“John.” Camila was starting at him, concern wrinkling her forehead.
He shook his head. The memory was gone. “Sorry.”
“Do you want to eat? I have a granola bar you can have while we wait for the macaroni.”
His stomach grumble. “Yes, please.”
She handed him the granola bar and then sat across from him at the dinette where she could watch the pot boiling on the stove.
John unwrapped the granola bar. It smelled amazing. “So, you like your job?”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. I mean, I love working with Fer, but a lot of creeps hang around. Like that Gage guy.”
John nodded. “That asshole.”
“That’s a good description of him, yeah.”
He took a bite from the granola bar she’d given him and his stomach rumbled.
“Do you have family somewhere? Someone you’d like me to call?” She combed through her damp hair with her fingers and watched his face.
John chewed slowly, giving himself a chance to think. How much should he tell her? He looked at her wide, understanding eyes. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
He swallowed. “I don’t… remember.”
She placed both hands on the tabletop and cocked her head. “You don’t remember?”
“I woke up two days ago with no memory.” He knocked on his head. “Nothing.”
Her jaw dropped. “No kidding?”
He nodded. “No kidding.”
“Jesus.” She whistled. “It’s like a frickin’ Lifetime movie.”
The water on the stove began to bubble. Camila got up and slid the yellow noodles from the box into the pot. He could tell she was deep in thought by the crooked set of her mouth.
She stopped and fixed her eyes on him. “We gotta figure out who you are.”
John shrugged.
Camila sat down in front of him, still fixing him with that look. A look that said this is serious business, mister. She squinted her eyes and pointed a finger. “I’m going to help you find your family.”
“Who says I’ve got a family?”
Camila’s brow furrowed. “Everybody’s got a family. Even if it’s really messed up.”
John nodded in agreement, but a cold sliver had sunk into his heart. No one had come for him. No one cared but this short, scrappy girl with a big heart. And right now no one else seemed to matter.
But what about the memory? Someone had to be out there worried about him.
Yeah, well, where the hell were they?
The timer above the stove dinged, and John pushed up before Camila could stand. “You don’t have to wait on me,” he said, heading for the stove. “Sit down. You worked all day.”
She sat back in her chair and crossed her tan arms on the tabletop. “I guess I’m just used to waiting on people.”
He flipped off the burner and lifted the pot. Steam coiled from the macaroni. “Well, I’m not used to being waited on.”
She cocked her head, a slash of dark bangs falling over her eyes. “How’d you know? You only remember the last three days.”
He smiled. “You’re right, but you’re still not getting up. Where’s your butter?”
She pointed. There was a short silence while John cut a hunk of butter and dropped it in the pot. He found the milk carton in the fridge and poured some in. Then the powdered cheese. When he finally came to the table with two steaming bowls and produced them triumphantly, he saw her frowning. He sat, letting the bowl sit uneaten.
“What is it?”
She twisted her mouth. “I need to ask you…”
“Ask.” He placed both palms on the table, ready. “I’ll tell you the truth. Whatever it is.”
She looked up, her hands tugging on the ends of her hair. “What happened this morning? You looked so panicked.”
John leaned back in his chair. He'd said he’d tell her the truth. He lifted his fork and tapped it nervously on the side of the bowl.
“This morning I was really sick, so sick I thought I was going to die.” His eyes flicked to her face. “I decided I'd find a cop or something and ask for help. I walked into a convenience store a couple miles outta town. The shop owner…” John winced remembering the man’s bloody throat, the flies.
She nodded encouraging him to tell her more, but if he did, she’d kick him out for sure.
He swallowed hard, and lied. “He kicked me out. It was here I was attached.”
Camila pushed up from the table, the dishes clattering. “We should call the police.”
He put his hands up, shaking his head. “No, no, it’s fine. Really. I don’t want to involve the police. I’m fine.”
So much for telling the truth. But there was no way she'd believe the truth.
“Do you need medical attention?” she asked.
“No. I’m a fast healer.” He smiled, feeling guilty.
She furrowed her brow, but didn’t ask any more questions. He took that as a good sign.
The smell of the macaroni, so starchy and cheesy, was making his stomach somersault. He took a bite, the gooey goodness coating his tongue. Would she kick him out? Slam the door in his face? He glanced up at her. She was eating carefully. He could almost see the gears working in her head. She seemed to let it slide for now.
Her eyes flicked to the door and a nervous shadow darkened her face.
“Where’s your mom at?” he asked, scraping the last yellow globs out of the bowl.
Camila shrugged. “I woke up this morning and she was gone. She takes off sometimes.” Her eyes trailed over to the couch. “Most of the time lately she just lays around, but she flushed her medication and now I’m not sure what she’ll do.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, looking down.
John reached for her empty dish and rinsed both out in the sink. The clock above the stove read half past ten. He felt the fatigue down to his bones. He looked over and caught her rubbing her eyes. “I should go.”
“Where?” Her eyes shifted to the rain streaming down the kitchen window. “Out there? You can’t.”
Thunder cracked across the sky hard enough to rattle the windowpanes. He certainly didn’t want to sleep under some overpass, but the thought of her mother coming home and catching him sleeping on her couch did not appeal to him either. “I’ll be fine.”
Camila put both hands on her hips. “You will not be fine. Look at it out there.” Lightning split the sky.
John shrugged. “Do you have an umbrella?”
Camila arched back in her chair as she thought. He tried not to focus on the pull of her tank top across the swell of her breasts.
“Look, here’s what we’ll do. You can sleep in the spare bedroom. It’s a mess, but it’s better than out there.” Her eyes flicked uncertainly to his face and then away. “We’ll shut the door. Mama never goes in there. That’d come too close to facing her problems.”
John swallowed hard. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Why?” A blush crept up her cheeks. “You’d rather sleep in the rain than with me?” She clasped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. “Oh, no. We’d just, you know, be sleeping.”
A blush burned up John's cheeks. “It’s okay. I knew what you meant. I don’t want to sleep in the rain, but I can’t get you in trouble.”
She tugged on the hem of her tank top. “She probably won’t even come home. If she does, we’ll sneak you out the window. My mama’s not the most observant person.”
John felt himself nodding. As he followed her to the spare bedroom, his eyes locked on the backside of her yoga pants.
Camila flicked on the bedroom light. The small room was, to put it bluntly, a disaster. There was a footpath that lead to a bare mattress surrounded by mounds of clothes and shoes. It reminded him of a crater, his crater. He shuttered.
She shrugged. “Sorry.”
“It’s great actually. So much better than where I’ve been sleeping.”
She pulled down a sleeping bag and spare pillow from the closet. A two-inch expanse of stomach appeared as she reached up for it and heat burned up John's chest. He took the bedding from her, suddenly aware of the warmth of the room. She was so close to him.
“The mattress is okay. It hasn’t been slept on in ages. I just wish I had clean sheets.” She looked up at him.
John spread the sleeping bag on the mattress, plumped the pillow, and lay down on his side, facing her.
“Camila,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” he rolled over on his back and looked up at the ceiling. “As far as I can remember this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
She laughed lightly. “Considering you only remember the last three days, that’s not saying much, but you’re welcome. Good night.”
She clicked the door shut. John lay on his back, his hands locked behind his head, listening to her footsteps. Sleep pulled him down, but he fought it for as long as he could, if just to hear her a little longer.
Camila
Wednesday 10:47 p.m.
There was a guy sleeping in her home.
Camila stared at the dark ceiling, her heart pounding ruthlessly in her chest. There was a guy sleeping in her home. A handsome, sweet, caring guy ten feet away. She listened for each breath, deep, resonant, and entirely male coming from down the hall. She was exhausted, but her body felt charged as if she’d just been sprinting. She rolled over and caught a whiff of his scent, a mix of Dove soap from her shower and a male musk completely his own. Breathing him in, listening for his movements, she knew she’d never get to sleep.
This was crazy. Any minute Mama could blow in like a tornado and rip this moment apart. What would Mama do if she found John here? Mama had said Camila needed to bring a nice guy home, but this was probably not what Mama had in mind.
Thinking of Mama, the guilt gripped her again. God, she hoped her mother was someplace safe. An image of her frail mother soaking wet and shivering under an overpass flooded her mind. She pushed the thought away. Tomorrow morning if Mama wasn't home, Camila would organize a search.
From her bed, she could see his closed bedroom door. She gazed at it in the dark. God, he was so handsome. Was that the reason she'd decided to trust him even though she knew it wasn’t the smartest decision? But his eyes were so…honest. She'd read about liars in her psychology magazines and how to recognize their tells. John was just scared.
And, oh God, he was sweet. He’d made her macaroni, cleaned her dishes. She’d noticed his eyes on her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Would he try anything? Slip into her bed and press himself on top of her, run his hands over her? Her body coiled and uncoiled at the thought. She knew nothing about him and yet, some deep part of her yearned for him to crawl into her bed, to taste his mouth, to feel his hands in her hair, on her neck, lower.
Camila rolled over again and pinched her hands between her knees. She should just go to sleep. Based on his quiet wheezing, he was already out. His life for the last few days had been a nightmare. And not knowing his own identity? John put her torn-apart family in a whole new light.
Finally, fatigue settled over her charged limbs. John, she thought as she drifted away. Where have you been all my life?
Thursday 7:56 a.m.
Cupboards banging in the kitchen woke her.
Mama’s making breakfast, she thought, rolling over.
Mama! She snapped upright.
A breeze filtered through the open window, already hot like a breath on her face. The AC unit lay on the floor. So was the sleeping bag she’d given John, folded neatly at the base of the window. Was it John in the kitchen making breakfast? Camila jumped out of bed and ran out of her room.
The spare bedroom door was open. The room was empty.
As soon as she heard the Latin music blasting from the tiny kitchen radio, she knew Mama was home. Relief flooded her, but also deep worry. What state would Mama be in? Camila's nose picked up the smell of burned meat and something else. Cleaning supplies? Camila barged into the kitchen.
Mama stood at the stove, flipping over blackened strips of bacon. The kitchen looked rearranged, not necessarily cleaner, just moved around. She spotted bags of old clothes and records shifted from one spot to another. Mama had cleared off the kitchen counter and wiped it clean, but the counter's contents were in a pile on the floor. This was typical. When Camila was younger she’d try to help her mother clean up by dumping whatever she could lay her hands on in the trash. The minute Mama realized she was throwing items away, she'd slapped Camila's arm. After that Camila had stayed out of Mama’s cleaning escapades, no matter how much she hated the mess.
“Mama,” she called. The music thumped from the yellow CD boom box on the counter. One blown speaker buzzed. She tried again. “Mama!” Still nothing. Mama swayed her hips in time to the upbeat tempo. She was wearing a bright orange skirt and one of Camila’s tank tops. From behind, you might’ve thought she was a teenager with her stick-thin frame and bright clothing.
Camila stomped over and slammed her hand on the radio's power button. The music stopped, leaving the sound of crackling of bacon behind. Mama spun around.
“Camila, I’m making brrrreakfast.” Mama rolled her Rs merrily, waving her hand over the smoldering bacon, not noticing the charred smell.
“Mama, where were you all day yesterday? Where did you sleep?” Camila walked over and snapped off the burner. The glowing orange coil dimmed.
Mama swept around the kitchen, pulling out a carton of milk, boxes of cereal, donuts. She held out the donuts. “Bear claws. Your favorite.” She pushed them into Camila’s hands.
As Mama faced her, Camila's mouth fell open. Mama looked like a twenty-dollar hooker. Her face had been coated in layers of heavy make-up, now dripping in smears of red and beige. Mama’s ponytail had sprung several leaks that hung limply down her face. There was either a bruise or a hickey on her neck.
“Mama, listen to me, I need to ask you something.” This might not be the best time to ask about what Ben had said, but the question had slowly been smoldering for hours. If she waited to ask any longer, her brain might catch fire. “I know you don't like talking about it, but it's time you called Aunt Bea. Whatever happened between you two—”
“Beatriz!” Mama spat the name, throwing blackened bacon on a paper towel. “I not talk to that puta until she apologize.” She waved her spatula like a sword.
Camila backed away from the flying bacon grease. “She's your sister. Your blood.” Camila gripped Mama's arm. “I haven't heard your side of things, but—”
“What you mean hear my side?” Mama stopped in mid-swing, her eyes slowly fixing on Camila. “What other side have you heard?”
Camila tried to look innocent, her face flushing. “Nothing. I mean, no ones.”
“Did she call you?” Mama stepped closer, eying Camila dangerously. “Did my lying sister call you?”
“No.” Camila shook her head slowly. “Ben did. Her son.”
Mama slammed her spatula on the counter as a string of Spanish curse words flew out of her mouth. She picked up a plate and smashed it on the counter. Shards of ceramic sprayed out, slicing through the air near Camila's face. Mama reached for a dirty glass and raised it to throw.
Camila grabbed for Mama's arm. “Stop!” she screamed. Mama’s eyes darted around like a toddler's with ADD. Camila shook Mama’s arm. “Look at me!”
Mama stopped, her brow furrowing. “Camila, don’t raise—”
“Mama! Don’t interrupt. You are manic, okay? Out of control. You need to get back on your meds. I don’t get paid for another week and a half. Do you have any money? I can go to the store and ask the pharmacist for some sample packs or something.” Camila pressed her hands to her cheeks. God, how had it come to this?
Mama shook her head, anger leaving her face, a wild smile replacing it. “I don’t need that poison. I feel wonderful. I was out all night, saw some old friends. We
went dancing.” Mama threw her arms out and did a twirl, her skirt swirling in an orange bloom around her.
Camila shook her head. “You are not alright. It might feel alright now, but this always ends badly. You remember when the cops came last time?” Camila's windpipe felt like someone was squeezing it. “You want them to take you away?”
This wasn’t some bluff. Last time Mama was manic she’d been caught shoplifting and the cops had come to their home. Luckily, the store didn’t press charges.
Mama shook her head rapidly. “That won’t happen.”
Camila dropped her mother’s arm, feeling very tired. “They will. They'll arrest you if you don’t stop.” She turned and shuffled back to her bedroom.
“Mi amor,” Mama called after her. “Breakfast?”
Camila didn’t look back. “I’m not hungry.”
Thursday 10:45 a.m.
Camila blew in the door at Lizzy’s fifteen minutes early for her shift. She’d be early every day from now on, no matter what Mama did. Now more than ever she needed to keep this job.
Fer trailed in behind her. “So, what happened to you last night? I sent you, like, a billion texts and blew up your Twitter. You going Amish on me? Shunning all technology to make your own aprons or some shit?” Fer poked her in the ribs. She was trying to make Camila smile, but she couldn't force a smile today if she used pliers.
“My battery died.” It was a pathetic lie and they both knew it. She'd never lied to her best friend before, but Fer would never approve of a strange guy sleeping in her trailer.
Fer studied Camila’s face, narrowing her eyes. “Huh. Well, I wanted to know what you thought about dead guy numero tres. Everybody said Harson was a creeper, but I still can’t believe he’s dead. My mom’s having a conniption fit. She slept with her .45 under her pillow last night. I told her she was gonna blow a nice hole in her brain stem before the killer could even get near her, but she didn’t—”
“Wait, what? What dead guy?”
20 Shades of Shifters: A Paranormal Romance Collection Page 155