Pieces of Camden (Hole-Hearted #1) (2 page)

Searing heat. The crackle of wood splintering and collapsing. The heaviness of the air choking my lungs. I wake up to a nightmare.

An all-encompassing fire flares and leaps in all directions. Orange embers twirl in a fiery dance while clouds of dark smoke wind itself around the room I’m staying in, making it difficult for me to see, let alone breathe.

I hack out a cough, waving my hand in front of my face in a futile attempt to identify what’s ahead of me.

Smoke. Fire. Hell. That’s all there is.

From a distance, sirens grow louder as the firefighters race toward me and the burning building, but the idea of them entering the building is ludicrous. An abandoned building where only squatters stay. No one worth risking a life for. No one worth saving.

With my shirt clamped over my mouth and nose, I run, not knowing if I’m running toward safety or more danger. But running’s better than sitting and waiting for death.

A wall of heat meets my desperate escape, threatening to burn my lungs before the fire even touches my skin.

Falling to my knees, saliva drips from my mouth onto the floor. My body weeps at the blazing storm nearing me, the weight of the smoke settling in the silent corners of defeat. My frantic heart roars, refusing to give up, as darkness clings to me, threatening me with the truth.

The fire’s too big, too wild. And I know…the fire will devour me, and all they’ll find of me will be ashes.

Finally, I’ll be set free.

TWO

YANELYS

NINE YEARS OLD

Yanelys Sanchez + Camden Riley = 4-ever

I scribble that all over the outside of my journal until every inch is covered in our names. When Camden walks into my room, I show him my work, and he nods, a stray strand of his dark hair falling over his forehead and into one of his bright blue eyes.

Camden isn’t just my best friend. He’s also the boy I’m going to marry. My parents think I’m silly for thinking these thoughts, but my heart knows. And Camden…well, he doesn’t like the idea of getting married—to anyone, not just me. He thinks people come to hate each other when they get married, but I know that’s not how it works. I
promise
him, that’s not how it works.

His parents hate each other because they’re hateful people. They probably hate the sun for shining too brightly or the night sky for being too dark.

Hateful, mean, horrible people.

Not at all like Camden, who lets happiness in, even when he’s in his darkest place.

I hate his parents. More, I hate that I can’t protect him and that he won’t let me. I know his secrets. Sharing them and his pain is one of the things that brought us close to each other. It also made us grow up faster than the other nine-year-olds we know.

No matter how old we are right now, I know my feelings are real and that we’ll always be together.

“Do you ever think about running away?” I ask him. My attention goes to the inside of my journal that details my everyday life, mostly with Camden.

“I used to.”

I don’t look up, but I feel him shrug his shoulders.

“Why’d you stop?”

“I met you.” His voice is calm, confident, but he shuffles his feet, his uncertainty bouncing between us.

“I’d run away with you.” I look up from my journal into his unsmiling face and wring my hands together on my lap, anticipating his reply.

“Your parents would find you.” Camden’s matter-of-fact tone makes my heart hurt.

“We could go somewhere they’d never find me.”

“Your parents love you.” He flinches on the word
love
, as if it were a bad word that left a sour taste in his mouth. “They’ll always find you.”

“That’s true.” It’s my turn to shrug my shoulders.

I want him to believe me, to know I’d do anything for him, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I lean my body over my desk to scribble on my journal, but my eyes stay trained on Camden.

“I love you, Cam, which means I’ll always find you, too.”

Camden exhales a loud breath, his nose whistling in the process. “One day, I’ll leave, Yan,” he says, his eyes looking away from me and toward a future I can’t see. A future he doesn’t want me to see. “When I do, no one will find me.”

“I will.” Turning, I cup his chin with my hand, making him look at me, but after a short second, his eyes dart to the corner of my room.

“I’ll make it so that even I can’t find me.” Defiantly, he folds his arms over his chest and continues to look away from me.

“
I’ll
always find you.”

He opens his mouth to answer, probably another smart retort, but stops when his cell phone chirps. The angry ring drains him of the will to speak. I know that look, and I know what it means.

“Will you come over tonight?” I ask him, knowing I’ll leave the window to my bedroom open regardless of his answer.

“Yeah,” he breathes.

He’s still not looking at me, but I see the dread building behind his eyes, and just once, I wish I could save him.

“You really think we could do it?” he asks.

Immediately knowing what he’s talking about, my heart fills with fear. Not for myself or for Camden. But for my parents and the idea of them waking up one morning to find me missing. I’d do it for Camden though. To keep him safe. To keep him with me.

“Sure.” I smile.

“Then, you’re stupider than me.” He walks out of my room without even looking at me or acknowledging the tears suddenly falling down my face.

I’m not stupid
, I think, balling my hands into tight fists.
I’m just a girl desperately in love with a boy who’s hurting more than I can bear.

After dinner, I take a quick shower and brush my teeth. I do it all without argument because I’m ready to go to bed. I’m ready to wait for Camden to sneak into my bedroom and lie with me in bed.

What I’m not ready for is the bruise beneath his left eye. No matter how angry his parents get, they never mark him somewhere others can see. Never. It’s like some unspoken law between them.

Brushing the covers to the side, I swing my legs over the bed. With two long steps, I’m by my window, lightly touching Camden’s face, while he looks at anything but me. My thumb runs over the blue bruise that can no longer hide the hurt. The filthy stain of his parents’ hatred runs across his face.

Camden stands there, motionless, aside from the rise and fall of his chest.

I’ve never kissed him before, but he looks so lost, so sad, so alone. With my heart thundering in my ears, I place my lips on his cheek, and I’m surprised when he puts his arms around me. I hug him back, wanting to take away the hurt and the fear, but he winces when I hold on to him too tightly.

“I’m okay,” he reassures me.

But I know better. He’ll never be okay as long as he lives with his mom and dad.

“What did he do?” I ask, referring to his dad.

His mom’s just as awful as his dad, but it’s usually his dad who delivers the beatings while his mom watches with a glass of wine in her hand.

“Can we just lie down?” Camden looks at my bed with longing, his eyes unblinking, as he shrinks away from his reality.

I already know I could never say no to him. No matter what he wants, my answer will always be yes.

Take his hand in mine, I lead us to my bed where I climb in first and then scoot to the other side so that Camden has room to lie down. With slow movements, Camden gets into bed with me and lowers himself, hissing in pain as he lies flat on his back. My hand reaches for his again, and our fingers lock onto one another. My chest aches as I listen to Camden’s silent pleas, calling me, pulling me to him.

“Tonight, can we play pretend?” he asks me.

I nod even though I want to ask him about what hurt when I hugged him and again when he lay down.

“What are we pretending?”

“Tonight, I want to be a white knight in shining armor.”

Sadness hits me. My amazing Camden—who’s already my white knight, braver than any other knight out there because he fights dragons every day—has no idea who he is.

Playing along with him, I ask, “What’s your horse’s name?”

His body shifts slightly, and pain temporarily crosses his face as he tries to readjust himself into a more comfortable position.

“All knights have horses,” I explain. “So, what’s your horse’s name?”

He thinks about it for a long time, and when he comes up with a name, a beautiful big smile spreads across his face, his eyes lighting with joy.

“Stark,” he replies.

I roll my eyes. “You can’t name your horse after Tony Stark.”

“I just did.”

“Whatever.” My eyes roll back again, but I lean my body closer to his so that my breath lands on his bruised cheek. “Do you and Stark save princesses?”

“No.” He shakes his head once, disgust crossing his face before he faces me. “Saving people is stupid.”

“What kind of knight doesn’t save people?” My brows furrow in question.

Camden sighs and turns his attention to my ceiling. “Yan, in the real world, the knight doesn’t become a knight to save anyone but himself. No one cares about him or sees him until he becomes a knight.”

Emotion crosses over his face, pain darkening his eyes. My face drains as I take in and absorb his words.

“That’s not true, Cam.” I give his fingers, still interlaced with mine, a quick squeeze to make sure I have his attention. “I see him. I care.”

Camden squeezes my fingers in return and then turns his whole body so that he’s lying on his side. His chest heaves from the pain and exertion, but the only way Camden can fall asleep is on his side. Our faces are close enough to each other that our noses touch, and our breaths unite us.

When Camden closes his eyes, I reach over to him, and my fingers comb through his medium-length hair.

“I care, Cam,” I repeat to him. “Don’t you ever forget it.”

He opens his eyes and stares at me for a long time before he shuts them again. On a whisper, he says, “I care, too, Yan.”

THREE

CAMDEN

Walls and smoke surround me. The smoke has hands that lash out and grip me, throw me, hit me. Rather than choke me, they beat me, blaming me for living. The smoke then turns into
them
, and his hatred consumes me while her screams make me cower.

I am nothing.

Nothing but a worthless burden.

A scream echoes in the distance, and I hear a boy crying into the night, begging for help. His pain, his loneliness, and fear are mine so I follow it through the thickening cloud of smoke until I’m kneeling in front of a little boy. Dark curls cover his bruised cheek while tear-filled, bloodshot eyes look up at me.

“You’re not alone,” I tell him. “You still have her.”

You’re not alone
yet
. You still have her. But, one day, you won’t. Only then will you truly know what loneliness feels like.

Although I keep those words to myself, the boy hears them anyway. It’s too much for him to carry, and he cups his hands over his ears and screams while the smoke strikes at both of us, whipping us, leaving marks on our backs and chests.

I pick him up and run, but I can’t save us. Men and boys like us can’t be saved.

“I’m not here to save you.”

A light reaches toward us, and when it morphs into delicate long fingers and touches my cheek, I lean into it, needing her. Shivers ripple down my spine as my heart focuses on her.

“I just want to make it hurt less.”

The boy climbs out of my arms and into hers, and she carries him away, leaving me alone, the same way I once left her. My heart rips from my chest and crashes onto the floor into a million pieces of agony.

With too much clarity, the veil lifts from my dream, and I repel against it, desperate to go back to Yanelys, wanting her to lessen the hurt the way she always did.

But my subconscious fights back until I’m lying on my back on a soft surface, staring at a white ceiling.

I blink several times and take a quick survey of my surroundings as I try to orient myself, but I can’t make out where I am—until I move my hands to sit up and find them bandaged with an IV sticking out of one arm.

Disbelief washes over me.

It wasn’t a dream. At least not all of it.

I cough to test my lungs and immediately wince in pain.

“Finally awake,” a man says. He stands from his chair on the other side of the room. When he crosses to my side, his wide frame looms over my bed, his familiar eyes brimming with the same love he unconditionally gave me as a child.

My eyes narrow in speculation, and when his pensive eyes meet mine, I drop my gaze as shame washes over me.

After a strangled moment, I say his name, “Santiago.” My voice is slightly above a strained whisper, so I cough again to clear my throat.

“Stop coughing,” he instructs. “You’re only making it worse.”

“I was in a fire?” I ask.

He nods.

“And now?” Tension eases into my shoulders, my heart slamming a thunderous beat in my chest.

Santiago smirks and lays a gentle hand on my left shoulder. His hand stays there, barely touching the fabric of my hospital gown that hides even more bandages.

“You’re in the hospital, Cam.” His grim eyes meet mine. “You’re not dead—at least, not yet. When Yan sees you, she might fix that for you.”