With his eyes and everyone else’s eyes upon her, she swallowed hard, put one hand on her hip and yelled, “Your mother called! She says she wants her lipstick back.”
It wasn’t a particularly funny joke, nor was it anything that Camden hadn’t heard before. But the fact that his only friend had said it, the fact that the whole cafeteria had burst out in laughter, was devastating. She saw the look on his face, the way it crumpled from within, and it pained her so deeply to have hurt him so.
But with that feeling of remorse came another stronger and more peculiar one. It was pride. And acceptance. Vicky, her bitchy clique, Janice, everyone else in the godforsaken school, they were all laughing at something the girl had said. They were laughing with her. And not at her.
The girl sat back down and Vicky gave her a high five and a genuine smile. The girl turned her body away from Camden, who was still standing in a daze in the middle of the aisle, his head no doubt pegged by French fries, and pretended he didn’t exist. She pretended that she’d never miss that piece of integrity that she lost that day.
She pretended she had to do what was best for her, no matter the cost to others.
And she never looked back.
Now
I don’t know what it is about seeing a musician in their element, but somehow their element (which must be fire, if it has to be any of them) turns them into an animal. It simmers their being into something sexual, sensual, almost primal. Camden was no exception.
From the moment Kettle Black took the stage at Coppertank, all eyes were on Camden. It wasn’t that he had the flashy mystique of Snooty Neo, the singer, or the pushy “I call the shots” persona of mustache man-boy, the bassist. Instead he had this quiet command of his own universe. He wasn’t the most skilled guitarist I’d ever seen, and he certainly wasn’t too involved with the show. But when he was playing, you could see he was 100 percent in the moment. It was just him and his guitar, just him and the music and nothing else. It made you wonder what kind of secrets this man had because he seemed to only divulge them to the instrument in his hands.
Speaking of hands, just watching his long, delicate fingers work up and down the neck with ease was making me pant a little. I couldn’t help it. His arm muscles flexed with power and art, damp stains of sweat forming down his chest, making his shirt cling to him even more. And yet for his septum ring at the end of his nose, the tats and his steely eyes and his hard body, I knew there was the face of a young boy on his leg, a symbol of his hidden softer side. There were glasses on his face because he was smart. He was like a caring, hulking, nerd. And I wanted him.
When the show was over and they had played an encore of The Cramps “Human Fly” and “Fever” to a rowdy and ridiculous crowd, Camden joined me down at the front of the stage.
He thrust a cold beer in my hand and grinned at me. “Stole them from backstage.”
I tried to tell him what I thought of the show but I just turned into a raving fan instead. “Seriously,” I stated, “you’re awesome. You’re almost better than Poison Ivy.”
He looked bashful and wiped the sweat off his brow with the edge of his t-shirt, perfectly displaying his taut abs, lightly sheened and golden in the low bar light.
“Pretty ironic that the guitarist in The Cramps was a woman,” he noted.
I was momentarily distracted by his stomach. “Um, well you’re definitely no woman.”
“That’s not what you used to say. You know, behind my back.”
My eyes flew up to him. My gut tightened. He was smiling good-naturedly and drinking his beer. I couldn’t tell if that was a dig at me or if everything was completely cool.
My mouth flapped soundlessly as I grappled for words but he punched me lightly on the shoulder. “I’m just messing with you, Ellie.”
He laughed but I could only give him a closed smile in response. That comment made me extremely uneasy for some reason. I hoped he really was messing with me. But of course, wasn’t I messing with him? I had almost forgotten about the scapegoat and was startled as my eyes caught him as I looked around the bar.
He was staring at us a few yards away, taking methodical sips of his drink while giving us the stink-eye. Camden followed my gaze and lightly touched my wrist.
“Who is that guy?” he asked, his voice low even though the bar was too loud for the guy to hear him.
I looked away, not wanting to stir the pot too much. “I have no idea. I noticed him by the bar earlier, staring at you.”
He raised his brow. “Staring at me? I think the guy is staring at you. I can’t blame him. You’re the prettiest girl here.”
I gave him a wryly appreciative smile. “Thanks. But seriously, that guy is sketchy as all hell. Wonder what he wants?”