“And I have to make sure you look right and the photos are the right size and the right everything. It’s very easy to get wrong. You have no experience in faking IDs. I do.”
He obviously thought I was going to make a run for it, but I was beyond that now. I was starting to trust Camden a little bit and trust his intentions. I didn’t exactly want to help him escape with a shitload of cash and have more people to be running from, but it wasn’t too off from something I’d be doing anyway. If this was all Camden wanted to use me for, I could live with that.
He sighed and pushed his bowl of cereal away. “Well, if you’re coming, we better not let anyone recognize you. If your uncle saw you, it would look pretty bad.”
I shrugged. “I have some wigs. It’s you we don’t want people to recognize. To be more specific, we want you looking as different as possible. Are you sure Vincent or any of his cronies won’t be around between now and the drop?”
“Cronies?” he said with a laugh. “You’re making them sound like the mafia.”
I stared at him. “Yeah? They’re Italian aren’t they? They probably are the mafia.”
“That’s racist.”
“It’s racist if I said all Italians are part of the mafia. The Madanos run drugs or guns or whatever. You’re laundering their money. It’s probably safe to say they have ties to the mob in some way. My ex-boyfriend is part of a gang. He’s Mexican. Guess what? He’s part of a large Mexican drug cartel. I’m white trash with an Eastern European background. I’m also a gypsy and a con artist. We’re all stereotypes. Sometimes they come from somewhere. Sometimes when people pigeonhole you, you end up being the pigeon.”
“You’re not a pigeon,” he said. “You’re whoever you want to be.”
“Whatever. So, back to the question.”
“The answer is no. I shouldn’t see any of them until Monday.”
“Then we should get started on your new look now.”
“Should I be worried?” A wrinkle appeared on his forehead. I wasn’t letting my guard down, but my god he looked adorable.
“Well, aren’t we a little vain,” I remarked. “You’re not going to look like an idiot. I can’t do anything drastic with you anyway, you’re covered in tattoos.”
He raised his hands in the air and wiggled them. I’d forgotten how strong and elegant they were. “I don’t have any tats on my hands. They’re the last frontier for me.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” At least long-sleeved shirts would do the trick. I peered at him, moving my head from side to side. “You’re going to start wearing your Kettle Black glasses, the black ones, all the time. We’re going to dye your hair black, cut off all this shaggy surfer dude-ness and make it short and a bit spiky.”
He grimaced.
“What?” I asked, leaning in. “That not cool enough for you?”
“Never mind,” he said. “Fine. Dye my hair, cut it off, say goodbye to contacts. Anything else? Should I remove my septum ring too or do I get to keep some memento of who I was?”
He was being sarcastic and missing the whole point. I almost put my hand over his to comfort him and add emphasis to what I was about to say, but I didn’t dare touch him.
“Camden,” I said delicately, “you’re not going to want any mementos of who you were. This isn’t about a disguise; you’ll barely look any different than you do now. This is about saying goodbye to the person you are, the person you were, and hello to the person you’ll be. You’ll have to change and change is big. Change is scary. You’re uprooting everything you have worked so hard to get. You’re not going to know who you are for a while, not until you relearn how to live. If you look in the mirror and you don’t immediately recognize yourself, then you’ll know you’re on the right track.”
“Is that why you’re so sad all the time?”
I frowned. “What?”
“You know when we were in my car, heading to the show and I said I liked Guano Padano because it reminded me of you? Rough and sweet at the same time? I wasn’t lying. I was just leaving something out. It’s rough and sweet and very, very sad. When I look at you, I see sadness.”
I chewed on my lip and looked away from him. “I thought you saw justification.”
“I do. I see a lot of things when I look at you.”
I got to my feet, feeling uncomfortable. “Come on. Let’s get you a makeover.”
***
It’s funny how women underestimate just how vain men can be. Camden didn’t really have a problem with wearing his nerd glasses all the time—which, fortunately for him, didn’t make him look any less attractive—and he didn’t care that he had to dye his hair black. His brows were naturally black anyway and the combination would make his icy blue eyes pop even more.
No, Camden had a problem with having his hair cut short, purely because he didn’t like the way his ears stuck out. It was hard to believe that this was the man who was planning to run away with a bunch of the mafia’s money, but hey. Someone can look like a tattooed, muscular god and still be terribly insecure because of his Dumbo ears.