Just another hotel room.
Another new place in the city.
Another set of double beds.
One more room that served as evidence just in its existence for how much Smith did not want her, had never wanted her, and never would want her. The stinging presence of tears made her blink, and she grabbed the hotel directory and threw it at the door. “Fuck you, Smith. You – dammit, you bastard! If you don’t want me just say it!”
The door popped open and Smith was framed in the doorway by the darkness behind him, sweat making his shirt cling to every inch of perfect muscle. Pants low on his hips, drawing her eyes to all the places she shouldn’t be looking. “Fine. I don’t want you, C.”
It was like he’d stuck the knife between her ribs, puncturing a lung and making it impossible to breathe. For some reason the words had seemed harmless in her head, but coming from Smith’s lips they felt like razorblades. “You - you’re an asshole.”
“No. I just don’t want you. Don’t do that again.” Cold, jade eyes stared at her from the doorway, not quite meeting hers but floating somewhere around the center of her forehead.
Camille huffed out a breath, swallowing the bitter pain. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
Smith watched as Camille grabbed her jacket and headed to the door. His body twitched, fighting the urge in his muscles to stop her, that mindless urge to pull her against him so he could kiss her again – do all kinds of things with her.
But it was wrong, and so he did nothing.
Did nothing as she looked back at him again, waiting for him to ask her to stop, to stay, and when he kept his mouth closed – she left. The door slammed shut behind her and Smith finally let himself sag against the wall.
“So stupid. So incredibly stupid.” With a groan he looked south at the idiot stick hidden behind his pants that had grown rock hard as she’d kissed him with those soft lips. Her quiet moans had been like poison dripped into his ear, ruining the barriers he’d built up over time so that he would only look at her as a partner. Another killer, and not anything else.
Not his. Not his. Not his.
It had taken too long for him to convince the erection to fade, too long focusing on breathing, and by the time he’d been able to stand up again inside the bathroom she’d already been shouting at him – so he’d said the only thing he could to prevent catastrophe: I don’t want you.
What a fucking lie.
That’s what Camille would say if she were here, and she would be right. He wanted her, he wanted her too much. He looked too much. He stared too much. If he had any talent with art he could draw the exact way she looked when she laughed. Could paint what she looked like when she finished a job and looked to him for his approval. He would do an entire series on the graceful movements of her limbs as they fought. He’d write sonnets about the strength she was able to put behind her blows, the concentration in her gaze as she fired a gun, the dexterity she exhibited in making him work to take her down – leaps and bounds beyond where she’d been when he had found her.
Ignoring his disheveled, sweat-soaked look, he tugged his jacket on and left the room as well. If there were any luck in the universe, Camille would have gone somewhere other than Bill’s to stew in her hatred of him, because he needed a drink.
It was a Tuesday night, which meant there were only a few scattered regulars when Smith wandered to the back of the bar and dropped into his seat. Albatross Brewing glowed above his head, and Bill himself walked over with a glass of bourbon and set it down in front of him. “What did she do?”
“You make such assumptions.”
“I can read you by now, Smith. If you wanted anonymity you shouldn’t have picked my bar to be your favorite haunt.” He pushed the glass across the table towards him. “Now, take a drink, and talk.”
Listening to the guy he viewed as one of his only ‘friends’ in the world, even though Bill knew basically nothing about him, he took a drink. The sweet burn of the bourbon wound its way down into his stomach, bursting with a warmth that he needed. It would serve as a balm to the things he’d said to Camille. It would help him rebuild the barriers. “She kissed me.”
“Alright.” Bill shrugged, leaning back in the chair. As Smith stared he waited for the man to say something else, to react, but he stayed stoic.
“You’re not listening, I kissed her. I kissed C.”
“I thought you said she kissed you?”
“Yes! She did, that’s what I said.” Smith growled under his breath and threw back more of the bourbon than he should have.
“And you kissed her back?” Bill asked, and Smith’s stomach turned. All he could manage was a nod, but Bill just shrugged again. “She’s a beautiful girl.”
“A girl. Right.” His stomach twisted further, and he tried to stifle it by finishing the bourbon.
“Is that the deal? Her age?”
“Yes.” Smith nodded and tilted the empty glass towards himself, disappointed that he’d finished it too fast, but Bill reached forward and pulled it free from his grip.
“How old is she?” He held up a hand. “Wait, before you answer that I’m getting us both bourbon. I think we’re going to need it.”
Smith nodded and watched as the man wandered back behind the bar. He snagged Miranda before she headed towards the tables and nodded at the two guys sitting at the bar before he brought another glass and an entire bottle of bourbon back to the table.
“Really think we’re going to need the bottle?” he asked as Bill took his seat again.
“You tell me,” he muttered as he filled their glasses and nudged a full one in front of Smith.
“I won’t turn it down.”
“Me either. This is the good stuff.” Bill took a drink and Smith mirrored him, letting the silence reign for a moment until the bartender who had been the only constant in his life for years cleared his throat. “So… how old is she, Smith?”
Another draft of bourbon filled his mouth so he wouldn’t curse needlessly, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid this discussion. Hell, he’d apparently come to Bill’s to have this conversation. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you -”
“I don’t know. She’s never told me her age.”
Bill blew out a breath slowly, nursing his bourbon like an old pro, while Smith was already halfway through his second glass. Liquid courage, eh? Leaning forward, Bill’s watery eyes lifted to him. “Listen, all these kids look young to me. I’m in my sixties now, even you look like a baby. What are you, twenty-three, twenty-four?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“You’re a baby yourself, what are you worried about?” Bill sat back and laughed, resting a hand on his stomach.
Smith flinched, remembering her screams in the night just before she’d wake up crying and cursing. It was worse now that he had even a flicker of what caused them. Steve, Joe Wilson, and the others… and the things they had done to her at God only knew what age. “It’s complicated.”
“You’re joking, right? She’s gorgeous. Hell, half the bar gets wood every time she walks in here. If I were your age I’d be -”
“Bill.” Interrupting him so he wouldn’t finish the thought, Smith kept his eyes on the last inch of amber liquid as he tilted it to and fro, trying to suppress the urge to gut the next man that looked at her with a gaze even halfway lecherous.
She’s not yours to be jealous over.
Raising his free hand up Bill shook his head. “I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life, Smith. Mother Mary knows I’d be talking to you about something other than your love life if I wanted to interfere, but everyone sees how she looks at you. That girl is in love with you.”
“She does not love me,” Smith growled, and he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Bill or himself.
“Fine. So, maybe she doesn’t, but she looks at you like you hang the moon in the sky, and girls don’t go kissing men they don’t like. Not for free anyway.” Bill chuckled when Smi
th glared at him. “That wasn’t an insult, C’s never been shy about her previous occupation. Is that the issue?”
“No.”
“You sure? There’s some free clinics if you’re -”
“I took her to a doctor right after I took her in. She’s clean. Healthy. As miraculous as that is.” With a groan Smith upended the glass, finishing it, but as soon as it touched the table again Bill was already refilling it. A good bartender to the core. “That isn’t the issue at all.”
“So, ask her how old she is.”
“She won’t tell me the truth.”
“You don’t think she’s eighteen, do you?” Bill cursed under his breath, speaking softly when he continued. “You’ve had that girl in here for the last couple of years, drinking my booze, and you don’t think she’s even eighteen? Shit, Smith.”
“I didn’t plan any of this.” He sighed and took another drink. “Do you even remember that first night when she walked in here? Skin and bones? Wanting to buy one off me like it was a normal thing?”
“Hey, as far as anyone is concerned I don’t know what you sell, or what you do when you’re not in my bar. You’re a steady, solid customer who always pays his tab. That’s all I know.” Bill glanced around him, checking on the bar and the other patrons who were too far away to hear his official answer. “But, I do remember. I remember being surprised that a girl like that went straight for you when there were plenty of easy marks at the bar. I figured she knew what she was looking for.”
“Yeah, she’s never been shy.”
“Shy is not a word I’d use for C.” Shaking his head, Bill finished his glass and braced his elbows on the table. “Listen, you picked her. I don’t know why in the hell you did, but you did. That is going to have some consequences.”
“I just wanted to make her strong.”
“You wanted to keep her safe.”
“Yes,” Smith whispered and they both fell into silence. The soft white noise of quiet chatter and the dull television filling the empty spaces between the clatter of glasses and bottles.
Bill refilled his glass and added a little more to Smith’s. “Well, she’s strong now. Safe. So what are you going to do with her? Because I don’t think her feelings are going to change.”
Smith had to stifle a smirk, because the idea that Camille felt anything outside of her own determination and rage was difficult to imagine. However old she was, she wasn’t childish. That had been stripped from her in the most brutal of ways, and she looked at the world through the eyes of experience.
But, could Bill be right? Could Camille actually want him, and could it even be real after everything she’d been through?
Shaking his head he poured more amber fire down his throat, trying to burn out the urge to return to the hotel and pick up after that kiss. To touch her in the ways he dreamed about, to make real the pictures in his head that he was ashamed to have. “I don’t know.”
“Shit, Smith –” he rolled his eyes. “Sorry about the language, I know you’re weird about that. Listen, I don’t know her story, but she doesn’t seem like the type to do anything she doesn’t mean to do. If she kissed you, she wanted to kiss you. I doubt that was an accident.”
“She’s just too close to me.”
“Tell yourself whatever makes it easier, but you came here to talk to me, and you knew I was going to tell you the truth. She kissed you, and that means something. You need to decide what you’re going to do about it.”
Just as Smith was about to respond he felt the buzz of his phone in his pocket. He’d never removed it from the jacket. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was a call from a number he knew by heart. “I need to take this.”
“Sure. You just think about what I said, and enjoy the bourbon. On the house.”
“That’s not -”
“On the house.” Bill pointed at the bottle and got up from his seat to return to the bar, leaving Smith with a ringing cell phone.
Why the hell is my life this complicated?
“Hello?” he spoke into the phone as soon as he accepted the call.
“Smith! I have good news. You’re going to be so happy you know me.” It was Lacroix, the PI he usually tasked with finding someone when he needed help through more technological avenues.
“Do tell.”
“The names you gave me a while back, I found one of them. Clinton, is Clinton Porter – at least I think. Lived in that area during the time periods you gave me, fits the general description you provided based on his DMV photo. I can send over the info if you tell me where you’re staying this week.” Lacroix sounded excited, energetic to have solved the puzzle Smith had laid before him. Nothing but three names, three physical descriptions, and the few random facts that C had been able to remember.
Clinton.
Roger.
Barry.
The last three names on her list, and now one might be in their sights. It was the perfect thing to distract her, distract them both from what had happened tonight. Taking a swig of the bourbon he focused on work instead of Camille’s age, or her body, or the kiss. “Yeah, I want it. Let me tell you where I’m staying – but I need you to be subtle. I need pictures if you can get them so I can verify with the client, and I can pay whatever you need.”
“Oh, trust me, you’re getting a bill for this stuff.”
“That’s fine. So, where is this guy?” Smith asked, and as Lacroix started rattling off information, Bill’s eyes met his from across the bar. Their conversation was over, but it still weighed heavy on him.
As soon as he ended the call, Bill made his way back towards the table. Smith finished the glass and stopped him before he refilled it.
“I’ve got to head back.”
“Work?”
“Yes. Always another job to do.” Smith stood up, feeling the tingling rush of the alcohol thunder through his veins.
“Well, have you decided what you’re going to do? With C? With the kiss?” Bill tucked the bottle of bourbon under his arm and scooped up the empty glasses.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer, Smith. You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. She’s going to want more of a response than you heading to the bar.” For a moment he felt like he was being lectured by a parent, the chastising look in Bill’s eyes more than he’d expected from the older man. But, as much as he hated to admit it, he was right.
And, unfortunately, what Smith really wanted was to kiss her again, and tell her that he’d lied. That he did want her, and that it was tearing him apart, because he never wanted to be another monster in her life.
As pathetic as it was… he wanted to be her hero.
Chapter Nine
The alcohol was really thrumming in his bloodstream as he exited the taxi and walked back into the hotel. He had walked for a while, enjoying the Spring weather before the tormenting heat of Summer made even the evenings a challenge without air conditioning, but eventually he knew he had to go back. Still tipsy or not. He had to face Camille and talk to her. Not just about the new information, but about the kiss too, and about what it all meant. Maybe even about what he felt, in vino veritas and all that.
In the elevator he tried to run his fingers through his hair. Tried to look less like a barfly coming back from a bender, even if he had just drank the most he had in months. The ding came too soon and he had no choice but to walk back towards the room, rehearsing the things he wanted to say to her.
I’m sorry I got upset, it wasn’t about you. I do want you.
No. Too fast, too forward.
I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I just needed to think. And drink. How old are you exactly?
Smooth.
So, I have an address for Clinton, want to go kill him and then go on a date to talk?
Idiot.
Maybe he should have spent more time with Bill talking this through, because as clear as it had seemed in the bar, it felt thick as mud at the moment. Which could have been the alcohol, or just the
deeply complicated, messed up situation they were in.
With a deep breath he plugged the room key in and opened the door – and then stopped dead in his tracks.
“Yeah, you fucking like that don’t you?” A man’s voice, low and breathy, and on the heels of it a long moan that ran like a cold chill up his spine.
Moving into the room he closed the door quietly just as soft, feminine noises joined the grunting and slapping of skin coming from the room.
“Fuck, you’re so hot. Yeah...” The male voice had Smith reaching for the gun he normally kept in the small of his back, but it was fortunately zipped into the duffel under his bed because he was not thinking straight and a gun wasn’t going to help the situation.
She’s not fighting him. If she were fighting him, he’d be dead.
Which only meant…
Smith swallowed, and closed his eyes, forcing one long deep breath to make sure he wouldn’t kill whomever he saw. Unable to listen any longer he stepped forward and caught a full visual of Camille on top of another man in her bed, her tanned thighs spread, her back arched, head back, breasts high on her chest. Her white blonde hair spilled down her spine as her hips rocked, and then the man grabbed her by the waist and flipped them, pinning her underneath him as he thrust hard.
A strange feeling was spreading from the center of Smith’s chest, one that he didn’t want to look too closely at, and when anger started to overwhelm it – he let the rage win. His voice was cold as ice when he spoke, loud enough to be heard over the moans and the sounds of sex, “You could have put a note on the door.”
“Fuck!” The man on top of Camille practically levitated with the speed he pushed off of her, twisting to rip a handful of sheet to cover his cock. There had been a condom, for what it was worth.
Camille didn’t even flinch. Laid out on the bed, her knees still slightly spread, she just propped herself up on her elbows and met his eyes. Ice blue into green. She had probably known the moment he entered the room. “Didn’t know when you’d be back,” she responded, not even a hint of emotion in her voice.
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