Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
“You saw him before he…” Ms. Williams dropped her eyes to the floor for a moment before looking back up. “You saw him?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You know he bought me one of your paintings.”
Cam couldn’t even form words. Syllables and sounds floated around in his head before synapses linked them into coherence.
“Which one did he give you?”
Ms. Williams took a few steps forward and leaned down to whisper in his ear, like it was a secret.
“Quicksand.”
Cam had painted Quicksand years ago and sold it to some vendor for an arts festival in Rivermont. He’d depicted the Barfield streets as quicksand pulling pedestrians under. Maybe it was a secret she had just shared, that Deuce had wanted to get out but hadn’t ever found the strength. Or hadn’t ever had a hand to rescue him from the sucking sand, even though he’d given Cam a hand.
Ms. Williams pulled back, smile gone, tears standing in her eyes.
“You take care, Cameron.”
“You, too, Ms. Williams. I’m sorry for…” He’d said that. “I’m just sorry.”
Ms. Williams nodded, wiped her nose with a damp, wrinkled handkerchief, and moved on.
Cam laid his forehead against the pew in front of him. He drew a deep breath to calm the tremors around his heart and creeping under his skin. That encounter shook him, rattled his bones and his brain. So much so that his mind was playing tricks on him. Was it his imagination that he smelled Jo? That sweet, clean smell that belonged exclusively to her skin?
A soft hand slipped over his fist on the pew. If this was another of his real-as-fuck dreams, he didn’t want to wake up. If he opened his eyes and she was sitting there, he might have officially lost his mind, but it would be worth it.
And there she was. Her dark, caramel-streaked hair tamed and knotted low on her neck. Scarlet tinted her wide, full mouth. She was seated, her posture demure, but he knew the black leather dress poured over her body, the sleeves clinging from shoulder to wrist, would devastate him as soon as she stood. The thought of her alone left him halfway undone. He devoured every from-the-neck-down detail before returning to her face, her eyes. He flipped his fist, opening and gripping her hand on the pew.
“Hey.” That was a better start than pulling her onto his lap in the house of God.
“Hey.” She pressed her lips together like she wished they’d both say more, but too many words might mess this moment up.
“What are you doing here?”
She remained without words for the space of two blinks before speaking.
“You’re here.”
That simple. That true. She wanted to be where he was, and God knows he wanted to be with her. For once, he really wanted to do the right thing. Keep her safe, even if that meant keeping his distance for a while. Cam would never forget the horror all over Unc’s face when he confessed he’d held a gun to Jo’s head. Unc would probably never trust him with Jo again. Cam wasn’t sure he trusted himself.
“I’m sorry about Deuce,” she said, her voice low and concerned.
“How’d you hear? TV?”
“Yeah, it was a pretty brutal murder, so it was all over local news in Rivermont.”
Cam hadn’t thought about that. He had a few contacts still in Barfield projects from when he was much younger. They’d kept him abreast of some things over the years, especially with Deuce. Good thing he had turned on his cell that day to call Walsh or he wouldn’t have known.
“How are you holding up?” she asked.
“Pretty good.” Cam pulled their joined hands to his knee, relishing her skin beneath his thumb. “I feel like I don’t have any right to hurt. You know? We’d barely seen each other over the years. Barely knew each other really, and yet I feel like I lost a friend.”
Images of that night in the alley crowded Cam’s consciousness. The righteous indignation all over Deuce’s face as he’d blown holes in Mac’s thighs. Maybe they hadn’t been friends, but they had been something. That night in the alley, they had become something that Cam never forgot and never lost. And based on what Ms. Williams had said, Deuce had felt it, too.
Cam didn’t feel much like talking, and Jo knew that. They held hands and shared air while the church emptied, many headed for the gravesite. Cam didn’t want to see that. He leaned forward and laid his temple against the pew, staring at Jo’s face, looking for changes.
“You’ve lost weight.” He frowned, noting how narrow her waist had become.
Jo looked at him from under lashes so long with mascara they looked false. He’d always loved her long, curled lashes. There was so much strength in Jo; the sweet lashes were God’s nice touch.
“A little.”
“You’re not eating?”
“Haven’t had much of an appetite and I’ve been working hard to finish the Haitian adoptions.” She inspected him, starting at his boots, climbing the pants of his suit, skimming him until she reached his head.