Sins & Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1)

Sins & Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1) Page 8

“Oh,” I said, feeling momentarily stupid. I wasn’t very hip with new music, and though I was a big music junkie, I stuck to the stuff I knew and liked. “No, never heard of them. What do they sound like?”

“Spaghetti western rock,” he said and pressed a button. The sounds of slow drumbeats, violins, and a whistling tune worthy of a Sergeo Leoni film came out of the speakers, enveloping us before disappearing into the night air. It was cinematic and enchanting and right up my alley.

“Sounds like Calexico,” I told him, feeling excited about a new musical discovery. “One of my favorites.”

He nodded. “They’re from Italy. I think the dude from Calexico was involved with the band or something. Anyway, I’d love to email you the tracks. I think you’ll like them a lot. They kind of remind me of you.”

I frowned, my lips caught in a wary smile. “Reminds you of me?”

He shrugged and changed lanes to get ahead of an old Cadillac. “It’s rough and sweet at the same time.”

I let out a small laugh and tucked my gritty hair behind my ears. “I get the rough part, not the sweet one though.”

“I see you’re still not giving yourself enough credit,” he noted with faint amusement. “Fair enough.”

I thought about that and sat back in the seat. After the way things had ended between us all those years ago, the last thing he should think I am is sweet. Besides, I wasn’t sweet. I was planning to scam the poor bastard, which was something I kept on forgetting the longer I rode beside him. Funny how a nice ass, firm pecs, and a great smile could thwart a woman’s best plans.

But that’s what I got for picking a mark that I knew, a mark I was starting to like. I needed to keep my vagina out of the question and focus on what was really important: money.

We pulled into the small parking lot at the back of a bar called the Coppertank. A few musicians were in the midst of unloading under the orange streetlamp, their small cars packed to the brim with equipment.

“Did you need me to be your roadie?” I asked him, but he only smiled and brought his guitar case and pedals out from the back. As he lifted them out, clear above his head, his shirt rose up and I spied a distinct six pack with a thin treasure trail leading down to the waistband of his boxer briefs.

I turned away before he could catch me gawking at him and ignored the irony that I’d been staring googly-eyed at him when he used to do the same to me.

Not that I didn’t catch him checking me out from time to time. I particularly felt his eyes on my ass as we made our way through the back and into the dark and surprisingly smoky club. Even though California was strict about smoking inside, the patrons of the Coppertank didn’t seem to care. And, as I did a quick once over of the place, I could see why. They were a ragtag bunch comprised of goths, punks, rockabillies, and gearheads, and judging by the way they were drunk at seven in the evening and talking trash to each other, it was obvious that this was a bar where the customers called the shots.

That made my plan a lot easier.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked me after he placed his equipment in the back room.

“Sure you can,” I told him and I followed him to the bartender. Camden gave him a nod which signaled for the guy to make him what I guessed was “the usual.”

I leaned toward Camden, tilting my chin down coquettishly. “Do you play here often?”

“As often as I can.” He responded by leaning in closer, his bare arm brushing against mine. There were no sparks, but I did feel a few tingles that shot up along my arm and pooled between my legs. I clamped them shut and tried to ignore it.

“Where’s the rest of your band?”

“They probably won’t be here till nine or something. We don’t go on till eleven.”

I raised my brows at him as the bartender pushed two glasses of what looked like Coke toward us. “Eleven?”

He looked a bit sheepish, which was adorable with his glasses. “Yeah, we usually play after the smaller bands finish. I just wanted some alone time with you before the show, that’s all. You know, for old time’s sake.”

He placed a glass in my hand and nodded at it. “It’s got booze in there, don’t worry. I’m not that much of a saint.”

“I never doubted you for a second,” I told him slyly and sniffed the drink. It was strong, fizzy, and fruity. I took a sip.

“Bourbon and Cherry Coke with a splash of lime,” he said.

It was good stuff and I wondered how he knew I liked bourbon, though I probably reeked of the moonshine when I got in the car.

“Want to go get a booth?” he asked. Before I could say yes, he grabbed my hand and led me across the bar toward the red leather booths that lined the side of the stage. I couldn’t help but notice the faces of the women as we walked past them. They all needed a bib from the amount of drool that was coming out of their mouths and I felt a tiny prick of pride that I was being seen with him.

I also couldn’t help but notice how firmly he was holding my hand, how warm and strong his grip was. I was met with a rush of cold separation when he finally had to let go once we reached the table.

I scooched in along the squeaky seats and settled back against the shiny cushions that had seen better days. Camden sat beside me, our legs touching, and we had a view over the whole bar. It was a great place to scope out the joint, though his proximity was distracting.

It was always best to steer any potential conversations away from me, so I got the ball rolling by asking him about life in Los Angeles and if he preferred it to Palm Valley.

“I did,” he nodded thoughtfully, his full lips wrapped around the straw of his drink. “I loved the beaches and the weather…warm enough in winter, cool enough in summer. I loved the culture, the bars, the shows, even the people when they weren’t being righteous assholes.”

“So why’d you move?”

His eyes narrowed briefly. “It’s a long story. A…complicated story.”

“Those are my favorite types of stories,” I encouraged him.

“In a nutshell, it was cheaper and more advantageous for me to open up my shop here.”

I leaned in close and coaxed him with my eyes, trying not to inhale too much of his intoxicating scent.

He looked up to the ceiling. “And I needed to start over. Isn’t that why you came back?”

I looked at him quizzically. “What makes you think I’m trying to start over?”

“Isn’t that why people return to their past?”

Our eyes were locked together, each of us trying to suss the other out and poke around for the hidden meanings.

“So, then why were you trying to start over?” I asked, ignoring his insinuation.

He licked his lips and slowly twirled his glass around in his hands. I had to stop thinking about his hands, the heavy silver ring on his right thumb, the freckles that dusted over his knuckles. It was like I suddenly had a fetish.

“I went through a bad divorce. I couldn’t be in the same city as her anymore.”

I didn’t know why I found it surprising that he had been married—why wouldn’t he have been? Even though we were only twenty-six, he was too handsome not to have been snatched up.

“Oh,” I said, unsure of what else to say. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, so am I.” He turned his attention to the stage where a disheveled band in skinny jeans was setting up. “To make things even more complicated, we have a son together.”

Okay, now that was surprising. He had a son? I felt a weird emotion slink past me. Disappointment? Jealousy? I couldn’t pick it out, except that it was negative.

“How old is he?” I asked.

“Three and a quarter,” he said with a smile. “His name is Ben.”

“I like that name.”

His eyes flushed with pride and his smile broadened. “Thanks. She’s got full custody and she seems to still hate my guts for whatever reason, so I don’t see him as much as I would like to. But at least I send more than enough child support each month. I write him letters too. She can’t say I’m a deadbeat dad.”

A wave of shame washed over my spine at the mention of child support. I pretended it wasn’t there.

“Well, look at you, Camden McQueen. You’re divorced and have a child. I think you’ve reached adulthood.” I raised my glass in the air. “I’d say that deserves a toast.”

He tipped his head to me and we clinked our glasses. After we nearly downed them, he slapped the table with his palms and said, “You want to see him?”

“Who? Your son?”

He moved over and brought his knee up on the bench. He rolled up his pant leg until I saw the smiling face of a beautiful boy etched permanently on his calf in black ink. It was an extremely lifelike tattoo, with expressive eyes and intricate shading.

“Did you do that?” I asked incredulously.

He nodded.

“Upside down like that?”

He rolled the pant leg back down and resumed sitting normally. “I just worked from the picture upside down.” As if that was so easy.

“Well, you’re amazing,” I told him. I know I was gushing a bit, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t wrap my head around how talented my old friend was, how anyone that I knew could go on to make such beautiful art. Everyone I knew tended to be as shifty as I was.

After we had breached the seemingly harder topic in Camden’s life, the rest of our conversation was a breeze. In fact, we were so engrossed with each other, talking about our favorite music and travel spots, that we didn’t see his band until they were standing in front of us.

“Hey, man,” a guy said from the head of the table.

We looked up, and in one smooth move, Camden slipped his arm around my shoulder and squeezed me closer to him. I knew what that said: she’s mine, buddies. Back off.

I didn’t know how I felt about that. Part of me wanted him to like me; after all, I needed to get close to him to at least get inside his shop and house again to figure out how I was going to pull off the robbery. The other part of me—the moral one—didn’t want him to fall too hard. I didn’t want to break his heart again. And I guess there was a third part. One that wanted him to like me because I was starting to like him. One that loved the fact that he put his arm around me in a possessive way.

Oh boy.

“Guys, this is Ellie,” Camden said, nodding at me.

I gave them a flirtatious smile while checking them out. The one who spoke was a beanpole shaped man-boy with shoulder-length red hair and a 70s mustache that looked ridiculously out of place on his baby face. The second guy was broad-shouldered and stocky with a toothy grin, paint-splattered jeans and a grey wife beater that showed off his tats. The third was wearing sunglasses, with black hair smoothed into a tight ponytail, a long black leather jacket coating his thin form. From his tight-lipped smile and air of superiority, I guessed he was the singer. From the Matrix.

Everyone except snooty Neo said hello in that “someone’s getting lucky tonight” way and squeezed into the booth with us. Snooty Neo left to get a pitcher of beer, while I learned mustache man-boy was called Randy and Pete was the wife beater. I didn’t remember Neo’s name, which was fine because I preferred my name for him anyway.