Page 73 of Catching Camila

Camila

Friday 7:34 a.m.

Her whole body felt like it had been dragged through a trash compactor, but she was alive and John was kissing her. It was one of the best moments of her life.

He pulled back, his chest heaving, his T-shirt clinging to him, revealing every muscle. Though her brain was still soggy, warmth puddled in her stomach as she took him in—the flat abs, the curving pecs that rose and fell as he breathed.

Then the pain in her wrist found her. She moaned and drew her arm to her chest.

John's face flooded with concern. “Are you hurt? What can I do?”

“You saved my life,” she breathed. “That's plenty for now.”

She drew a slow smile onto her face, though the pain was almost overpowering. She slid onto her elbows and looked around. They were on a muddy river bank. Her clothes were streaked with muck and soaked straight through. Seaweed tangled around one sneaker.

The bridge strung across the water in the distance. No one could see them from here. Her eyes searched the sky. No sign of Nomad.

John followed her eyes up. “He's gone. I can feel it.”

Camila nodded, no longer needing to ask how he knew. All she felt was relief. That, and her throbbing wrist.

John reached out and touched the swollen, purple wrist with one gentle finger. “He did this?”

Camila nodded.

His face twisted into rage. “I'll kill him,” he said through his teeth.

She reached up and caressed his cheek with her good hand, his stubble deliciously rough under her fingertips. “Just take me back.”

* * *

Friday 8:52 a.m.

They stoodhand in hand at the back entrance of Lizzy's. The drab yellow paint looked like bile in the hazy mid-morning sun. A cloud slunk across the sun, plunging them into sudden darkness. Camila shivered. Was it the dunk in the lake, the shock from her broken wrist? Or was it something else, some premonition of what was to come?

John's brow furrowed in worry. “We have to get you to a doctor.”

Camila shook her head. If she went to a hospital, there was a chance the police would find her. Instead, they had stopped at Fer's. Fer was gone, apparently already at work, but Shaun was home. He had dug out clean clothes and Vicodin. With the pain at least numbed and her wrist wrapped she could bear it.

Camila's stomach twisted into sailor's knots. She only hoped the plan she'd cooked up on the flight over would work. She would march into Lizzy's and beg Travis to get his girlfriend to call her father and have him drop the charges. And if she refused? Well, Camila would figure something else out. She had to get Mama out of jail.

Once Mama was safe, then what? They'd have to figure out what to do about Nomad and the beast.

One thing at a time.

She looked up at John and he gave her a reassuring smile. She rubbed her thumb against his palm, savoring the smoothness.

“I'll be right here,” he said in a hushed whisper.

It was the encouragement she needed. She pulled the door open and walked in.

On two stools near the order window, Fer and Travis looked like they'd been up all night: Travis's hair angled wildly and Fer sported her same Sponge Bob pajama pants. Steam curled from a convenience store coffee cup on the counter. For two sleep-deprived people, they sure looked tense.

“It's your fault she ran off with that killer,” Fer was saying.

Travis shook his head. “Well, you let her go the first time.”

“It's your damn girlfriend's fault.”

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