Sins & Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1)

Sins & Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1) Page 20

I looked down at the ground, trying to keep my cool while the arrows were flung. Some had bounced off of me. The rest stuck in deep. “Are we done?” I said with deliberation.

He sighed and leaned against the wall. Time ticked by. It felt like an eternity.

“Yeah, we’re done. I’ve said what I had to say.”

I glanced at him. “Do you feel better now?”

He cocked his head and seemed to think it over. “A little bit.”

“So what’s next? What do you plan on doing with me? Are you taking me down to the station yourself like daddy’s little hero, or are you calling the cops over here? Or are they already here waiting outside?” I could have been nicer to him. After all, he had the upper hand and I was totally at his mercy. But he wasn’t the only one who was lying. He led me on to set me up. Every nice thing he said about me, about my scars, was just a pile of bullshit used as bait. And let me tell you, shit tastes exactly like the name suggests.

“Well, what’s next depends on what you choose. I’m not a total asshole, you know.”

I almost rolled my eyes but the intensity in his gaze kept me motionless.

“All right,” I said. “What are my choices?”

“You have two. Three, technically. But I don’t think you want the third choice.”

He was trying to be dramatic. I was too tired for it.

“Then let’s hear the first two.”

“The first choice is that you go directly to jail.”

“No passing Go, huh?”

He shook his head sharply. Boy, if looks could kill, he wouldn’t need that gun in his hands.

“This isn’t a game, Ellie. I know that’s all you’re used to playing...”

“Okay, okay. Sorry. So I go to jail. You turn me in.”

“Correct. I have more than enough evidence here of your little robbery. I don’t know how much time you get for that kind of shit these days, and I suppose it’s a bit of a pity that you aren’t armed, but anyway, I digress. You go in the slammer for quite some time, that’s what I know. You’ll do time. Get a criminal record. You’ll never be able to con again.”

“I got it.”

“And your family’s name will be tarnished even more. Your poor Uncle Jim. He’s going to have a hell of a time with this. Gee, I hope the whole town won’t turn against him. Doesn’t really look good harboring two sets of Watt fugitives.”

I narrowed my eyes, my jaw tense. “What’s the other choice?”

“The other choice is that you help me.”

I brought my chin into my neck. “Help you? Help you with what?”

He let out a long breath and tapped the gun against his leg, looking up at the ceiling. “That might be better explained in the morning.”

“But…but, okay, so then what happens? I can’t agree to help you unless you tell me what it is. What’s going to happen to me until morning?” The panic was starting to spread inside my lungs at a speed that even Ativan couldn’t save.

His look was dry. “Oh, come on and use your brain. You’re really going to choose jail if you don’t like whatever help is needed? I just gave you a way out. It doesn’t matter how you can help me, what matters is that you have the chance to. I’d take it if I were you.”

“I don’t like agreeing to things without knowing what I’m agreeing to,” I squeaked out.

“Well, there’s always option three.” My eyes darted to his face. He smiled. “I can just shoot you in the head. I’ll destroy the tape, make it look like self-defense, and let my father take care of the rest.”

The room grew thick with silence as I processed what he had just said.

Finally I said, “You wouldn’t have the guts. That’s murder.”

“It doesn’t take guts to commit murder. It takes stupidity and passion. You’re lucky I’m feeling really smart right about now.”

He walked over to the light switch and turned it on. I blinked harshly at the light, feeling more on the spot than ever. Cornered desperation? Yeah, I was sure it was written all over my face, bleeding out from every pore.

I didn’t have much of a choice.

“Fine,” I said carefully. “I’ll help you out with whatever you want, just as long as you promise you won’t harm or hurt or defame my uncle in any way. My parents, I don’t care. But leave my uncle out of this.”

“Deal,” he said. He walked to me and lifted me to my feet by my shoulders. He kept his grip tight and his eyes roamed about my face, probably enjoying the eau de cornered desperation.

“Deal,” I replied.

He bared his teeth in a smile before leaning into my ear.

“I own you, Ellie Watt,” he whispered.

The words sounded just like a cell door closing.

Behind me.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Then

It had been a month since the girl had to show her gym class her scars, and in that month, the rumors had spread. They weren’t as harsh and vicious as they had been when kids had nothing to go on, but they were rumors just the same. Some people said she’d been a victim of a chemistry experiment gone wrong, like Bruce Banner before he became The Hulk, others thought that her family were Muslim extremists and she’d been punished for adultery. Of course, none of the rumors made any sense at all. Then again, neither did the truth.

But for the most part, people stopped being so mean to the girl. There was just pity instead. A lot of sympathetic looks, some hushed whispers, and the occasional person backing away from her as if she had some sort of flesh-eating disease. The girl could only assume that was some other rumor going around.

In some ways, the girl felt more at peace because the others weren’t calling her names anymore, but at other times she felt like she’d been ripped open and exposed for all the world to see. With her admission, her deformity belonged to everyone now. She didn’t have much else to keep for herself.

At least the girl was feeling confident about her photography class. She loved working with the old-fashioned film, spending the hours toiling away in the darkroom. The only thing she didn’t like was the fact that Camden McQueen was in her class. She thought that after giving him the cold shoulder for a year, he would have given up trying to talk to her and be her friend. But he didn’t seem to know when to quit and the girl was constantly dodging him.

That day, the class had their end of semester assignments due. They all had to take photos based on their interpretation of the word justification. The girl, thinking that she was oh so deep and clever, had taken photos of one of the bums begging on Palm Valley’s main street. As the class was invited one by one to put their works up on the board and explain their choices, the girl realized she wasn’t the only one who thought she was clever. Four other kids had chosen not only a homeless person, but the exact same one. The dude sure did make a lot of extra money that day.

The girl went up and made a half-hearted attempt to explain her views, saying that the bum was justified in his actions because he was homeless and poor. He was allowed to beg for money because the circumstances made it acceptable. Society had shunned him and he was owed that much.

After a few light-hearted claps from her classmates and an approving nod from the teacher, the girl sat back down and watched the rest of the assignments go up. There was another homeless fellow, a picture of a tiny kid beating on a big bully, a Great Dane eating cat food.

Then it was Camden’s turn.

All heads turned as he walked up to the board. Now nearly sixteen, Camden was taller, almost six feet. He walked tall, too, with his shoulders back and his face forward. He looked people in the eye, daring them to look back. And look back they did. He still wore his trench coat, though it was a bigger model, and while the full makeup had run its course, he favored sparkly eyeliner. He was pale, as if he was in witness protection from the sun, and his pants were a shiny, tight leather that no teenage boy could wear without getting beaten up for. That day he had on a shirt of The Cramps and the girl smiled caustically at the cartoonish coffin, making a joke in her head that he probably slept in one.

Camden walked to the front of the class and looked at everyone.

“Good afternoon,” he said rather formally. “My name is Camden McQueen.”

A few people snickered, probably because of his unfortunate “Camden the Queen” nickname.

He continued as if he hadn’t heard them. “The assignment we were given proved to be a bit of a challenge for me. The minute I heard the word—justification—I immediately had a subject in mind. But capturing this subject in the state of the word? That was going to be tricky.”

Even though most people despised Camden, they were all leaning forward and listening attentively. Even the girl was pleasantly curious to see what he had in mind. That was until his eyes drifted to hers. And stayed there.

“I was fortunate, however,” he said deliberately, his eyes never leaving her face, “that an opportunity presented itself to me one afternoon. I had a spare block and was wandering the grounds with my camera.”

An immense feeling of dread washed over the girl like soot.

“And while I was wandering about, I noticed the girl’s gym class was in session. A soccer game.”

Her heart froze.

“Or, it should have been a soccer game. There seemed to be one little problem and a yelling match between the teacher and a student took place.”

Oh shit, the girl thought and her eyes started darting around the room to see if anyone had picked up on it. No one had—not yet. Camden had an audience.

“This girl,” he said slowly, finally breaking his gaze and looking around the room, “the student, was the subject of this project. And as she took to the sidelines and watched the soccer game take place, I started snapping her picture.”

The girl started to shrink in her seat, wondering if she could get under the desk without anyone noticing. Maybe, if she willed it enough, she could just disappear.

Camden walked up to the board and started pinning black and white 8x10s up on it. The girl was too afraid to look.

“Behold,” Camden announced like Marilyn Manson’s magician, “justification in the form of Ellie Watt.”

And there it was, in front of the entire class, black and white photos of the girl. They weren’t bad pictures, per se. In fact, Camden had possessed quite a talent for photography. Despite the paparazzi, telephoto elements to the shots, they were well developed and exposed. The girl looked beautiful with her blonde hair cascading down her back, her full lips and sensual eyes. But in that exotic face held more than just beauty. It held anger and it held pain. It held justification.

The teacher cleared his throat, unsure of how to deal with this, while the classroom erupted into excited whispers. Everyone was looking at the girl for her reaction. Everyone.

The girl could only sit there like a deer in the headlights, the red flames on her face the only sign that she was embarrassed beyond words.

Finally the teacher said, “Camden, I don’t think taking pictures of your classmates is appropriate.”