” Someone claps him on the shoulder and the spell is broken. “Is that Cam Collins?”
AJ carefully sets me on my feet then turns toward the interruption.
“Jake.” I can hear the smile in AJ’s voice as he hugs Jake with a solid clap on the back. “How the hell are you?”
“Good, good. You? Not playing tonight?”
“Eh, I’m on call. And the knee…”
They’re both animated, happy as they chatter away, conveniently angled away from me. I want nothing more than to slip away. I try but there are too many people jostling for space now.
My internal monologue is careening quickly out of control. I wish that I could hit rewind and lock the door when Mike knocked on it. Or better yet, not leave the house. Maybe not even leave the Pacific Northwest. Any decision would have been better than this one. I slink so far down in my coat that my rook ear piercing brushes the deep green wool.
“Cam?” Jake questions and by the way he and AJ are looking at me, I gather it’s not the first time he’s asked.
“What?” I can’t talk myself out of my turtle shell and AJ’s look shifts. If I’m not mistaken he feels…bad.
“How are you? What are you up to these days?” Jake chuckles a little but it’s AJ’s look that allows me to pull my head out of my coat—and my ass—and answer.
“I’m good. I live in Seattle. I own my own business, distilling artisanal bourbon.”
They’re both shocked. It’s not what people expect from shy, nerdy me. Or from a woman, period. How AJ didn’t catch that last night, I’m not sure. But I can’t handle the shock clearly covering his face so I shrink back into my coat. I’m praying it looks like I’m cold.
“Camilla,” my mom saves me. “Can you come hold the spot? I have to go to the bathroom.”
When I meet her eyes, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt she doesn’t have to, she’s just trying to protect me. I manage to square my shoulders, smile, and nod.
“I’ve…my mom…” I can’t find a sentence, but Jake nods and I figure that’s enough. Before the conversation gets even more awkward, I turn, hoping to tackle the aluminum solo this time. Wordlessly a hand comes to my hip and helps me up.
AJ has changed tactics. He’s decided to kill me with kindness rather than outright and blatant hatred. I’m not sure how I feel about it either. Things were simpler when a singular emotion wove between us.
As soon as I get settled in our spot, my mom steps down for appearances. AJ has evaporated.
“He’s such a good man.”
Mom’s friend, Carrie Hamilton, leans over so her voice is crystal clear over the chaos growing around us: hockey pucks, referee whistles, friendly conversation and raucous laughter.
“Who?” I try and find my smile for her.
“AJ Jenkins.”
Of course.
“You know he was almost instrumental in getting the funding for the animal shelter?”
“No.” I bite my lip.
Does he remember Gretzky?
“He’s the firefighter that responded to Todd’s accident.” One of the other women pipes in.
He’s a volunteer firefighter? Who is this dude?
“What does he do for a living?” I ask, suspecting that it’s something painfully perfect as well.
“Makes that gorgeous furniture.” Carrie waves her hand leisurely. “You know all that reclaimed wood stuff with the big steel and wrought iron that they put in during the remodel at the lodge.”
Of course. Stupid perfect, asshole, AJ. Wood and steel are second to only cherry and smoke in my life. My hands clench into fists at my sides as the women keep speaking.
“Took care of his mother three winters ago when his dad died even though he’d just had that knee surgery.”
And just like that, they spoon out my heart and leave me to bleed on the bleachers.
“Stubborn Love” Lumineers
Every time I tried to close my eyes last night, I pictured Cam’s face. Every. Single. Time.
Not too long after I deposited her on that bleacher, someone said something that made her soul bottom out. I remembered that devastated look from the day my dad was diagnosed, the day we got the terrible news, and the day she left me.
It haunts me.
It always has. The way her features contort into a beautifully ravaged mirror of my insides isn’t something that’s easy to forget. But tonight—okay, this morning—as I lay awake it’s particularly unnerving.
A few days ago, I wanted to murder Cam. I was crossing my fingers and toes while wishing on pennies that I’d never see her again. But now, in a little over twenty-four hours, I’ve wanted to care for her numerous times. Or better yet, been compelled to do so without any real forethought. What’s worse is I’ve wanted to simply hold her twice.
“Dad, what do I do?”
I’ve taken to asking him for help. I don’t know if it’s praying since he’s gone, or if it’s a sign I’ve finally lost it. But if he were here, he’d know exactly how to handle Camilla Collins.
Camilla who’s so different and yet so the same.
Camilla who smells like cherry, vanilla, leather, and smoke. Like the her I know chased with bourbon. Like the her that makes bourbon. I hate that I think that’s badass.
I shov
e my covers off and start to spin circles around the house, flipping on lights as I go. I drop onto the couch and flop back to stare up at my ceiling. Something is uncomfortable behind my head and without moving, I yank on it. The patchwork quilt is in my hand.
When I’d scrambled to find something to cover up Cam the other night, I’d dug in a box I’d forgotten about in the back of the closet, and I’d turned up with the quilt that we snuggled in under the stars in her backyard the first time she let me put my hand up her shirt. The quilt we’d laid on after skinny dipping in the most miserably cold mountain lake one summer. It was the bastard-ass square of fabric I could convince myself still smelled of vanilla.
Damn it.
The blanket is the last straw. I have to find a way to occupy myself. Brewing coffee, taking a shower and heading to my workshop seems a sensible course of action. I dump grinds into the filter of the coffeemaker then drop my pants to the floor. I think about my mom and sandwiches and baseball as I walk toward my bathroom because remembering those moments with Cam makes my dick twitch.
I flip the shower water cooler than usual so that I can, in fact, forget her. Too late I realize I’m not forgetting her—I can’t—I’m picturing what that tattoo might look like, and how the water would wash along it.
Motherfucker.
And with inky tendrils of memory rolling through my mind the way ink does up her ribs, I grab myself. I can’t push her out today. The shape of her tits, her hips, the way she’d bent over that pool table. The way I’d take her like that if she was mine to take.
My hand wraps around my cock and I start stroking. It’s been about two months since she crept into my mind like this, but far longer since she was this vivid. Never has she smelled of burnt oak. Or been wearing fuck-me heels and fuck-me harder crimson lipstick.
All too quickly I’m lost to her, banging my free fist on the tile of my shower.
She has freckles high on her left thigh and to the right of her bellybutton. There are three that I can vividly picture along her collarbone. A collarbone that perfect, round tits, hang not that far beneath. Tits that sway as she does…anything. That hold small nipples that harden at almost any touch. She used to cover them, and only when she was truly enjoying herself, particularly when she was close, would her hands fall away.
I’d been able to make her come from the first time I touched her. So many women faked it, or petered out, but not Cam. Not even then. She made faint, desperate sounds as I freely roamed her skin. Then she’d actually tremble, and go quiet. Every inch of her pale skin would goose bump and she’d bite down on me if I was close enough to her lips. And when an orgasm finally hit, she’d arch her back and draw me deeper inside her with strong, tight waves on my cock.
Thinking about those relatively innocent romps, those painfully dangerous curves, and those blissful fucking orgasms, I come, sputtering into the cascade of water.
Only it doesn’t ease anything. Not my want. Not my anger. Not my confusion.
Goddamn it.
I slam off the shower and wrap a towel around my waist, heading for coffee. I yank the glass pot out and pour a giant cup. Even with cream and sugar, it’s not right. It tastes bitter. The pitcher Cam used yesterday to make her magical Christmas shit is mocking me from the sink counter.
So far, she’s ruined vanilla, bourbon, coffee, and showers. And Christmas for that matter.
I snarl into the empty house and check the clock. Five thirty-seven a.m. is the perfect hour for a walk. If I drive the truck, I’ll dwell on how my mom and I had to chat about her over the hood and Cam will ruin my truck too.
My shop sits on the back of Trigg’s property. Her folks gave her the house and the bar when they decided to retire to Mexico, sick to death of the cold. She’d moved back here from Washington D.C. to renovate The Barn and I’d been mad at her for almost six months. Mostly because she came back and Cam never had. When we got past it, she made amends for something not at all her fault by leasing me the shop in exchange for woodwork in the bar.
As soon as I roll open the shop door, I can breathe again. Working with wood and steel soothes me. They shouldn’t go together but they do. Wood from just up the road can meld with metal from anywhere on earth. The hard and the soft intertwine to make something beautiful.
A slight smirk pulls my lip as I run my fingers over the raw lumber in the shop. There’s a beautiful pale, almost white wood that I just got in. It would look incredible if fire were applied and charred along the edges. Distressed silver accents would be perfect. The dining room table was already assembling itself in my mind.
Mercifully Cam has left it. Or at least taken up residence somewhere I can keep her hidden.
I’ve selected each plank and arranged them, and have started sanding them when the shop door opens, sliding on its wheels. The grinding is just enough to reach through my earplugs and I flip the sander off.
“Heya, AJ.” Trigg claps my shoulder when she walks over, studying the planks I’ve already worked on. “Coffee?” she asks as her fingers hover over the wood. She knows how I feel about her touching things once they’re sanded. I smile until the smell of her coffee hits me in the back of my nose and my jaw clenches.
“Ugh. Coffee.”
“That’s a new response.” She arches her eyebrow as her hand falls away and she turns to look at me.
“Thank Cam for that.”
“I heard about you guys at the game but I didn’t know that involved coffee.”
She leans against my workbench and I sigh. Apparently, I’m done working until Trigg has said whatever it is she came here to say. I put the sander down and mimic her pose, crossing my arms as I go.
“Well?” She sighs. “What the hell happened?”
“Last night?” I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly. “She slipped, go figure, and I caught her. Simple as that.”
“Simple as that? Then why is everyone talking about it?”
“Everyone is talking about it?”
She’s piqued my curiosity.
“Said that there was serious heat between you guys. Imagine my surprise when you’ve spent so very many years loathing her.”
“She broke my heart, Trigg,” I say it with less conviction than ever before. She notices and keeps her mouth shut, waiting for me to continue. “But she said something yesterday morning that has me…”
Fuck if I even know where to begin with that one.
“You were with her yesterday morning?” Trigg straightens, more focused and a bit confused.
“Yeah.” I sigh and slump on the bench then shove my head in my hands. “She lost her phone at the bar and her parents didn’t answer when I called. It was let her sleep on the city bench or on my couch.”
“Oh shit.”
“I watched her sleep, Trigg.” I throw my hands up, exasperated with myself and my admission. “Then she made this cup of coffee with warm cream and spices and God… I’ll never be able to drink regular coffee again.” I shove my hands through my hair. “Or stop thinking about her.”
“Oh, AJ, I’m sorry.” She pats my shoulder and then squeezes reassuringly. “Tell me about the project.”
A very large part of me wants to kiss her with gratitude for changing the subject. I blow out a massive breath.
“I just got in this gorgeous northern white cedar. I’m thinking a dining room table.” I stand and grab one of the rough pieces. “I’m gonna char the edges,” I continue, running my fingers down the thin edge. “When I place them together there will be just a hint of the burnt wood poking through. Then I’m going to band the edges, maybe ten inches from either end with this.” I set the wood down and grab a dark, distressed piece of steel. “A rivet or two will look good along those bands. I’m thinking full steel squares rather than just legs for support.”
In my mind, it was beautiful.
“Sounds really great.” Trigg is smirking as she turns toward the open shop door, meaning to leave without another word.
“What, Trigg?” I
call, rolling my eyes, sure there was more to her train of thought.
She calls over her shoulder, the smirk still obvious in the sound of her voice, “Sounds like a bourbon barrel if you ask me.”
“First” Cold War Kids
Last night my heart broke for AJ instead of because of AJ. Something shifted and I’ve been rubbing my heart ever since.
I’ve dated. Continuously since high school. But no one has ever affected me like AJ. And hearing AJ’s dad, a dad I loved as much as my own, finally passed away, hurt. I ache for AJ and his mom, Sarah. I hate myself for not being there for him, whatever we felt about each other at the time.
The emotion that has been bubbling in my chest for a solid eighteen hours has been making work difficult, but I sit plinking away at the keys of my laptop nonetheless. Working at my parents’ office has made me focus about as well as anything could three days before Christmas and blocks away from AJ.
A few times I get up, meaning to walk down there. I even grab my coat. But each time I hesitate long enough to talk myself out of it. We have this tentative truce, one I’m pretty sure will evaporate if I barge in uninvited and start talking about his dad.
Then again, I was the only other one there. The fourth ear in the room to receive the horrific news time after time. I was the one that let AJ crush my hand where he held it, I was the one that let him bury his face in my chest to hide his tears. I took him camping after his dad’s diagnosis and we’d screamed at the empty hills in anger. I’d introduced AJ to whiskey courtesy of my dad’s liquor cabinet that trip.
I spin up out of my seat again, determined to walk down there this time. No turning back.
You broke my heart!
His words echo in my mind and I stop short at the door, my hand reaching limply toward the handle.
“What is going on, Camilla? That’s the fifth time you’ve whirled around here in a huff.” My mom artfully arches her eyebrow overtop of her computer screen.