Pieces of Camden (Hole-Hearted #1) (3 page)

His words fill me with panic, but the bastard just winks at me.

“Yan can’t see me. Santiago, please,” I plead with him, rubbing my bandaged hands over my face. Even with the dressing on my hands, I can feel more bandages on my face.

The fire, the flames that licked and taunted me, was bad. I should feel pain. The blissful numbness will eventually subside, and I know I’ll feel more than the emotional pain that grips my chest whenever I think of Yanelys. Agitated, I hit the button to my morphine drip, desperate to evade the unwanted agony.

It won’t be enough. It never is.

“That girl has worried about you every day since the day you disappeared. We all have,” he emphasizes and I shy away from him and his disappointed face. “If she knew I had seen you and didn’t say anything…” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t do that to her. Yan is my number one concern, Camden. There was a time when you topped that list too, but…”

“But now?” I ask, needing him to finish although fear of his oncoming words makes me quake.

“You left us,” he says simply. “You’re back now, not because you want to be but because fate brought you back to us. I still love you.” His jaw ticks as his brown eyes bore into me. “That’ll never change. Neither will the part where you turned away and never once called or reached out to us.”

“Santiago,” I start but don’t bother finishing. There are a thousand excuses I can give him, a million reasons, but right now they all seem insufficient. I clear my throat before I say, “Yan’s coming then?” My eyes dance around the room and I try to come up with a plan to escape.

“Not yet. I left her a voice mail to call me, but she hasn’t called me back. I told Carmen, though. I imagine they’re both on their way.” His strong fingers grip around my wrist and squeeze hard enough to get my attention. “Stop trying to get away, Cam. You’re not going anywhere.”

Hoping it’ll lighten the intensity in the room, I mutter, “Ballbuster,” under my breath.

Loud and unrestrained, his laughter radiates off the walls and crashes into me, the sadness in my soul growing with the sound.

“That would imply you had balls to bust, boy.” He laughs harder until his laughter turns into the small wheezes I’ve missed since I left. “Pretty sure you lost those when you walked out on your family and the girl who’s loved you since you two were just kids. She hasn’t stopped, ya know.”

In spite of myself, I find myself grinning at Santiago’s admission. He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father figure. There was a time when I didn’t just wish he were my dad, but I also secretly referred to him as that.

I take him in, fully assessing him for seven years’ worth of changes. The wrinkles on his face have deepened, and the gray hairs have become more pronounced, but he’s still Santiago. Physically fit, mentally aware, and with a smile spread across his face, as if he was always only seconds away from cracking his favorite joke.

It’s not until I see black residue beneath his normally clean fingernails that I finally ask him what he’s doing here.

“I was one of the guys called to the building you were in when it caught fire.”

“And you went in?” I want to yell at him, but my voice is still too hoarse to carry any strength. “By the time I woke up, it was an inferno. You can’t go into fires like that, Santiago. You have a family. Think about Yan and Carmen. What would they do if something happened to you?” My chest heaves while the words bleed out of my mouth in a frenzy of guilt and fear.

My heart slams against my ribs, and I press the button to release more morphine into my system, but nothing happens. Desperate, I press it again. When nothing drips down, Santiago takes the button away from me and gives me two Tylenols from the front pocket of his jeans.

They won’t help.

But I take them anyway.

“It’s my job, Cam,” he says, repeating the same words he once told me when I was a teenager, warning him not to go into burning houses.

I didn’t understand it back then, but after what I’ve experienced these past few years, I get it.

Santiago was born to make a difference. It doesn’t matter that he comes from a wealthy family or that he doesn’t have to work. It’s in his blood, the core of who he is—a good man with strong morals and a desire to help.

“I get that; I do.” With careful motion, my body leans forward and tries to sit up, but when I see the bed’s remote, I use it to prop me up. “But there was a lot of smoke. It would’ve been too dangerous. You swore, you never went into buildings that were too dangerous.”

Santiago rubs his hands over his face—a gesture I picked up from him and use often—and sits on my bed, resting his hand on my left foot.

“I don’t.” He squeezes my foot and looks at me before he shakes his head. “The fire was huge. It was out of our control. None of us were gonna go in until it’d died down, but, hell, Cam, I heard my baby girl scream.” His lips turn into a scowl, and he rubs his hands over his face once again. “I heard Yan screaming, and I didn’t have a choice.”

My eyes widen at his declaration, and fear burns into my lungs until I can’t breathe.

“Yan?” I whisper.

“She’s fine,” he reassures me, squeezing my foot again. “She left me a voice mail, telling me good night, while I was in the building, looking for her.”

“It wasn’t her then.” I breathe out a sigh of relief.

“It was her all right.” Creases spread at the corners of Santiago’s mouth, and he laughs.

Confused, I wait for him to continue.

“Yan wasn’t in the building with you, but you tell me, has she ever really left you?”

“No,” I whisper.

He shrugs, a simple lift and drop of his shoulders. “Somehow, she knew you were in there. Her spirit called to me because she wanted to make sure you got out safe.”

FOUR

YANELYS

ELEVEN YEARS OLD

“My mom would kill me if she knew we were eating this,” Camden whispers into my ear. He motions toward the pizza and soda my parents bought us.

“Then, we’ll make sure she doesn’t find out,” I whisper back.

A beautiful smile stretches across his face, his eyes dancing with anticipation.

My mom groans and leans back into her chair, rubbing her full stomach. “I think maybe we should have eaten after racing.”

My stomach lurches in response, but I don’t say anything. There’s no way I’d let a full or upset stomach stop me from going on the karts. It’s all Camden’s been talking about since my parents mentioned taking us kart racing for his birthday.

I wish that were all we were doing for his birthday. After I told my mom I wanted to make his birthday special because his parents usually forgot about it, she called his mom, Maureen, and planned a surprise party for him. With my help, she called his friends from school, bought burgers and hot dogs for his parents to barbeque, and ordered his cake. We picked up his cake this morning, and while I distracted Camden, my mom brought it into his house where Maureen hid it somewhere in the kitchen.

For Camden, I hope his parents won’t mess up his birthday. Just this once. My mom did so much to prepare for it, and I want him to have one birthday with nothing but good memories.

We’re off to a good start.

While we wait for my parents to throw away our trash, Camden picks out the kart he wants to drive—a black one that he says reminds him of the Death Star. I pick a blue one because it reminds me of Camden’s eyes.

“You’re obsessed with that color,” he jokes, pushing me to the side with his shoulder.

“It’s a good color.” I beam at his smiling face, not wanting the happiness of the day to ever leave him.

“All right, kids”—my dad rests one hand on my shoulder and the other on Camden’s—“who’s ready?”

My stomach tightens in both fear and excitement. I mean, I’ve never driven before, and now, I’m going to race. And the karts go really fast.

But my fear immediately vanishes, as if it never existed, when Camden shouts, “I am!”

“Cam wants the black kart, Dad.”

“Then, we’ll make sure he gets the black kart.” My dad winks at me and then ushers us forward with minimal pressure on our shoulders.

“Don’t be nervous.” Camden separates the hands I’ve subconsciously been wringing together and squeezes my fingers with his while we wait for our turn.

“I’m not nervous,” The lie falls easily from my lips and Camden narrows his eyes at me.

“Liar,” he says. “I’ll make sure you’re buckled in good, Yan. You’ll be okay.”

“It’s okay to be nervous,” my dad tells us. “Just never let it stop you from trying new things.”

“I’m not nervous,” I counter again.

My dad laughs. “Why would you be? You have Cam to take care of you.”

Camden’s eyes, blue and brilliant, level on me, and he puffs his chest out just a bit. I lean into him and rest my head on his shoulder, happy we’re the same height so that the motion isn’t awkward.

Ever since the night I kissed Camden’s cheek in my bedroom, we’ve been more affectionate with each other. When we were younger, it was always in secret. But then it was obvious his parents never showed him what it meant to be loved, so I started holding his hand in front of my parents one day. My mom suspiciously looked at me, and I knew she didn’t like it, but I held on to him tighter while his eyes nervously skated over the floor. My dad’s laughter broke the silence, and when he winked at us, I knew he’d talk to my mom. Like me, he saw Camden’s sadness, and he knew Camden needed someone to hold on to him, to ground him.

“We take care of each other,” I whisper.

He hugs me closer to his side.

As we wait our turn, Camden and I watch the karts drive by. My dad pretends to watch them as well, but he keeps glancing at us with a small smile on his face. My mom calls him an old romantic, and I know he’s picturing us walking down an aisle one day. I’m pretty sure he knows I dream about the same thing.

When we reach the front of the line, we give the attendant our tickets, and he points at a red kart for Camden to drive, but with a soft hand on his shoulder, my dad stops Camden from moving to it.

“It’s my boy’s birthday today,” my dad announces to the attendant.

Camden visibly stiffens at my dad’s words, but when I look at his face, all I see is surprise and wonder.

“He wants to drive the black kart.” My dad winks at Camden, who looks up at my dad in awe.

My heart swells with love and pride for my dad. No one remembers Camden or what he wants. That’s my job. It makes me happy to know that my parents love him as much as I do. Now, he knows it, too.

“Can Yan have the blue kart?” Camden asks the attendant, shuffling his feet.

“Sure, bud,” the attendant agrees.

“I’ll buckle you in,” Camden informs me. “Then, I’ll get in mine.”

My dad leaves us to get in his own kart. His watchful eyes track us as we make our way to my kart. Camden helps me in, and when I’m sitting down, he fastens my belt and tugs on it twice to make sure it’ll stay safely in place.

“Be careful, Yan.” His voice is serious while his eyes mirror the fear I had earlier.

“I’m fine, Cam.”

“You’re important.” He looks away from me after he utters those words, but our eyes meet before he speaks again, “Just be careful.”

Surprised, my mouth opens, but no words come out. Before I have time to fully process what he said, my dad’s excited voice booms in the arena, and my focus returns to my kart. I gently push the gas pedal and lurch forward with a giggle escaping my throat.

“Hit the pedal softer!” Camden shouts at me, his voice encouraging me to try again.

I do. After a couple of more false starts, I finally feel comfortable in my kart and push my foot down a bit harder, driving by Camden where I hear his laughter dancing in the air.

Halfway through my second lap, Camden flies by me, his obvious joy stays with me long after he rounds the corner and I no longer see him. I hit the accelerator harder, urging my kart forward, so I can see him and my dad battle out the last two laps.

My mom cheers us on from the sideline, and I imagine her alternating between her phone and a camera to take pictures of us.

On the final lap, my dad’s laugh mixes with Camden’s, their karts neck and neck. My dad leads, but Camden’s gaining, and I shout my encouragement at them. They battle for first position as they round out the last three turns, and a few feet before they cross the finish line, my dad’s kart visibly slows down, allowing Camden to take the win.

After parking, Camden jumps out of his kart and throws himself into my dad’s arms while my dad praises him for winning. Once I park and get out of my kart, I see Camden’s embarrassed shuffle, but my dad ignores it and tussles Camden’s curly dark hair, teasing him about cheating.

“Don’t be a sour loser, Santiago,” my mom chastises, putting an arm around Camden when we reach her. “I saw it, and Cam won.”

My dad leans in and presses a soft kiss on my mom’s lips.

Then, he puts his arm around Camden’s shoulders. “Next time, I’ll beat you. You just gotta tell me your secret about driving into the turns.”

“I don’t have a secret,” Camden answers, his smile never wavering.

“Fine, keep your secret to yourself,” my dad jokes, making Camden’s expression grow somber.

“Honest, Santiago, I don’t have a secret.”

My dad brings Camden closer to him and barks out a loud laugh. “Guess you’re just naturally good at racing then.”

The drive to Camden’s house is short. Too short.

Knowing what awaits us makes me feel like a terrible friend for not warning Camden in advance. But I promised my mom I wouldn’t, and I didn’t want to go back on my word. My dad continues to rave about Camden’s racing skills, so I look at the window and tune him out.

I only look at Camden when he takes my hand in his and squeezes. His brows crease together, and I smile at him, squeezing his hand back in reassurance. It’s our way of letting the other know we’re okay, but he continues to look at me to make sure I’m not lying, so I lean my head on his shoulder until the intensity leaves him.

“Yan?” Camden says my name under his breath when we arrive at his house where a little over a dozen cars line his driveway.