Sins & Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1)

by Halle, Karina

“Glasses?” I asked. “Looks good.”

  He grinned and gunned the jeep in the dark. We roared out of the cul-de-sac, the smell of fresh night air and sagebrush filling my nose.

  “I only wear these for shows,” he admitted in a conspiratorial voice that made me lean in close to him. “A little thing I discovered as I got older, turns out women love men in glasses. Sure would have come in handy in high school.”

  I smiled as diplomatically as possible. “Well, girls are pretty stupid when you’re in high school. They wouldn’t know a good man if they saw one.”

  If I hadn’t been staring at him so intently as we drove under the garish streetlights, I wouldn’t have caught the rather malevolent look that clouded his brow like a heavy storm cloud. And like so many of his moods, it passed in an instant, leaving only a pained tightening of the lips behind.

  He reached forward and flipped on the radio, blasting us both into silence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Then

  The girl and the boy lay beside each other on his trampoline, staring up at the night sky that looked like a sheet of ink with tiny jewels affixed to it. The trampoline wasn’t good for jumping anymore thanks to the hole in the corner that had gone unpatched since Camden broke it years ago, but it was the perfect spot for them to spend the warm summer evenings.

  There was one thing that happened that night that made it different from all the other nights they spent on it. That night, Camden had reached for the girl’s hand and the girl had let him hold it. That night, in the sweet June air, the girl fell victim to her hormones. She fell to the hopes that maybe she could love this strange beast, even though she was more of a monster than he was. She believed that maybe the affection of the weirdest boy in school—her friend—was better than no affection at all.

  But nothing more than hand-holding had happened yet between them. They just lay side by side, staring up at the stars and listening to Soundgarden’s “The Day I Tried to Live” on his portable speakers, watching for satellites and enjoying that feeling that they, in their fourteen-year-old tragedies, were the center of the universe. His hand gripped hers and despite how sweaty her palms felt, she didn’t take it away.

  She was about to remark, perhaps because it was true or perhaps because his hand was making her nervous, that Chris Cornell sang an awful lot about the sun when they heard the sound of the backdoor being flung open. They both tensed up, their hands jerking back to themselves on some untested reflex.

  “Camden!” his father bellowed from the door. They sat up, ramrod straight, and twisted around to face the house. His large, formidable silhouette was in the doorway. In that blackness, the girl couldn’t see eyes to judge her, or features to fear. But she knew that Camden feared him and that was enough for her.

  “What are you doing out there?” he continued to yell.

  “We’re just laying here,” Camden answered anxiously.

  “Are you with that Watt kid again? The girl?”

  The girl and Camden exchanged a quick look. She’d been over to Camden’s house a few times but they usually hid in his room where they could talk, listen to music, and be themselves. His younger half-sisters loved annoying him and his step-mother was so drugged up on medications that she couldn’t control them.

  “Her name’s Ellie!” Camden shouted back. The girl felt a shawl of pride wrap around her, loving his protectiveness.

  There was a pause and she could see the man, Palm Valley’s Sheriff, hesitate in the doorway.

  “Well I guess I should be happy you’re not the faggot I thought you were,” Camden’s father spat out before going back in the house and slamming the door behind him.

  The girl’s face immediately went red over the father’s offensive choice of words. She swallowed hard and looked at Camden. His pale face looked even whiter in the darkness and his blue eyes looked down at his hands.

  “Does your father think you’re gay?” she asked him.

  “Who doesn’t?” he said with a laugh but kept his eyes away from hers. “You forget my nickname is The Dark Queen. If I’m not threatening to blow up the school, then I’m trying to rape young boys.”

  The girl grimaced, feeling sorry for him. “Even if you were gay…”

  “I’m not,” he said quickly.

  She smiled softly. “I know. But even if you were, that’s a terrible way for your dad to act toward you.”

  He sighed and lay back down on the trampoline. The moonlight glared in his thick glasses. “Yeah, well that’s my dad.”

  The girl started running her hands over the trampoline’s gritty surface. “Have you ever thought about, you know, not dressing the way you do?”

  She could hear his breath catch in his throat and knew she’d struck a chord.

  “What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

  “Well, nothing, to me. But maybe if you didn’t look so scary and wear makeup, the other kids wouldn’t make fun of you.”

  “But then I wouldn’t be who I am. I don’t want to hide myself. I’m not ashamed of being Camden McQueen. Are you ashamed of being Ellie Watt?”

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  He sat up and leaned in close to her, his eyes searching her face. “You’re serious?”

  She frowned. “Of course I am. You have a choice, Camden. You can start acting normal and not like a freak and you’ll be fine. I can’t hide who I am, even if I wanted to, even though I’m trying to. I can’t change the way I walk and I can’t get rid of the scars on my leg.”

  Camden continued looking at her with fervent intensity. It started to make her a little bit uncomfortable and she wiped her hands on her jeans. “You’ve never shown me your scars.”

  The girl swallowed hard. “And I’m not about to.”

  “Can it be so bad?” he whispered. “How can someone as pretty as you have anything that would make her less?”

  She glossed over the fact that he had called her pretty. “It can. I’d give anything to be normal, to live a normal life, to be like everyone else.”

  “Would you really? Give everything just to fit in?” he asked, disbelieving.

  She nodded. She would. She prayed for it every night as she lay in her bed, the tears leaking out from the corners of her tired eyes. She would do anything, give everything, just to be equal with everyone else. And if she was lucky, maybe she’d get to rise above them too. Maybe she’d be able to look down on them one day, the way that they looked down on her.

  “If I believed in a god, I’d say you should be proud of the way he made you. You’re different, Ellie. Your scars, your injury, they make you who you are. Personally, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Yet the girl could. But before she could dwell on it anymore, Camden moved in closer, until his black shirt was brushed up against her. She froze from his closeness and still couldn’t move as she felt his long, cold hands on her face, tilting her chin toward him.

  She’d never been kissed before, but she knew what was coming. It both excited and terrified her. She didn’t like Camden in that way and yet she was curious to see if that could change.

  She closed her eyes as his lips met hers, surprisingly soft. She was glad he wasn’t wearing his black lipstick and almost laughed at the image of black lipstick marks on her face. Now that would confuse his father.

  The kiss was gentle and brief, and as Camden pulled back and she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but sadness in his. Perhaps he could already tell that she was going to ruin him.

  Now

  By the time Camden had pulled the Jeep off the highway and down Palm Canyon Drive, he’d grown out of his mood and was back to being chatty.

  “Ever heard of Guano Padano?” he asked me, reaching for his iPod. We bounced along the road, the sky black and star-strewn except near the mountain peaks where it glowed periwinkle blue.

  “What is that, bat shit?” I asked. I leaned in closer to him as the constant wind swept loose sand off the desert and flung it at the Jeep, coating my hair like
styling putty.

  He smiled and my heart did a weird skip in my chest. It made me smile back at him, grinning like an idiot, despite the gritty hair flying into my face.

  “It’s a band,” he said. “I remember you being into all sorts of music when you were younger.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling momentarily stupid. I wasn’t very hip with new music, and though I was a big music junkie, I stuck to the stuff I knew and liked. “No, never heard of them. What do they sound like?”

  “Spaghetti western rock,” he said and pressed a button. The sounds of slow drumbeats, violins, and a whistling tune worthy of a Sergeo Leoni film came out of the speakers, enveloping us before disappearing into the night air. It was cinematic and enchanting and right up my alley.

  “Sounds like Calexico,” I told him, feeling excited about a new musical discovery. “One of my favorites.”

  He nodded. “They’re from Italy. I think the dude from Calexico was involved with the band or something. Anyway, I’d love to email you the tracks. I think you’ll like them a lot. They kind of remind me of you.”

  I frowned, my lips caught in a wary smile. “Reminds you of me?”

  He shrugged and changed lanes to get ahead of an old Cadillac. “It’s rough and sweet at the same time.”

  I let out a small laugh and tucked my gritty hair behind my ears. “I get the rough part, not the sweet one though.”

  “I see you’re still not giving yourself enough credit,” he noted with faint amusement. “Fair enough.”

  I thought about that and sat back in the seat. After the way things had ended between us all those years ago, the last thing he should think I am is sweet. Besides, I wasn’t sweet. I was planning to scam the poor bastard, which was something I kept on forgetting the longer I rode beside him. Funny how a nice ass, firm pecs, and a great smile could thwart a woman’s best plans.

  But that’s what I got for picking a mark that I knew, a mark I was starting to like. I needed to keep my vagina out of the question and focus on what was really important: money.

  We pulled into the small parking lot at the back of a bar called the Coppertank. A few musicians were in the midst of unloading under the orange streetlamp, their small cars packed to the brim with equipment.

  “Did you need me to be your roadie?” I asked him, but he only smiled and brought his guitar case and pedals out from the back. As he lifted them out, clear above his head, his shirt rose up and I spied a distinct six pack with a thin treasure trail leading down to the waistband of his boxer briefs.

  I turned away before he could catch me gawking at him and ignored the irony that I’d been staring googly-eyed at him when he used to do the same to me.

  Not that I didn’t catch him checking me out from time to time. I particularly felt his eyes on my ass as we made our way through the back and into the dark and surprisingly smoky club. Even though California was strict about smoking inside, the patrons of the Coppertank didn’t seem to care. And, as I did a quick once over of the place, I could see why. They were a ragtag bunch comprised of goths, punks, rockabillies, and gearheads, and judging by the way they were drunk at seven in the evening and talking trash to each other, it was obvious that this was a bar where the customers called the shots.

  That made my plan a lot easier.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked me after he placed his equipment in the back room.

  “Sure you can,” I told him and I followed him to the bartender. Camden gave him a nod which signaled for the guy to make him what I guessed was “the usual.”

  I leaned toward Camden, tilting my chin down coquettishly. “Do you play here often?”

  “As often as I can.” He responded by leaning in closer, his bare arm brushing against mine. There were no sparks, but I did feel a few tingles that shot up along my arm and pooled between my legs. I clamped them shut and tried to ignore it.

  “Where’s the rest of your band?”

  “They probably won’t be here till nine or something. We don’t go on till eleven.”

  I raised my brows at him as the bartender pushed two glasses of what looked like Coke toward us. “Eleven?”

  He looked a bit sheepish, which was adorable with his glasses. “Yeah, we usually play after the smaller bands finish. I just wanted some alone time with you before the show, that’s all. You know, for old time’s sake.”

  He placed a glass in my hand and nodded at it. “It’s got booze in there, don’t worry. I’m not that much of a saint.”

  “I never doubted you for a second,” I told him slyly and sniffed the drink. It was strong, fizzy, and fruity. I took a sip.

  “Bourbon and Cherry Coke with a splash of lime,” he said.

  It was good stuff and I wondered how he knew I liked bourbon, though I probably reeked of the moonshine when I got in the car.

  “Want to go get a booth?” he asked. Before I could say yes, he grabbed my hand and led me across the bar toward the red leather booths that lined the side of the stage. I couldn’t help but notice the faces of the women as we walked past them. They all needed a bib from the amount of drool that was coming out of their mouths and I felt a tiny prick of pride that I was being seen with him.

  I also couldn’t help but notice how firmly he was holding my hand, how warm and strong his grip was. I was met with a rush of cold separation when he finally had to let go once we reached the table.

  I scooched in along the squeaky seats and settled back against the shiny cushions that had seen better days. Camden sat beside me, our legs touching, and we had a view over the whole bar. It was a great place to scope out the joint, though his proximity was distracting.

  It was always best to steer any potential conversations away from me, so I got the ball rolling by asking him about life in Los Angeles and if he preferred it to Palm Valley.

  “I did,” he nodded thoughtfully, his full lips wrapped around the straw of his drink. “I loved the beaches and the weather…warm enough in winter, cool enough in summer. I loved the culture, the bars, the shows, even the people when they weren’t being righteous assholes.”

  “So why’d you move?”

  His eyes narrowed briefly. “It’s a long story. A…complicated story.”

  “Those are my favorite types of stories,” I encouraged him.

  “In a nutshell, it was cheaper and more advantageous for me to open up my shop here.”

  I leaned in close and coaxed him with my eyes, trying not to inhale too much of his intoxicating scent.

  He looked up to the ceiling. “And I needed to start over. Isn’t that why you came back?”

  I looked at him quizzically. “What makes you think I’m trying to start over?”

  “Isn’t that why people return to their past?”

  Our eyes were locked together, each of us trying to suss the other out and poke around for the hidden meanings.

  “So, then why were you trying to start over?” I asked, ignoring his insinuation.

  He licked his lips and slowly twirled his glass around in his hands. I had to stop thinking about his hands, the heavy silver ring on his right thumb, the freckles that dusted over his knuckles. It was like I suddenly had a fetish.

  “I went through a bad divorce. I couldn’t be in the same city as her anymore.”

  I didn’t know why I found it surprising that he had been married—why wouldn’t he have been? Even though we were only twenty-six, he was too handsome not to have been snatched up.

  “Oh,” I said, unsure of what else to say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, so am I.” He turned his attention to the stage where a disheveled band in skinny jeans was setting up. “To make things even more complicated, we have a son together.”

  Okay, now that was surprising. He had a son? I felt a weird emotion slink past me. Disappointment? Jealousy? I couldn’t pick it out, except that it was negative.

  “How old is he?” I asked.

  “Three and a quarter,” he said with a smile. “His name
is Ben.”

  “I like that name.”

  His eyes flushed with pride and his smile broadened. “Thanks. She’s got full custody and she seems to still hate my guts for whatever reason, so I don’t see him as much as I would like to. But at least I send more than enough child support each month. I write him letters too. She can’t say I’m a deadbeat dad.”

  A wave of shame washed over my spine at the mention of child support. I pretended it wasn’t there.

  “Well, look at you, Camden McQueen. You’re divorced and have a child. I think you’ve reached adulthood.” I raised my glass in the air. “I’d say that deserves a toast.”

  He tipped his head to me and we clinked our glasses. After we nearly downed them, he slapped the table with his palms and said, “You want to see him?”

  “Who? Your son?”

  He moved over and brought his knee up on the bench. He rolled up his pant leg until I saw the smiling face of a beautiful boy etched permanently on his calf in black ink. It was an extremely lifelike tattoo, with expressive eyes and intricate shading.

  “Did you do that?” I asked incredulously.

  He nodded.

  “Upside down like that?”

  He rolled the pant leg back down and resumed sitting normally. “I just worked from the picture upside down.” As if that was so easy.

  “Well, you’re amazing,” I told him. I know I was gushing a bit, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t wrap my head around how talented my old friend was, how anyone that I knew could go on to make such beautiful art. Everyone I knew tended to be as shifty as I was.

  After we had breached the seemingly harder topic in Camden’s life, the rest of our conversation was a breeze. In fact, we were so engrossed with each other, talking about our favorite music and travel spots, that we didn’t see his band until they were standing in front of us.

  “Hey, man,” a guy said from the head of the table.

  We looked up, and in one smooth move, Camden slipped his arm around my shoulder and squeezed me closer to him. I knew what that said: she’s mine, buddies. Back off.