Chapter 7 – Camille
“This was the best I could do,” he explained, dropping them on the bed for me. “You should put the jacket over it in case someone realizes it’s theirs.”
That was the least of my concerns. “Where did you find sandals?” I asked, holding one up with the tips of my fingers to examine it like it was carrying a disease I could catch.
It was cute, but cheap. Highly likely a box-store shoe made by the millions and sold at JCPenney.
It was brown with elegant straps and fake diamonds on the front, open to show my toes.
It wasn’t so much a beach sandal as it was a casual outing sandal.
“Lost and found,” he answered, though I couldn’t quite tell if it was pride or if he knew it was ridiculous. “I wasn’t sure on your size, but they were the only pair of shoes down there, and I wasn’t about to walk into someone’s room to find any.”
So he did draw the line somewhere. I slipped one on my bare foot.
They were a little small. The straps were tight across the front, but they would do for a few hours, and I wasn’t too concerned about blisters considering the alternative was showing up in socks.
I took it off and picked up the red dress to inspect it.
The dress was surprisingly gorgeous. It was short, tight around the hips, with spaghetti straps. It must have been someone’s cocktail dress—maybe worn to nightclubs or casual business outings at a nice restaurant with a posh bar.
“Thank you. It’s perfect.” I smiled politely, forgetting I had told myself I would try to avoid using manners and common courtesy around him.
It was as if I hadn’t said anything. He didn’t respond to my “thank you” as he fixed his hair in the mirror.
Even though it had been less than a day since we met, I was starting to get used to the way he brushed off my courtesies.
I lifted myself off the bed and took my new outfit into the bathroom to change.
The motel was fairly nice despite the bargain price.
I assumed it was because we were in a smaller town without much traffic.
It wasn’t dirty like I had imagined most motels to be.
It had one bed, the TV, a worn couch, a tiny bathroom, and a kitchenette.
It was built to feel like a small home away from home, for lack of better words.
I imagined the kids who did escape this town would stay here when they came back for weddings or funerals.
I shut the door behind me and examined myself in the mirror above the sink.
My neck was horribly bruised from last night—swollen red speckling the outline of bite marks, purple where Reed’s fingers had gripped.
There was no doubt the bruising would darken over the next few days, then fade to yellow until I could begin the process of forgetting it.
I had bags under my eyes, and my lips were chapped and broken.
In short, I was a train wreck and had no way of fixing it.
Why hadn’t Erich said anything about my appearance? He seemed blunt, and I got the impression he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt my feelings if it meant saying what he thought.
I set the dress and sandals on the counter and stepped back out, hiding half my body behind the bathroom door. Erich was straightening his jacket when his eyes met mine in the mirror. He turned to face me.
I made a small motion toward my neck, trying to appear casual. “How should I get rid of these?” I asked. I assumed he could see them clearly from where he stood. Seeing myself in the mirror, I looked like the undead.
“Shit. I didn’t think of that,” he muttered. “Do they hurt? Do you want to stay here instead?”
I shook my head. “I can cover them. I just need something to do it with. I can get creative.”
The truth was, I didn’t want to show him how weak I was. I needed to prove I could keep up. Maybe more to myself than to him, but that was a different issue.
“I think you should take the night to recover. Ice them. Get the swelling down.” His eyes flicked between mine and the bruises.
“I want to go out tonight and start as soon as I can,” I insisted, tightening my grip on the bathroom door.
Even if he was right, what would I do stuck in this room all night?
Watch more TV and sleep? I would rather learn from him and leave before he realized who I was.
I didn’t know him well enough to trust that he wouldn’t turn me in if he saw my face on a missing poster.
Without another word, Erich walked past me and out the door. A few minutes later, he came back with a small purple bag, zipped shut. My eyes widened, and I was about to ask how he got someone’s makeup bag when he placed it in my hands and shook his head.
“The lady at the front desk was happy to help when I told her my wife forgot her makeup,” he said. “She needs to go easy on it anyway—her face is basically painted on.” He turned away, checking his wallet and belongings. “She just said to return it later.”
I was impressed. I had no idea how easily he could slip into a role like that. He was observant, too. The tally in my head was starting to even out for the street-smart criminal who helped me escape my nightmare hometown.
I went back into the bathroom and opened the bag. Blush, foundation, eyeshadow, lipstick, eyeliner, mascara—plenty to work with. Thankfully, I knew what I was doing. My mother had insisted I learn at a young age.
I started with my neck, blending eyeshadow shades to match my skin and hide the marks.
It took time to find the right tones and make sure they wouldn’t smudge.
Then I worked on the foundation, trying to keep it from shining too yellow against my pale skin.
After that came the rest—eyeliner, mascara, blush, lipstick.
By the end, I was presentable. Less like I had crawled out of a grave, more like I was ready for a night out. I teased my hair around my shoulders to cover what I couldn’t conceal, grateful for its volume and thickness.
I was surprised Erich didn’t knock or rush me. He was patient—more than I expected. Most men I knew would have complained about the time it took to get ready. My father and brother always had.
I finally slipped into the dress and sandals and did one last look-over before stepping out of the bathroom. I expected Erich to stop dead in his tracks, speechless at my transformation, but he didn’t seem fazed at all, which knocked my ego down a few pegs.
“Are you ready?” he asked, his attitude all business, with no compliments or comments on my new appearance.
I nodded, hiding my disappointment at not being noticed, but quickly brushing it away.
Why would I want him to notice, anyway? There was no romantic fairytale.
The reality was I had literally hopped into a car heading nowhere with a man I didn’t know.
I had to prove I had what it took to survive on my own.
Erich didn’t change much. He wore a new pair of light-wash jeans, his jacket from earlier over a faded red flannel shirt he must’ve found downstairs. His hair was still naturally set from when he’d been messing with it earlier.
We were out the door, the desk lady winking at me as I set her bag on the counter. I returned a tight smile as thanks, careful not to expose myself and ruin the story Erich had made up to get her help. We left the motel and stepped outside.
It was another beautiful evening. The stars weren’t out yet and the sun was setting, but it was calm and fairly warm. It made me want to walk to wherever we were headed, but I wasn’t sure I could handle that in my suffocating sandals.
“Does my jacket go with this dress?” I asked Erich, a random question as he opened the passenger door for me. If I hadn’t been so focused on the outfit, I might have noticed this was the first gentlemanly thing he’d done for me—aside from the wasted gas station door opportunity.
“No, but no one will notice, anyway. Just hang it up when you get the chance.” He shut the door behind me and walked around to the driver’s side, sliding into his seat. We were on our way.
The drive was short, as the bar was realistically within walking distance. When we pulled up and Erich turned the car off, I noticed it wasn’t nearly as loud as the one in Belham. Was that where he had come from the night he found me?
“You go inside first. I’ll wait a few minutes before I go in.” Erich pocketed his keys, scanning the parking lot. No one was around, but I wondered what he was looking for with only a handful of cars there.
He gave me one last reassuring half-smile before I reached for the door and stepped out.
I was met by the familiar, crisp scent of evening air as I made my way up the bar stairs and slowly opened the door.
Inside, I was hit with the smell of cigarettes, the twang of loud country music and laughter, and the occasional clack of pool balls.
The air was hazy enough that I suspected my eyes would start watering after a few hours.
It was a new environment—and I was out of place.
Still, I told myself I could do it. I found a seat at the bar, struggling a little too much to climb onto the tall red stool and hoping no one noticed.
Unfortunately, the bartender had watched the entire thing.
His heavy-lidded eyes already seemed impatient.
I pushed past the embarrassment as I adjusted myself and smoothed my dress.
Behind him was a wall of bottles—some nearly empty, others full—labeled with names I’d never heard before. The wall itself was a mirror, and I could see my reflection behind the rows of glass.