The sound of singing draws me out of bed. That, and the persistent ache in my face and the lack of ice. I sent Camille to get ice for me a while ago, and she seems to be a pretty shitty nurse, because she never came back.

I walk toward the living room, every step jostling my bruised body painfully. It feels good to move around though. I’ve never been comfortable being still, so I welcome the pain if it means getting up and moving.

I find Murph leaning over his laptop, playing that stupid game he’s obsessed with and to my surprise, I see Camille and Jen sitting by the window while the rain pounds against the glass. They are singing together.

Jen strums out a simple string of sad chords and the two of them hum together while Camille seems to signal instructions to Jen with her facial expressions and hands, guiding Jen through the vocal melody with natural ease.

I’ve never heard Jen sing before, not out in the open like this at least, despite her obsession with that guitar of hers and the hours and hours she spends making videos of herself playing to post online. Her voice is a little rough around the edges, faltering when she pushes it too high or too low, but within her range, she produces a stunningly deep, emotional sound that I would never expect from such a young girl. There’s a raspy, heartbroken quality to her vocals. I’d like to think it’s just how she sings, but I can’t help wondering if losing her mother weighs on her more than she lets on, if maybe her music is the outlet she uses to cope with it.

Camille’s eyes are closed as she sings along, and maybe it’s cliché to think, but I don’t give a fuck. She looks like an angel. An honest to God angel. Outside, the sun has started to break through the clouds even as the rain still comes down, casting a warm yellow glow across the window behind her and lighting the edges of her profile in a blazing outline of gold.

I feel it more strongly now. I feel the certainty that this woman is something special. She’s not just exciting me because it has been so long since I’ve let someone in. She’s not just a project I’ve taken because I’m bored after leaving my company. She’s special.

Somehow I can tell she’s holding back while she sings, keeping the power of her voice in check so that Jen can explore her own. But even when she restrains herself, the sound of her voice is unbelievable. There’s sadness in it, just like Jen’s, and the way their mournful vocals twist and flow together carries years of suffering in every note. Listening to them fills me with an overpowering need to protect. I need to be a force in the lives of my girls--my girls. My lips twitch into a smile at the thought. Maybe Camille doesn’t think of herself as mine yet, but I already do, don’t I?

I’m not going to apologize for it either. One way or another, I’m going to make her mine. I have to. I already can’t stand the thought of letting her go, of watching her step out into the world without me and knowing she could fall victim to any of the countless dangers that could befall her. No. She’s going to be safe. She’s going to be happy. And she’s going to be mine.

These are my girls, and I’m going to do every last thing in my power to make them safe and happy. Even if it means I have to keep up the lie I’m telling Jen about Camille and I. Lying to my daughter makes me feel like a scumbag, but I’ve already let this go too far to turn back now. The only reasonable thing to do is turn the lie into the truth. How hard can that be?

I grab the ice pack on the counter, which has accumulated a small puddle beneath it, and limp back to my room. I notice a missed call when I ease back into bed and let out a groan that has nothing to do with the pain when I see the number. Barry Wallace. Fuck.

I knew the call from Barry would come, and I’ve been dreading dealing with it. But I’ve never been one for putting things off, so I call him back and wait for him to pick up.

“Dean,” answers Barry after half a ring. “What the flying fuck were you thinking? You can’t just walk away from the company. There are protocols. Contracts. Investors. Obligations. Do I need to go on?”

“Do what you want,” I say tiredly. “Because I can, and I did. It’s my company. I can do whatever the fuck I want with it.”

Barry sighs. “What’s this about, Dean? What is this really about? Because I’ve known you for longer than I’d like, and I’ve never seen you walk away from anything before. This isn’t like you.”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you, Barry. You did your job well, and I appreciate that, but my role with the company is over. I sold the majority shares to Peterson. If you have problems, take them to him.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself?” asks Barry, who’s clearly trying to contain his rage. He has a right to be mad, I don’t begrudge him that. He was my top business advisor for ten years and he helped me turn the company into what it is. Something about him always rubbed me the wrong way--maybe the ambition I could see behind every word and action, or maybe it was just the way I’d catch him looking at my desk when he didn’t think I was watching, like he was trying to imagine what it’d be like to sit in it for himself. “You don’t need to fucking explain yourself?” he repeats. “Like hell you don’t. I gave the best years of my life to you and this company and I have to find out from Linda that you quit three days after the fact? You couldn’t call me?”

“Barry, I’m really not in the mood to go back and forth with you on this. Yes. I left. I put the company in good hands. Peterson has--”

“Peterson is a spineless turd who wouldn’t know a sound business plan if it bit him on the ass. Don’t you dare tell me he--”

I hang up the phone, resting my head back on the pillow and sighing. Fuck you, Barry. That’s what I knew I’d say if I didn’t hang up the phone. Well, I gave him his chance to vent, and I’m surprised to find none of it stings like I thought it might. No amount of loyalty to the company gives him the right to pry into my personal decisions. I didn’t need to gather opinions before I left or look for support. When I decided it was the right thing to do, I fucking did it. No hesitation, no questions.

The point I knew I had to quit was just a handful of days ago. The day before I met Camille, actually. We pulled a late night at the office because we were inches from closing a huge account that would have bumped our numbers at least five percent for the quarter. I had a nagging feeling that I was forgetting something all night, but work was so hectic I never had a minute to sit down and figure out what it was.

I came home and Jen was asleep. I paid the babysitter, who was looking at me with this funny expression I couldn’t explain. Then I went to toss a receipt in the trash and saw a welcome pamphlet to open mic night at Lazy Pete’s. I snatched it out of the trash and opened it, knowing what I was going to see but needing to see it with my own eyes all the same.

I ran my finger down the short list of opening acts and found it two spots down. Jen Sharp - acoustic guitar.

She had been practicing for it for the last few weeks, and I had the original date marked on my calendar. They were going to have it two nights prior and then there was some big mix up with a local celebrity singer they had arranged to warm up the crowd and they had to move it to today. And I forgot.

The worst part was the next morning Jen didn’t even bring it up. She was still her usual, sweet but sarcastic self, and she even assured me it was completely okay when I talked to her about it.

But it wasn’t okay. I haven’t needed the money from my business for years. Even if I made a full time fucking job out of trying to spend it all I couldn’t do it in ten lifetimes. So how could I look at myself in the mirror if I let the job I don’t need come before being the best father I can be for Jen?

I’m not always perfect at it, I know that, and I never will be. But I’m sure as hell going to do anything in my power to be the best father I can for her. That meant walking away from my business, so I did it. No hesitation.

A few days pass in a strange sort of haze. I recover surprisingly fast from my injuries, and before long, my swollen face is back to normal aside from a few dark bruises. I have to admit a small part of me is disappointed to be well enough that I lose my excuse for Camille to keep nursing me back to health. Aside from her failed mission to bring me ice that first day, she has been extremely attentive and at my side most of the day. When she’s not with me, I can hear the faint sounds of music and singing from somewhere in the house, or the loud laughter as she talks with Selene or my brothers.

In a way, I feel like these few days have been some of the happiest I’ve ever had, but instead of enjoying it, my gut churns at the thought. For as long as I’ve been alive, happiness never comes without cost. It never lasts, not before it gets worse, and as much as I try to push past my pessimism, a bleak cloud hangs over what should be a span of perfect days. Whether it’s Barry finding some way to pay me back for passing over him when I handed my business to Peterson, or if it’s Sean lashing out at Camille somehow, I can’t shake the feeling that something is coming to shatter our peace.

All I can do is keep my eyes open and stay alert.

The pillow and sheets beneath me feel soft and wonderful, but too much softness will make me soft as well, so I don’t linger. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, wincing against the sun streaming through the windows lining the East wall of my bedroom. Camille’s tangle of hair is all I can see on the pillow beside me because she pulls the covers half-way up her face when she sleeps. I feel an ache that isn’t entirely sentimental when I look at her.

I’d like to say my lingering feelings are noble, that I’m dreaming of what life would be like if she and I were to forge a real relationship. To say that I’m not thinking of the wet heat between her legs and the way she tastes, but there’s no use in lying to myself. I don’t think she’s ready yet, and pushing things right now wouldn’t be right, not for her. Otherwise, I’d grip that tight ass of hers and flip her over. I’d rip her nightgown up and satisfy the urge that has had my cock aching with need since the last time I had her.

“You awake?” I ask.

She stirs, sucking in a surprised breath. “I am now,” she says sleepily. She recovers from her surprise quickly, narrowing her eyes and taking in my shirtless body. Her small hand rises to a dark purple bruise beneath my chest and she touches it so softly it could be a butterfly landing on my skin. The sadness in her eyes is profound.

“Hey,” I say, taking her hand in my own. “What’s going through that head of yours?”

“That somewhere along the way you started to seem like more of a victim in this thing than me,” she says, not making eye contact until she’s finished speaking.

I look back into her searching gaze, shaking my head. “Dean Sharp doesn’t play the victim,” I say with a grin.

She laughs a little. “Come on, Dean. I’m being serious. You’re sacrificing so much for me. And this all happened because of me,” she says, motioning to my bruises.

“If I walked a day through the desert to reach water, would you say I sacrificed too much to satisfy my thirst?”

“This is different, and you know it,” she says, but there’s a lingering hope in her expression, a sense of waiting, as if she’s hoping I’ll convince her otherwise.

“I can wrap it in as pretty of a package as I want, but at the end of the day, I wouldn’t have kidnapped you to help you if I didn’t want you. Now that you’re here, I don’t just want you, Camille. I need you. Like I need water. So no, there’s no sacrifice too great. There never will be.”

“We’ve barely known each other a week. What if you start getting tired of me once the new car smell wears off?”

I lean forward, sniffing her neck. She giggles at the touch, trying to push me away but I pin her down, running the tip of my nose up her neck and her chin until our lips are just a breath apart. “That new car smell is pretty nice,” I admit.

She bites her lip. “See?”

“Let me tell you something about myself,” I say quietly, fighting the urge to take those lips with mine and leave the words for some other time. “I don’t live with regrets because I don’t hesitate. When I see something I want, I take it. When I find something important to me, I protect it at all costs.” I kiss her now. A slow, lingering kiss. “And I want you. You’re important to me. I don’t need months or years to figure that out. I know it right now. I feel it here,” I say, taking her hand and pushing it to my chest.

Tears well in her eyes and she rolls her head to the side, looking away, but the expression on her face isn’t one of happiness. I see the same sadness there that always threatens to rise to the surface. She wears it now as plainly as a mask. “I’m not as strong as you. I don’t just know what I want right away. I don’t just feel something and do it. I hesitate. I have regrets. I make bad decisions and wish I could go back and change the past.”

I take her chin and turn her to face me again. “You don’t have to feel the same way as I do right now. If you need time, take it.”

“And you’ll just patiently wait for me to figure this all out?”

“Patiently?” I ask, smirking. “With that body of yours, no. Not patiently. But I’ll wait.”

She gives me a wry smile. “So it’s just my body you want?” Her tone is playful, but I know a test when I see one.

“Well,” I say. “Your body is only part of it. There’s these lips,” I say, kissing her softly. “For starters. And those eyes,” I say, taking in the way little flecks of gold are speckled through the blue pools of her eyes. “And you know, your personality is a plus, too.”

“Oh,” she says, laughing and trying to push me off again. “It’s just a plus?”

I laugh, but cut short when she pushes too hard on a rib that’s still tender. I fall to my side, clutching the spot and groaning.

“I’m so sorry!” She says, scrambling to her knees and trying to get a look at the spot.

“You will be,” I say, dropping the act when she lets her guard down and tossing her to the bed again. The laughter between both of us fades quickly, and for a moment I think she’s going to want me to fuck her right here and now, but just when I’m about to kiss her again she looks away, easing herself out from under me.

“I had better get a shower,” she says somewhat stiffly, padding barefoot toward the bathroom, closing the door.

I’m left watching after her with a confused face and a very confused hard-on. Fuck. I’d trade half my money for a clue about what goes through women’s heads.