“This has everything to do with Sophia!” his father roared. Another hit to the table. “Why don’t you just admit to me that you’re gay, that you’re one of them, those fruits over in Palm Springs. God, it’s so obvious, isn’t it? The way you used to wear makeup and dress like a girl.”
“I didn’t dress like a girl.” His voice was rising. “I dressed like a goth. It’s a fucking subculture, Dad. I grew out of it. I’m not gay, and if I were, it would be none of your business.”
“Oh, it’s my business all right. You live here, in my town, you make it my business.” A pause. Another hit to the table. Louder this time. Camden’s dad was losing it. “God, the way you never had any real girlfriends in high school, except for that slut. No wonder she dumped you, you probably wouldn’t sleep with her.”
This time the pause could have shattered the room. My jaw had unhinged itself a little. I had a feeling Camden probably looked the same.
“And what slut is that?” Camden asked carefully. I recognized that edge to his voice.
“Who do you think? Ellie Watt. That scum of the earth, conning whore.” He spat out that word like it was lodged in his throat. “Her parents made me look like the world’s biggest fool.”
I silently praised my parents for probably the first time ever. I also praised Camden for not immediately turning me over to this guy.
“Ellie isn’t a whore,” Camden said.
“She’s a gypsy tramp, just like her parents. She never belonged in this town, just like you don’t belong in this town. I guess I should be happy you never married a gimp.”
Now that word…that was pushing things a little too far; I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming.
Camden didn’t have that problem.
“Fuck you,” he seethed.
Another pause. This one slogged on as if through syrup.
Finally his father said, “What did you just say to me?”
Oh, shit.
I heard Camden get out of his chair. His voice lowered. “I said, fuck. You.”
The kitchen exploded in sound. Someone got punched hard. Then punched again. The hit, the sound of fist on flesh and cracking bone, filled the room and shot down the hall. Someone hit the cupboards in the kitchen and dishes fell to the floor.
I heard heavy breathing, a few sniffs.
“Don’t you ever disrespect me again,” his father growled.
“I’m sorry,” came the very quiet voice of Camden McQueen.
“Sorry? Sorry?” His dad sounded like he was about to let loose again.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” Camden whimpered.
The sound of clothes being smoothed, hands being wiped off.
“All is forgiven,” his dad said easily, as if they just had a minor spat. Maybe this was a minor spat to them. It would explain a lot of what I saw in high school.
I heard footsteps walk into the hall and I pulled myself further into the dark of the room.
“Oh, and Camden? Next time you want to put an ad in the paper,” his father said, pausing near the steps. “You make sure to run it by me first, okay?”
I couldn’t hear his response so I could only assume he nodded. I waited in the dark until I heard his father go down the stairs and out the door. Perhaps Camden McQueen would have no problem becoming Connor Malloy.
I tiptoed to the door in time to see Camden storming past me. I caught a glimpse of a bloody lip, a bright red cheekbone, eyes that didn’t dare look at me.
“Camden,” I called after him. But he kept going, into his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him, making me jump. Making my heart ache.
I poked my head into the hall and padded my way to the kitchen. A page from the local newspaper was on the table.
It wasn’t a huge ad, but it was big enough. Aside from the serious headshot of Camden in the corner, there was only one person in the ad, the man that his father objected to. He had a winning smile and was covered in gorgeous tattoos. He was also fit as a fiddle and wearing a black speedo, surrounded by oily men lying by a pool. He couldn’t have looked gayer if he’d tried.
Camden knew exactly what he was doing. He chose this man, not only because he probably was one of his biggest clients and certainly one of the most photogenic, but he knew it would piss off his father. He did this out of spite. He probably laundered money out of spite too. I knew a thing or two about that emotion. Spite was the fuel to right all your wrongs. And like any fuel, it could consume you.
I stared at his photo, lost in it. Here was Camden, gorgeous and outwardly successful, but fueled by nothing but spite underneath. All this time later the boy with the lipstick was still inside. Still kicking and screaming. Camden’s father underestimated him. Everyone had underestimated him. Especially me.
Then
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