by Gina Watson
The old wooden staircase greeted him with its usual overworked drawling groan.
Knowing he needed to check the mail, but mostly to have a reason to run into Cammie, he headed toward the front door.
With no sight of her his spirits lowered, but he remained true to his task.
The hardware on the antique exterior doors was old and it took him a few tries to open them. The unseasonably cold temperatures made them stick worse than they normally did.
He gathered the letters and flyers from the antique iron box and searched for any sign of her. Inside he lurked around a few corners like a madman.
When he finally set eyes on Cammie, she took his breath away. Given her fresh beauty she did that a lot. However, today his stolen breath stemmed from her disheveled appearance and wet clothes.
“What happened?”
Her eyes darted nervously around the living area, avoiding his.
“I uh…I got too close to a curb with a large puddle and an asshole for a driver.”
“You must be freezing. Come to my bedroom, you can take a shower and I’ll wash and dry those clothes.”
She followed him up the winding staircase and into the bedroom. At the hearth he paused, “I should start a fire.”
“Please don’t go to any trouble.”
He heard her, but his own bones were chilled and he’d be damned if she caught pneumonia while in his care.
The logs were stacked in the hearth and ready to be lit so he turned on the gas and struck a match, igniting the fire. She stood in front of the couch looking like a lost little mouse.
Extending his hand toward the plush dark-blue sofa he said, “Please, sit.”
“I’m wet and that’s a Queen Anne.”
He pulled a throw from the back of the couch and spread it over the cushions. “Sit,” he pointed. She complied, sighing.
“This place is so nice.”
He sat on the opposite end of the couch surveying all that was before him—the surroundings were much too extravagant and gaudy for his tastes. “Yep, Gabe went all out when he bought this place. He said he only purchased it because the upper studio had good lighting.”
“Which one is Gabe?” She nodded at the picture of the five brothers posed in front of their childhood plantation-style home.
“The tallest one.”
“Why doesn’t he live here?”
“He’s currently shacking up with his girl in Baton Rouge.”
She blushed, which was endearing but not something he saw much given his line of work.
“I’d uh…I’d like to ask you a question.”
Intrigued he relaxed into the couch. “I’m all ears.”
“Would you have any use for me? You know…in one of your films.”
Rubbing his fingers across his chin and lips he thought about her question. God, how he’d thought about her naked body, but never in the context of a film. She was always in his bed. Why was she asking now, after all these months?
“Why do you want to make a film?”
“Seems like fun.” She shrugged.
She tried to embody indifference, but her wide eyes were a stark contrast to her forced smile. He didn’t buy it. She’d been coming here every day for six months. He knew her enough to know that Cameron Moore didn’t need to get naked to have fun. To be honest, given the way she turned red whenever she was around the women he filmed, he’d even thought her to be a virgin.
“Do you have any experience?”
“Not in porn.”
“How about sex in general?”
She lifted one shoulder only and wouldn’t keep eye contact with him. “Not really.” Her voice was soft like she’d been shamed.
For the first time her gray eyes bore into him without blinking, without turning away. Beats skipped away, and then she exhaled.
“I want to do this. If you don’t think I’m a good fit for your videos, I can understand that.”
“Why do you want to make a video?”
Somewhere nearby a long string of firecrackers was set off, startling her.
He chuckled. “It’ll only get louder the closer it gets to Fat Tuesday.” She sat, back straight, staring into the crackling hearth fire.
Sensing she wasn’t going to answer his question, he stood. “All right. You need some dry clothes.”
She followed him into his closet where he dug through the shelves and pulled out a T-shirt, sweatshirt, and pants.
She took the clothes from him. “Take a shower. No telling what was in that pothole, plus it’ll warm you.”
She took the clothes into the bathroom and closed the door.
“Toss me your wet clothes and I’ll wash them,” he yelled through the door.
He waited. Within thirty seconds she opened the door. Wrapped in a towel, she passed him her bundled up clothes and a little blue square fell from the wad and hit the distressed wood with a small thud.
He bent and took the package between his fingers. Disappointed and utterly shocked, he passed it to her.
She took it. “I can explain—”
He held his hand, palm up, in front of her. “So can I…drugs have no place here. Leave. Now.”
“But I had to leave home…I had nowhere to go—”
He dropped her clothes and then swiftly walked away, taking the steps two at a time, running from her before he changed his mind.
He’d been through that shit enough with his last girl. Priscilla couldn’t handle the fact that he filmed women. She’d been insane with jealousy even though he’d never given her a reason. She’d started taking prescription drugs and then it got bad—real bad. When he’d caught her in bed with Gage he’d been so mad he’d done real damage to his buddy’s face, but then what kind of friend sleeps with his mate's girlfriend?
The incident with Priscilla and Gage had all gone down in this house. He questioned his sanity, trying to come up with reasons why he’d stayed instead of moving to Baton Rouge with the rest of his brothers.
The reason had gray eyes and thick, dark hair.
But I had to leave home…I had nowhere to go.
In his office, he turned on the television. He didn’t want to hear the security system announce her departure so he upped the volume.
He sat at his desk with his head in his hands, listening to the Weather Channel.
Storm Tracker shows icing as far south as Houston, Galveston, and New Orleans.
Warnings exist for areas as far east as Jacksonville, Savannah, Charleston. Be sure you wrap your pipes and bring in those pets. It’s gonna get cold.
The screen showed temperatures as low as twelve degrees in New Orleans.
Despite the television’s loud volume, the security alarm sounded.
She was gone.
He sat there, letting her get away, arguing with himself that she wasn’t his responsibility.
But I had to leave home…I had nowhere to go.
No, she definitely wasn’t his obligation and he couldn’t afford to get into any trouble. He’d promised his brother that he would stay clean and away from that lifestyle.
Two minutes passed.
But I had to leave home…I had nowhere to go.
Then four.
She’d left home?
He knew her mother had died nearly a year ago and she currently lived with her stepfather. Maybe he kicked her out on account of the drugs.
After ten minutes of attempting to clear Cammie from his mind he stood and grabbed his keys.
Damn it all to hell she didn’t even have a car. Least he could do would be to drive her to the bus stop.
But she had nowhere to go.
He drove the car in the direction he knew she usually took to catch the bus after her work at the house. In ten minutes she couldn’t have gotten far, but he didn’t see her. In fact, the streets were sparse given the cold temperatures.
He dialed the number to the phone he’d given her.
“This is Catcher.”
Who the hell
is Catcher?
“I need to speak with Cammie.”
The line went dead.
Zach pulled the car to the curb and placed it in park. He logged onto the web and placed a track on the phone. He tried three times, but couldn’t locate the device.
He became more anxious by the second and wished he hadn’t turned her out. Worried, Zach drove through the French Quarter, up and down the narrow streets, for the next hour, but she’d vanished.
His hands stung from the white-knuckled grip he kept on the steering wheel.
Maybe she was in one of the shops.
He parked the car and went in search of her on foot, looking through windows and asking hostesses if a young girl in a Tulane sweatshirt had been around.
But she hadn’t.
She’d in fact evaporated.
In the cold, he walked to the Decatur Street bus stop, but unfamiliar with how buses worked, he couldn’t decipher the schedule.
He spotted an older woman huddled on a nearby bench.
“Excuse me, can you tell me if the bus ran through here earlier?”
She smiled and asked, “Which bus?”
“Well I’m not really sure. Is there a bus that goes around Lake Pontchartrain?”
“The Slidell bus stops here about four times a day, but I’m unsure of the exact times.”
The cold wind chafed his cheeks as he walked back home. He tried to put Cammie’s situation out of his mind by rationalizing that he’d done all he could and it was possible she’d caught the bus back home. Surely the girl had friends or relatives she could stay with.
At home, Zach tried to get back into his work. He opened a spreadsheet file and proceeded to add in his expenses for the previous month.
On his third entry, the computer alerted him to an incoming call that he answered using the computer’s FaceTime program.
“Hello.”
“This is Patrick Doyle from Doyle, Becker, and Reese.”
“The law firm?”
“Yes, and I’m following up on the information you provided via email.”
“I didn’t email you.”
“Is this Cameron Moore?”
“No, you’ve reached Zach, but I can try to get a message to her.”
“Her. Okay, let me make note of that.”
What was going on with her?
“What’s this concerning?” Zach asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t disclose, but will you let her know I’d like to schedule a meeting and my direct number is…”
Zach didn’t take down the number or even offer a goodbye.
He googled the name of the law firm. It was as he’d thought—they were experts in estate and divorce law.
Now more than ever he wished he could hear the explanation he hadn’t let her voice, but time didn’t run backward and he’d vowed long ago to never look back. With a deep breath, he made a promise to himself to keep that vow.
4
Chapter Four
In the large plantation home, the pool house was a place that went unused. Being privileged to this information, Cammie punched the code into the electronic combination and let herself in. She reasoned that it wasn’t technically breaking and entering if she knew the code.
Art easels and dozens of old, clunky cameras filled much of the studio space. She dropped her wet clothes on the glass coffee table and walked across the room to the back brick wall that housed the thermostat. Switching it on, she hoped the small area would warm quickly.
She felt yucky since she’d run from the house wearing the clothes he’d brought her. A dirty body in clean clothes was akin to nails across a chalkboard to her.
The bathroom in the pool house was sizable, but dated. The wallpaper was textured silver velvet that sported an iridescent purple, almost black, grapevine print.
She found a bottle of Pantene shampoo where some of the product had dried hard like wax around the top. The bottle was an old design, but the shampoo inside smelled feminine and slightly like pine. It was old Pantene formula—like the soap her mother used on her when she was a child.
After she showered, Cammie filled the kitchen sink with water and poured in some of the shampoo she’d found. She piled her clothes into the soapy water, but given her waning adrenaline, didn’t have the strength to hand wash.
Content to let her clothes soak, Cammie sat on the dusty couch and inhaled slowly and deeply from the bottle. Stinging tears filled her eyes at the memory of her mother washing her hair and the way she used to paint a beard onto her face with bubbles and recite the Gettysburg Address.
There were still so many questions she’d meant to ask her mother about life and love. Cammie wanted to ask her if she thought she’d make a good nurse because she liked caring for people but grew weak kneed at the sight of blood. Maybe she’d make a better therapist. Cammie was also intimidated by the large size of the college campus. She’d tried several times to walk into the interior, but instead walked in the direction of a coffee shop and sat, wishing her mother had been there by her side.
She didn’t know how long she cried, clutching the Pantene bottle, but the shadows moved across the wall until they’d finally gone full dark.
She awakened to Zach staring down at her with crossed arms and a puzzled expression.
She jerked to full awake mode, and then stood before him so fast that her equilibrium was thrown by the movement.
He stood, statue still, his green eyes piercing her.
“Why didn’t you go home?”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Please, I don’t have anywhere to go. Can’t I stay here, just for a little while?”
His lips tightened and he looked away from her, exhaling loudly. He paced the space in front of what comprised the kitchen—a counter unit with mini-fridge, microwave, and a sink. A sink that was soaking her outfit from earlier. He paused, taking it in.
“Look, this isn’t my house. I can’t just let you live out here doing God only knows what.”
“I won’t do anything.”
“Oh?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow. “Just like you’re innocent, but you just so happen to have a gram of coke on you?”
Her face stung as if she’d been slapped. Phil used to slap her. “I’ve never been around drugs until today. I got sucked into a bad situation.”
“A bad situation.” He shook his head. “I just can’t do this again.”
His voice was low and ran fingers through his hair. His eyes followed her form from head to toe.
“I’m sorry, Cammie. Please, gather your things”—he pointed to her soaking clothes—“and I’ll be waiting in the car for you.”
“Where are we going?”
“I know a place.”
“What place?”
“Catholic Charities.”
That could work, and with a little luck she’d be able to get a copy of her lost papers and resolve her problem within a few days.
If not, she was truly screwed.
* * *
***
* * *
Driving through the French Quarter, a mosaic of thoughts colored his mind as he longed to insert himself in the middle of her problems. He forced his mind still and it surrendered, focusing on the yellow lane stripes as the miles passed.
“If you have a preference speak now, otherwise, I’m dropping you north of town.”
“North of town is good.”
They didn’t speak. He drove and the windows fogged.
He wanted to ask about her legal needs, but in his business he knew better than to get too involved. Young girls preyed on men like him—men with means—men with the ability to support drug habits, among other addictions. But she’s different, his alter ego added. In six months hadn’t she proven herself to be genuine?
“Um, here’s good.” She reached for the door handle.
He reached over and stopped her from getting out. “Wait.”
Slowing the car, he came to a stop in fron
t of a church. He killed the engine and wondered how long it had been since he’d attended.
He walked her to the door. An old Bishop answered, bristling when a chill swept through the air, and proceeded to lead them into the atrium of the church to escape the wind and rain.
At their feet were bodies huddled in blankets, keeping warm and dry. Zach was relieved. He didn’t want to stay around her too long. If he did he’d just end up trying to save her.
Zach pushed Cammie gently forward. “She needs a place to stay.”
“As you can see, we’re over capacity.” The bishop extended his arms in either direction.
Zach stepped forward, “Surely you can accommodate one more.”
“With the cold front we’re already over capacity. If the fire marshal gets wind of this we’re all doomed.”
“You could fit four more people in this entryway.”
“Good sir, this vestibule is for men. You understand the dilemma.” He hadn’t until the Bishop had just said that. He glanced at the men who were taking in all Cammie had to offer.
The Bishop shook his head, giving a knowing nod, “You see. There really is no room.”
“So you’ll just turn her away?”
“Perhaps you can do a deed and offer your assistance to the girl.”
Zach nodded, he could do that. He’d give Cammie some money and send her on her way.
Walking back toward the car, he fished some bills from his pocket. He gave her all he had—about five hundred bucks.
“That should be enough to get a place for the week and some food.”
“Thanks,” her lips curved up in a smile. “I’ll pay you back.”
Sure she would.
“Take care of yourself.” He squeezed her shoulders, hoping she wouldn’t blow the money on drugs and would actually take care of herself.
Zach watched as she walked toward the gate. What a strange series of events. He thought of Priscilla and her struggle to get off drugs. His stomach burned with acid at the thought of Cammie lying in his bed unconscious from overdose. He hadn’t done so in a long time, but he sent up a prayer, for Cammie.