“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.