Chapter 7 – Camille #3
I had gotten halfway through the first beer he bought me.
It was time to quiet my brain before it spiraled back to I am going to crash and burn.
I can’t do this. Prove to myself I could.
I reached out and touched his hand, fixing another smile as I took it and started to pull him off his stool toward the door.
He nearly fell on top of me as he tripped over his own feet, but thankfully caught his balance and managed to keep up.
He smelled like diesel and tobacco smoke—but not the cigarette smell I was growing used to.
My first guess was he was a pipe smoker.
I pulled him toward the door, through the haze of parking lot dust and smoke and loud laughter, yet no one noticed we were leaving.
I wondered if Erich would get worried when he had the chance to check on me and realized we weren’t at our stools anymore—my half-empty beer bottle still collecting condensation at the bar.
I opened the door, thankful for my jacket as the night breeze hit our faces.
I scanned the parking lot, searching for a place where I could rob him without anyone noticing. I heard him digging in his pocket for his keys, holding them up as he wobbled and nearly fell into me.
“We can do it in my car.” His voice was deep, with a noticeable slur. “I can turn the heat on if you want. Don’t have air conditioning, though…”
I bit my lip, gently to avoid reopening the wound, and crossed my arms. Absolutely not.
No. I was not getting into his car. There was too much risk.
And if he touched me… what would I do? I’d be liable to break.
I was already fighting back the weight of trauma and conscience just to prove to Erich I could handle this.
“I was hoping for something quicker… like against the wall or a dumpster…” I said, trying to sound innocent, though I couldn’t hide the edge in my voice.
And then it hit.
The flashbacks. The pain. The betrayal. His voice. You are so simple.
He dropped his keys and stumbled, catching himself against the bar’s exterior wall before fumbling to pick them up and shove them back into his pocket. He straightened slowly, one hand dragging along the wall as he moved toward the back.
I followed behind him, slower now. The pep talk I had been giving myself was unraveling. I could feel it. I was losing control of it. If this went too far, I might actually break.
There it was—the dumpster. Just as foul as I imagined. I wondered how many people had passed out on top of those bags, or how many rats called it home.
“It’s cute…” he slurred, smiling at me. I nearly gagged at the sight of it. “That you’re into stuff like this…”
The strain of my forced smile made my lip throb. Honestly, if it split open, I’d have an excuse to leave. A clean exit.
I forced myself forward anyway, reaching for his hand and brushing it lightly against my chest—then immediately dropping it. Not part of the act. My body was rejecting it. My heart dropped, my blood went cold.
Every shadow around us began to take the form of my brother.
You’re mine.
“Sir, before I go any further…” I forced concern into my voice, masking the way my breathing shortened and my pulse spiked. Even then, my voice came out small. Fragile. Get out, Camille. Get out now. “You need to pay me up front.”
He paused, confused, processing. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a brown leather wallet. He started to open it—but I grabbed it from his hand.
“How about I hold on to that?” I said. The words felt stiff, unnatural.
I was drowning.
He nodded eagerly. I slipped the wallet into my jacket pocket.
One step back. Time to run.
I had it. I could leave. He wouldn’t catch me—not like this. Even sober, he probably couldn’t run.
I always loved you.
Heat flooded my body—starting at my feet and rising to my scalp. I could feel every strand of hair on my head. Wrong. Foreign.
I unzipped the flannel jacket, shuddering as the scent hit me again. It triggered something sharp and immediate. I tore it off and dropped it to the ground like it was burning me.
Before I could force my legs to move, the bar door slammed open hard enough that I thought it might rip off its hinges.
A familiar voice cut through the night.
“Hey!”
Erich vaulted over the railing and sprinted toward us. His arrival hit me like ice water—snapping Reed’s voice out of my head.
The man barely reacted. He was too slow, too drunk to process what was happening before Erich reached him.
“Wait, Erich!” I shouted—but it was too late.
Erich grabbed him by the front of his shirt and drove a fist into his eye. His head snapped back before he was thrown against the dumpster.
I wanted to run moments before, but after watching Erich’s fist fly into the man’s face, I would’ve liked to disintegrate to avoid being witness to murder.
It was just the three of us. No one else.
Erich didn’t stop. Another punch—this one to the nose— sending an arc of bubbled blood to scatter and sprinkle the bottom of the dumpster.
I forced myself to move. I snatched the discarded jacket from the ground and grabbed Erich’s wrist, pulling.
My hand barely wrapped around it.
The man slumped, dazed, trying to understand what had happened. He was too far gone to piece it together—not yet. His hand rose slowly to his swelling eye. Blood dripped onto the concrete beneath him.
I pulled harder.
“We need to go.” My voice came out through gritted teeth as I searched for any room to reason with my unnecessary guard dog before things escalated further.
Erich hesitated, but finally took a step back, and we ran. He didn’t say anything else as I struggled to keep up with his pace. I wanted to ask questions, but it was more for myself—to distract from what I had almost done. I had a feeling it wasn’t the time, especially when I could barely breathe.
Erich didn’t open my door that time. The passenger side was closer, so I beat him to the car, threw the door open, and jumped in, slamming it shut. Seconds later, he was in the driver’s seat, slamming his door behind him.
My heart was racing. Erich started the car, tearing out of the bar’s parking lot and swerving onto the road.
I hoped no one caught his make, model, or license plate. That would be a complication I wasn’t ready to deal with.
The drive back to the motel was much quicker with Erich speeding, but the silence made it unbearable. I was still gasping for air from running, while Erich was only slightly disheveled—his hair sticking to his forehead and his swollen knuckles gripping the steering wheel.
I smoothed my hair down, convinced I looked unhinged if I didn’t. The jacket sat in my lap, and for a moment, I wished I had just taken the wallet and left the jacket behind.
When we pulled into the motel parking lot and the adrenaline began to settle, we got out of the car and headed inside.
Erich opened the door, and we stepped into the lobby.
The desk lady was fast asleep in a wooden chair behind the counter, her gray hair tied in a messy bun, her feet propped up.
A small television played muted soap operas in front of her.
She didn’t stir as we slipped past and made our way to our room.
We reached the room, and Erich opened the door, barely waiting for me to step inside before shutting it firmly behind us. He turned to face me, his palm flat against the door like he was bracing it shut. His knuckles had swollen further, red and angry from the punches.
My back pressed against the same door, and he stood too close—his arm near my neck.
If he was impressed, it didn’t show.
“What the hell was that?” he asked.
He was inches from my face. I flinched at the sharpness in his voice—and at the thought of that same hand holding my throat against the door, the fingers snuffing the dreaded life I had from my body. I was the child who colored all over the drywall with a marker, and I didn’t know better.
I stared at him for a few seconds, searching for something to say—anything—but nothing came.
“I’m sorry.”
His eyes darkened, cold and unreadable. He waited.
He had no idea how suffocating it felt to have him standing that close. To be cornered like that. The door behind me, the only exit blocked.
I forced myself to move, slipped past him and dropped onto the edge of the bed. He didn’t stop me.
I unwrapped the jacket in my arms, pulled out the wallet, and held it out to him. “Here. Take it.”
His hand fell from the door as he turned, eyes darting from me to the wallet before stepping closer and taking it. He began sorting through it.
I took his silence as permission to continue.
“I had no idea what I was doing, just that I needed to fit in.”
Erich said nothing. The wallet sat in his hand. His expression had shifted—not angry anymore, but uncertain.
He sat down beside me on the creaking motel bed, the thin sheets bunching under us. After a moment, he sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders.
“You need to know what you can handle.”
It wasn’t quite an apology, but it was close enough. I didn’t need more than that.
I turned to look at him. I hadn’t expected to stay with him more than a few days, but I knew now I wasn’t ready to be alone. Not yet. Not after that.
I reminded myself I wouldn’t last much longer without someone to make sure I wasn’t making life or death mistakes. Such as the one he interrupted.
There was also a lot I needed to tell him if I planned on following him around the country, even for a little while. A lot he needed to know about me which could change the way he thought of me.
I took a breath, my eyes dropping to the floor.
“My name is Camille Chambers,” I said quietly. “I was born in Belham, Mississippi.”