Chapter 14
Bear
I can’t stop watching her laugh.
We had to leave Charlie with Joseph, who wants to run some additional tests and make sure the dog isn’t epileptic or dealing with a tumor in his brain–likely reasons for him to have laid down in the middle of the road, evidently–but that didn’t taken Sammy’s glow.
She’s been radiating like a fucking sun ever since the vet came out and said the dog was going to be okay, and though a voice in my head keeps repeating that she only looks that way because of the dog, my heart doesn’t seem to be listening.
Maybe because my heart remembers how she looked at me when I picked that dog up and carried him to the car.
I’d taken one glance at her on the way by and seen her eyes, big and worried and wet with worried tears, and thought she was going to break down with fear.
But then she’d looked at me and relaxed.
Like she’d trusted me to take care of things.
Like she believed that I was actually going to save the dog.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the first time anyone had ever looked at me like that. And the fact that it was Sammy, the girl who’d been nothing but a brat the whole time I’d known her...
Something had shifted between us over the last hour, though I couldn’t put my finger on when or exactly why it had happened. One minute we were talking about my past and I was handing her my secrets, and the next we were saving a life together.
I mean, that’s not quite right.
The dog was evidently never in danger.
That doesn’t alter the fact that finding him had changed something between us.
I’d thought the ride-along would give me a chance to keep an eye on her.
Maybe keep her from killing herself for one more day–and talk some sense into her, if I was lucky.
I sure as hell hadn’t thought I’d leave the house this morning thinking she was the biggest brat the world had ever created and come home feeling like that brat understood me in ways no one ever had.
I let my eyes travel to her once more, knowing that I shouldn’t, and find her leaning against the darkened window of the truck, her lids growing heavy and her mouth relaxed.
And for the first time, I let myself see how beautiful she actually is.
Her hair is wild and free around her head, looking like she hasn’t combed it in weeks, and her lips are pushed out like she’s pouting.
She’s not. That’s how her mouth sits naturally.
And holy fuck, why have I never realized how sexy that is before?
Because she’s your stepdaughter, the rational voice in my head whispers.
I shove that voice into a closet and lock the door. And then I go back to looking.
Long, dark lashes flutter against wide, rounded cheeks, and her pert little nose fits her so perfectly that I wonder if the universe knew who she’d grow into and gave her the features to match.
And that’s just terrific. I’m not only going on about her features like some sort of amateur poet, but also fantasizing about what it would be like to kiss the tip of that nose.
Run my own nose down her cheek, to the soft spot right underneath her ear.
Breathe her in and then let my lips run across her skin, my tongue tasting her as I moved.
I wondered what kind of sounds she’d make if I did.
I wondered if she’d push me away and run as fast as she could.
And I wondered what the fuck was wrong with me. The girl is nineteen and under my supervision. She’s best friends with my son, for fuck’s sake, and should be out of bounds for the likes of me.
But she looked at me like she trusted me and then celebrated a dog with me when he was safe. She let me name him without argument. She laughed with me when it turned out he was essentially faking the whole thing.
It’s been a very long time since anyone laughed with me like that. Even longer since someone looked at me with so much trust in their eyes.
And I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt as connected to anyone as I did to her on that street, when we moved together to get Charlie off the ground and into the car.
Like I’d found someone who understood me so deeply that I didn’t need words or a mask or the absolute need to live up to someone’s expectations.
But it’s probably nothing, I tell myself. Probably just the adrenaline of having saved the dog, and the relief of having done it successfully after that mess in the Middle East.
Yes, that must be it. I’m feeling like I finally succeeded after having failed. It was just a dog today and I still lost men months ago, but this closed some sort of psychological loop in my head. Filled in a hole I’d still been dealing with.
And Sammy just happened to be there when I did it.
That’s why she feels important, and why I feel connected. It’s because of what I was doing at the time, and how it felt in my head.
Nothing to do with her.
Absolutely nothing to do with me having any feelings for the girl.
We’ve never gotten along, and that doesn’t have to change. Hell, we’ll probably be fighting again first thing in the morning, and everything will go back to normal. She’ll go back to Cameron, and I’ll go back to my solitary life.
Back to planning how the hell to get out of here and into something that makes sense.
I pull into the driveway to find Cameron’s truck missing and narrow my eyes at that, then glance at the clock and realize it’s only 8. Boy’s probably just out with some friends or something.
I didn’t realize he knew how to go out without his trusty curly-haired sidekick. But I guess anything can happens.
I park the car and turn to see Sammy asleep in the passenger seat, her head resting on the window and her skin glowing in the moonlight, and the utter silence around her makes me pause.
She’s always moving, always laughing or talking or scheming, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her completely still before.
She looks like one of a chiaroscuro angels by Caravaggio.
The ones that used the richest of colors and absolute saturation of color.
All light and shadow, round-faced little saints and tricksters.
Her chest rises and falls slowly with her breath, and when my hand rises of its own accord, reaching for her, I don’t stop it.
I take a curl in my finger and twist it carefully, letting the strands surround my finger and hold it tight.
Her hair is softer than I imagined it would be, silky and dark and beautiful, and for just a moment, I think about what it would be like to tangle my fingers in it and hold her while I–
I jerk my hand back like she burned it, trying to clear the thought from my head. What the fuck is wrong with me? I can’t have the girl, and shouldn’t want her, and the fact that I’m even thinking about it, my body vibrating with a need I’ve never felt before...
Gods, I’m even more fucked up than I realized.
The girl gave me one day of her sunshine and dandelion wishes and I’ve turned into some sort of hopelessly yearning romantic.
She’s everything I wish I was: sure in her position in the world, laughing when she could be crying, and welcome in every home in town.
I’ve seen enough people interact with her to know that she’s everyone’s little sister. They would do anything to protect her.
I’ve never had any of that, and the pull toward her sunshine is so strong that I don’t know how to push it off.
Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that I have to.
I open my hands and close them in my lap, trying to control the vibrations running through me, and, when I think I can control myself, reach out and touch her shoulder.
She comes awake immediately, like she’s been waiting for me to get around to waking her, and looks at me with eyes that are far too awake for someone who was just sleeping.
Has she been awake this whole time?
The thought makes me nervous, and the nerves make my voice gruff and aggressive when I speak.
“We’re home. Go up to bed. It’s been a long day.”
Her eyebrows come down in a frown, no doubt at the change between the person I was in the vet’s office and who I am right now, and the frown turns into an outright scowl, and then a pout.
She doesn’t answer. Just gets out of the car and marches away from me, her shoulders stiff and her hair blowing in the wind.
And I watch her go, telling myself that it’s better for her to be angry at me than to know what’s going through my mind. Because people knowing my thoughts has never led to good things.
And I suspect that Sammy Price would do more damage than anyone else ever has.
Especially if she knows that she’s found her sneaky, overconfident way under my skin.
I didn’t follow her upstairs to the small room Cameron had told me coldly was now mine. Hell, I didn’t even follow her into the house.
I didn’t trust myself to leave her alone if I did, though I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to shout at her or sit her down at the kitchen table, give her food, and ask her to tell me her thoughts on the world at large.
Instead of finding out, I turned toward the path that led past the house–stupid planning, really–and walked toward the so-called garage, where Cameron and Sammy had set up their ‘shop.’ They hadn’t told me any details about what they were doing in here or why it required all the equipment I’d seen laying around, and now that she was presumably asleep and he was wherever he was, I was going to tour it for myself.
I don’t know what they’re doing or how they’re doing it, but if it’s happening under my roof, I have a right to know what it is.
The door to the garage was open and I cracked it, wondering whether they’d bothered to put any lights in here.
I hit the switch and one dim, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling turned on, washing the room in hazy light.
When I looked around, I saw that they hadn’t finished yet.
Boxes still lined one whole wall, and though they’d installed a table and what looked like a forge, complete with anvil and hammer, much of the equipment was still scattered on the floor.
They’d built a rack on one wall, which I supposed was meant to hold tools, and one of them had started stacking art pieces along another wall.
Those, I assumed, were what Cameron made.
I walk toward them, squinting, and stop a few feet away.
They weren’t artwork like I’d been expecting–no paint or canvas–but were made of metal.
Sheet metal bent and formed into other shapes, or cut up and put back together to create something entirely new.
Metal that was repurposed into sculptures, twisting and turning until it was graceful and beautiful.
Some of the pieces were enormous, while others were small and fine, and as I strolled past them looking, I realized that they were grouped into different styles.
The last group was finer work, the metal hammered down until it was just threads and then welded together in bunches to make a larger piece.
If this is what Cameron’s been doing, he’s more talented than I realized.
And the slumbering artist inside me starts to recognize my genes in the son I’ve never bothered to know well.
My fingers twitch to reach out and skim over the metal, feeling for the heart that created the pieces, and I remember when I was his age and younger, my room full of paints and canvases, my brain full of rainbows and twists of dreams.
I’d wanted so badly to be an artist, and I’d seen my father’s business with furniture as the way to get there.
And then he gave the business to Gunner, who’s never had a creative bone in his body, and told me I needed to go into the world and figure out how to support myself.
My chuckle holds no mirth. It’s made of the bitter betrayal and disappointment from that day. The knowledge that my father never believed in me or my talents, and that my mother, who had been an artist herself, didn’t try to protect me from his cold, hard version of value.
God, I’d hated him.
I’d left Wood three days later, just so I didn’t have to look at him anymore. And when he got sick, I stayed where I was instead of coming home to help Gunner.
I didn’t regret that decision. But standing here in this artist’s shop, staring at what my own son has been creating, my heart flies back to that kid I was, and suddenly needs to create.
I turn to the other wall, where a sheet of plywood leans against the wall, and then look at the table under the window.
There, I see pencils and chisels, the tools ready for Cameron’s hands, and have an idea.
Three quick steps takes me to the table, where I grab a pencil and the first chisel I see, and three more steps take me back to the plywood.
I put the pencil to the wood... and I start drawing.
And when I need something bigger, something more substantial, I use the chisel to dig through the wood, creating depth and shadow in the surface that pencil alone can’t manage.
I create curves and angles, spirals and pools of silver, and my heart begins to soar at the action.
My brain finally–finally–turns off and lets me just be, and for the first time in too many years to count, I feel like I’m actually free.
More than free. I’m flying through a moonlit night, the stars shining quicksilver light down on me and the moon glowing in the distance, all of the light funneling into my soul until I shine as brightly as the heavenly bodies around me.
I’m light and color and sound and I’m completely, utterly happy.
I don’t come back to myself until the piece is done, and then I realize that the light around me has shifted, the moon outside having moved from one side of the building to another.
I’ve been here for hours, and it’s felt like seconds.
And in front of me, the first drawing I’ve done since I was a teenager.
The first artwork I’ve created in too long to imagine.
I smile softly at the piece, connected to it in a way I can barely understand, and then turn toward the door, thinking that I should make some attempt to sleep.
I stop quickly when I see that someone’s standing there though, and when I see that it’s Sammy, her hair mussed and her legs bare under a sleep shirt, I stop breathing. Her eyes flit past me to the art I’ve just finished, creased with surprise, and I don’t have to look to see what she’s seeing.
Because I know exactly what it is.
A sheet of plywood big enough to cover a table, every inch of it taken up by her face, done in pencil and chiseled wood.