“Stubborn Love” Lumineers
Every time I tried to close my eyes last night, I pictured Cam’s face. Every. Single. Time.
Not too long after I deposited her on that bleacher, someone said something that made her soul bottom out. I remembered that devastated look from the day my dad was diagnosed, the day we got the terrible news, and the day she left me.
It haunts me.
It always has. The way her features contort into a beautifully ravaged mirror of my insides isn’t something that’s easy to forget. But tonight—okay, this morning—as I lay awake it’s particularly unnerving.
A few days ago, I wanted to murder Cam. I was crossing my fingers and toes while wishing on pennies that I’d never see her again. But now, in a little over twenty-four hours, I’ve wanted to care for her numerous times. Or better yet, been compelled to do so without any real forethought. What’s worse is I’ve wanted to simply hold her twice.
“Dad, what do I do?”
I’ve taken to asking him for help. I don’t know if it’s praying since he’s gone, or if it’s a sign I’ve finally lost it. But if he were here, he’d know exactly how to handle Camilla Collins.
Camilla who’s so different and yet so the same.
Camilla who smells like cherry, vanilla, leather, and smoke. Like the her I know chased with bourbon. Like the her that makes bourbon. I hate that I think that’s badass.
I shove my covers off and start to spin circles around the house, flipping on lights as I go. I drop onto the couch and flop back to stare up at my ceiling. Something is uncomfortable behind my head and without moving, I yank on it. The patchwork quilt is in my hand.
When I’d scrambled to find something to cover up Cam the other night, I’d dug in a box I’d forgotten about in the back of the closet, and I’d turned up with the quilt that we snuggled in under the stars in her backyard the first time she let me put my hand up her shirt. The quilt we’d laid on after skinny dipping in the most miserably cold mountain lake one summer. It was the bastard-ass square of fabric I could convince myself still smelled of vanilla.
Damn it.
The blanket is the last straw. I have to find a way to occupy myself. Brewing coffee, taking a shower and heading to my workshop seems a sensible course of action. I dump grinds into the filter of the coffeemaker then drop my pants to the floor. I think about my mom and sandwiches and baseball as I walk toward my bathroom because remembering those moments with Cam makes my dick twitch.
I flip the shower water cooler than usual so that I can, in fact, forget her. Too late I realize I’m not forgetting her—I can’t—I’m picturing what that tattoo might look like, and how the water would wash along it.
Motherfucker.
And with inky tendrils of memory rolling through my mind the way ink does up her ribs, I grab myself. I can’t push her out today. The shape of her tits, her hips, the way she’d bent over that pool table. The way I’d take her like that if she was mine to take.
My hand wraps around my cock and I start stroking. It’s been about two months since she crept into my mind like this, but far longer since she was this vivid. Never has she smelled of burnt oak. Or been wearing fuck-me heels and fuck-me harder crimson lipstick.
All too quickly I’m lost to her, banging my free fist on the tile of my shower.
She has freckles high on her left thigh and to the right of her bellybutton. There are three that I can vividly picture along her collarbone. A collarbone that perfect, round tits, hang not that far beneath. Tits that sway as she does…anything. That hold small nipples that harden at almost any touch. She used to cover them, and only when she was truly enjoying herself, particularly when she was close, would her hands fall away.
I’d been able to make her come from the first time I touched her. So many women faked it, or petered out, but not Cam. Not even then. She made faint, desperate sounds as I freely roamed her skin. Then she’d actually tremble, and go quiet. Every inch of her pale skin would goose bump and she’d bite down on me if I was close enough to her lips. And when an orgasm finally hit, she’d arch her back and draw me deeper inside her with strong, tight waves on my cock.
Thinking about those relatively innocent romps, those painfully dangerous curves, and those blissful fucking orgasms, I come, sputtering into the cascade of water.
Only it doesn’t ease anything. Not my want. Not my anger. Not my confusion.
Goddamn it.
I slam off the shower and wrap a towel around my waist, heading for coffee. I yank the glass pot out and pour a giant cup. Even with cream and sugar, it’s not right. It tastes bitter. The pitcher Cam used yesterday to make her magical Christmas shit is mocking me from the sink counter.
So far, she’s ruined vanilla, bourbon, coffee, and showers. And Christmas for that matter.
I snarl into the empty house and check the clock. Five thirty-seven a.m. is the perfect hour for a walk. If I drive the truck, I’ll dwell on how my mom and I had to chat about her over the hood and Cam will ruin my truck too.
My shop sits on the back of Trigg’s property. Her folks gave her the house and the bar when they decided to retire to Mexico, sick to death of the cold. She’d moved back here from Washington D.C. to renovate The Barn and I’d been mad at her for almost six months. Mostly because she came back and Cam never had. When we got past it, she made amends for something not at all her fault by leasing me the shop in exchange for woodwork in the bar.
As soon as I roll open the shop door, I can breathe again. Working with wood and steel soothes me. They shouldn’t go together but they do. Wood from just up the road can meld with metal from anywhere on earth. The hard and the soft intertwine to make something beautiful.
A slight smirk pulls my lip as I run my fingers over the raw lumber in the shop. There’s a beautiful pale, almost white wood that I just got in. It would look incredible if fire were applied and charred along the edges. Distressed silver accents would be perfect. The dining room table was already assembling itself in my mind.
Mercifully Cam has left it. Or at least taken up residence somewhere I can keep her hidden.
I’ve selected each plank and arranged them, and have started sanding them when the shop door opens, sliding on its wheels. The grinding is just enough to reach through my earplugs and I flip the sander off.
“Heya, AJ.” Trigg claps my shoulder when she walks over, studying the planks I’ve already worked on. “Coffee?” she asks as her fingers hover over the wood. She knows how I feel about her touching things once they’re sanded. I smile until the smell of her coffee hits me in the back of my nose and my jaw clenches.
“Ugh. Coffee.”
“That’s a new response.” She arches her eyebrow as her hand falls away and she turns to look at me.
“Thank Cam for that.”
“I heard about you guys at the game but I didn’t know that involved coffee.”
She leans against my workbench and I sigh. Apparently, I’m done working until Trigg has said whatever it is she came here to say. I put the sander down and mimic her pose, crossing my arms as I go.
“Well?” She sighs. “What the hell happened?”
“Last night?” I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly. “She slipped, go figure, and I caught her. Simple as that.”
“Simple as that? Then why is everyone talking about it?”
“Everyone is talking about it?”
She’s piqued my curiosity.
“Said that there was serious heat between you guys. Imagine my surprise when you’ve spent so very many years loathing her.”
“She broke my heart, Trigg,” I say it with less conviction than ever before. She notices and keeps her mouth shut, waiting for me to continue. “But she said something yesterday morning that has me…”
Fuck if I even know where to begin with that one.
“You were with her yesterday morning?” Trigg straightens, more focused and a bit confused.
“Yeah.” I sigh and slump on the bench then shove my head in my hands. “She lost her phone at the bar and her parents didn’t answer when I called. It was let her sleep on the city bench or on my couch.”
“Oh shit.”
“I watched her sleep, Trigg.” I throw my hands up, exasperated with myself and my admission. “Then she made this cup of coffee with warm cream and spices and God… I’ll never be able to drink regular coffee again.” I shove my hands through my hair. “Or stop thinking about her.”
“Oh, AJ, I’m sorry.” She pats my shoulder and then squeezes reassuringly. “Tell me about the project.”
A very large part of me wants to kiss her with gratitude for changing the subject. I blow out a massive breath.
“I just got in this gorgeous northern white cedar. I’m thinking a dining room table.” I stand and grab one of the rough pieces. “I’m gonna char the edges,” I continue, running my fingers down the thin edge. “When I place them together there will be just a hint of the burnt wood poking through. Then I’m going to band the edges, maybe ten inches from either end with this.” I set the wood down and grab a dark, distressed piece of steel. “A rivet or two will look good along those bands. I’m thinking full steel squares rather than just legs for support.”
In my mind, it was beautiful.
“Sounds really great.” Trigg is smirking as she turns toward the open shop door, meaning to leave without another word.
“What, Trigg?” I call, rolling my eyes, sure there was more to her train of thought.
She calls over her shoulder, the smirk still obvious in the sound of her voice, “Sounds like a bourbon barrel if you ask me.”