Carolina Moon

Chapter 9

Cam

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Cam thought that over time, it would get easier.

That one day, he'd be able to let go of Lucy's hand and watch her walk off into the world all on her own.

That was why he didn't call.

He hadn't heard from his sister in days. Nearly at the old Station Wagon fixed up, and thought about shooting her a text or two, letting her in on the progress. But Lucy was clearly going through some shit, and for once, she seemed keen on handling it alone. So Cam laid low. But the whole thing was beginning to feel really itchy.

He had been left alone in the shop, nothing but his oiled hands and the old wagon. He thought he might as well change the oil and belts—give Lucy a head start on maintenance before he completely abandoned her to move to California.

He still hadn't signed the contract.

His time was running out.

The radio in the garage didn't work—had been stuck on the same Christian music channel for centuries, so Cam had purchased a pair of ear buds from the general store across the street to drown out the sound of Southern mediocrity.

He had been mid-way through swapping the oil filter when a weight pressed on the end of his creeper, just between his legs. The creeper slid out suddenly from beneath the wagon, and Cam squinted up at the figure standing above him, blocking out the light from the bulb above the garage door.

He expected his manager, or one of his coworkers, come in late to retrieve something. But instead, Cam found himself staring into a face he didn't know. Ear-length black hair, sharp brows, a low, placid look in his eyes. He had two hands in his jacket pockets and one foot on the creeper.

Cam sat up, wiping his oily hands on a rag. "Can I help you? Shops closed—"

He hadn't noticed the second figure until a dark fist was snatching him up by the collar and hoisting him to his feet. The aggression put a jolt of heat into Cam's face—but he knew himself well. He wasn't much of a fighter, and now there were three men, crowding around him to get a look.

The man with an olive complexion and curly hair leaned in. Cam leaned away. He wasn't sure what it was the stranger was invading his personal space for, but it almost seemed like he'd taken...a whiff.

"Told you," said the first one—the pale, younger one with the dark hair.

"If you're lookin' for cash, I don't have it," Cam said. "The manager deposits it every evening."

"No safe?" asked the man with the curly hair. The pale one elbowed him.

The third man—the darkest and friendliest of the three—pressed his comrades back with a gentle strong-arm. "Listen, we're looking for a guy. Tall, blond hair. Here from the UK as a tourist—went missing from our group."

Cam eyed all three of them, slightly pissed to be dragged away from his work over something that was none of his business. "If I'd seen a guy like that around here, I'd remember it."

"That's fair," said the friendly one, backing off.

The curly-headed idiot seemed to slump away, disappointed, and followed after him.

Then it was only the first one—the pale man with the dead eyes and the dark, wind-whipped hair. Cam found it difficult to look him in the face. There was something...off about him.

"Got a pen and paper?" he asked.

Cam, conveniently, did. He pulled out the notepad and marker from his belt that he'd usually use to take notes during customer interactions.

He didn't so much hand them over as the man snatched them from his fingers. He pushed the notepad against Cam's chest and scrawled something on the paper. Then he ripped off the sheet and tucked it in the square pocket of Cam's polo shirt, tossing the pen and pad onto the trunk of the station wagon. "Call if you see him," he said. Then he followed his friends out of the garage.

Cam rubbed his chest, still feeling the pressure of the numbers scrawled against his skin.