“Ow,” I said, as I snatched my hand and the application away from him.
He grinned sheepishly and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sorry. I’m a good conductor.”
I stared at him while blindly refolding the application. He continued, “Of electricity. You know, the sparks. I just shocked you. I’m not a train conductor or anything. Or like a music conductor. Although I do play guitar.”
He was babbling, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was nervous. But that would beget the question of why the hell this hunk of man was nervous around me. I wasn’t ugly by any means. I had my mother’s Estonian features, which meant high cheekbones, heart-shaped lips, and dark, hooded eyes. But my beauty was always more of a “hey, I never actually realized how pretty you were.” If I was just standing in the corner of a room, your eyes would pass over me. I’d go unnoticed. And I liked that.
If I was walking, well that was another story.
“Ellie!” the barista announced in a surprisingly strong voice. Must have been all the coffee she drank.
I shot the man a quick smile, painfully aware that in the last minute, all I’d said to him was “ow,” and plucked the steaming drink off the counter.
“I knew it,” he said with a snap of his fingers, and I slowly turned around, bringing the cup to my lips and gauging how scalding it was.
“Knew what?” I asked. Hot. Coffee was way too hot.
He grinned at me as if he’d just solved a Rubik’s cube, and I felt myself get a weird flutter in my stomach. I knew I should have eaten more than beef jerky.
“You’re Ellie Watt.”
Oh fudgeknuckles.
I turned back around and slapped a lid on my cup with shaking hands.
He knew me. Hot tattoo dude knew me and I didn’t know him. This wasn’t good.
I turned back to face him and shot him my biggest smile.
“I have to go,” I said. When in doubt, just go. My parents had taught me that, along with “never underestimate your mark” and “emotions don’t win the game.” It’s too bad they were as hypocritical as I was.
I took a step to leave, my eyes newly focused on the door, but he reached out, grabbing my free arm. I flinched, expecting another spark to flow through me, but it was just his warm, strong hand.
“Wait,” he said, lowering his voice and coming a step closer. He smelled peculiar. It wasn’t bad—actually it was quite a sensual smell, but it was something I couldn’t put my finger on. Earthy and industrial. Cinnamon and…ink?
I dared to meet his eyes. He was so close I could see the contact ring around his baby blues.
“Don’t you remember me?” he asked. His eyes flashed between expectation and edginess. Like if I didn’t remember who he was, he wouldn’t be smiling for long.
Unfortunately, I had no idea who this guy was. And I felt like kicking myself for it. My luck usually had me running into assholes, not hot guys I wanted to lick from head to toe (though they often were one and the same).
He took his hand off of me and I relaxed. I tried to look as apologetic as possible. “I’m sorry, you’d think I’d remember someone like you but I don’t. I have a bad memory, don’t take it personally.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” he said under his breath. I eyed him quizzically. Was that to the bad memory remark (which wasn’t true) or to the—
“Camden McQueen,” he said quickly. The name ran along the length of my brain like rain on hardened soil before really sinking in.
I felt guilt before anything else.
His gaze narrowed on my face, still beautiful but dark. “Oh, so you do remember me.”
The Camden McQueen I pulled up from my memory banks did not look like the tattooed and pierced sex on a stick I had standing before me. The Camden McQueen I remembered was tall, yes, but gawky. Awkward. Back when he was a teenager, his broad-shouldered build had gone to waste. That Camden had gross, long black hair down to his mid-back. He was a fan of dog collars and black lipstick and lace gloves with the fingers cut out. He wore black all the time. He always had mysterious bandages on his arms, something you’d see if he wasn’t wearing his trademark long black trench coat. He wore that thing in the middle of the summer when seniors were dying from the heat. He loved music and art and spent long hours in the darkroom. Everyone called him The Dark Queen, and there were a few vicious rumors running around that he was gay, or into bestiality, and that he carried a gun to class. He was the most bullied, most tortured kid in the whole of Palm Valley High School.
“Hi,” I said softly, trying to match up the Camden I had known to the Camden I saw now. “You look different.”
His face relaxed and went back to looking all model-like. “So do you. Your hair…”
He reached forward and brushed a piece of hair away from my face. My body froze at his touch and my eyes widened.
“It’s nice,” he said, taking his hand away. “I always thought the long blonde hair was a bit too Barbie on someone as…tough…as you.”