Page 1 of Curious
CHAPTER1
Camden
The afternoon sun beats on my nape and sweat trickles down my scalp as I kneel on a composition shingle roof, using my nail gun. Late summer in Los Angeles means hot, windy days with the scent of eucalyptus wafting in the air. I yank off my backward baseball cap, run my fingers through my damp hair, and wipe my forehead on my flannel-covered bicep.
And, ahem, if you’re an OSHA inspector, no, I don’t need a hard hat up here, as there’s no possible danger of head injury from falling or flying objects. I’ve got no chance of getting hurt today.
I take a moment to look around, because I always like the perspective from a rooftop. It’s rare that anyone experiences this exact perspective, and I dunno. I just dig it, though the view’s not that exciting today: trees, adjacent houses, distant high-rises, and the ever-present traffic on the 101. A newer silver Civic recently pulled into the driveway next door, but otherwise it’s been pretty quiet on this street. Very few distractions to keep me from doing the job, which I’m almost finished with.
So I’m about ready for a shower and a beer. In that order. I put my cap back on and survey my handiwork. It looks good. I’m pleased.
We’re reroofing a small 1960s tract house on a cul-de-sac in the San Fernando Valley. I attach the final shingles of my section, then yell to David, my roofing subcontractor, who’s working at the other end of the roof, “You ’bout done over there?”
“Yeah, almost.” His nailer keeps up its repetitive thunk. “Okay,” he calls back a moment later. “Last ones.”
“I’ll start mopping up.” My phone buzzes with a text, but when I pull it out to see who it’s from, I get a sinking feeling in my gut.
Nope. Not talking to her. Not today or ever again. I don’t wanna hear it.
Grumbling, I adjust my tool belt, hoist up a leftover bundle of shingles, and back my way down the ladder to the ground. Once there, I take off the tool belt and kneepads. I stash all the equipment away in the back of the truck, then scan for anything we’ve left behind. A moment later, David joins me on the ground, carrying his own bundle. I sling the ladder over my shoulder and secure it to the rooftop rack.
We’re done with this project and will move on to the next tomorrow, on schedule. David waves, climbs into his own truck, and takes off. I do a log entry so I can invoice the homeowner, then go to get in the driver’s seat… but I pause with my boot in the footwell, because I hear yelling from next door.
Male voices. Loud yelling.
Like,this is not a jokeloud.
I freeze, rooted to the spot—abs and thighs clenching, hand gripping the door so tight my knuckles are white, my body readying for fight or flight. I never know in situations with strangers whether I should get involved, and if so, how.
But I gotta do something, I think. It soundsbad.
Before I can move, it’s suddenly very quiet. Then a door slams, and a person small enough to be a young teenager races out of the neighbor’s house. My adrenaline spikes, because I recognize the man: Shelby Borchard, the competent, cheerful receptionist at the law firm where my brother and sister work. I’m straight, but thanks to my siblings, I know the lingo. He’s a twink.
I’ve been to a few firm gatherings, and while Weston & Ramirez has plenty of employees, Shelby sticks out, mostly because of his looks—he’s got platinum blond hair that’s in sharp contrast to his dark umber eyes and tawny skin—but also because of his friendly and outgoing personality.
But he sticks out even more right now, since his normally immaculate appearance is disheveled: barefoot, hair mussed, and tight, bright pink polo shirt ripped. That makes some inner beast inside me roar.
Shelby’s wearing a backpack, has a few duffel bags slung over his shoulders, and is carrying a cardboard box. He stubs his toe on the concrete and curses quietly. He tosses the bags and box in the trunk of the Civic I noticed earlier and books it toward the driver’s side door.
Before I know what I’m doing, I sprint down the sidewalk and over the grass to him. He sees me as he’s reaching a shaking hand toward the car door and startles. “Cam-Camden? What? Why?”
Shelby has a bruise blooming on his cheek, and he’s wild-eyed, his face stained with tears.
Anger flares inside me, and my hands ball into fists. Not to hurt him, obviously. “What happened? Who did this?” I demand, noticing his split lip and what could be the beginning of a black eye.
“It’s fine,” he says, his lip trembling and his eyes looking anywhere but at me.
“Bullshit.” My voice comes out in a deep growl. “Who hurt you?”
“It’s nothing.” He steps gingerly toward the car, since he’s not wearing shoes. At least, I hope that’s why he’s moving that way. If he’s been hit anywhere else …
He opens the door, but I put my arm out, blocking him from getting in. I don’t want to scare him, but I also don’t want whoever did this to him to get away with it. “It doesn’t look like nothing. Let me see.” He sighs and finally looks up at me. I inspect his face, cradling his jaw with my palms, and I turn ragey. Again, not at him. “I’m not going to ask again,” I say very quietly. “Who did this to you?”
“No one.” He sucks in his lip, winces in pain, and pulls back from me, and I let him move past me to sit in the car. His whole body is trembling now.
I give him a hard look.
He squeezes his eyes shut, then relents. “My boyfriend.”
