And if they did—would anyone even believe me?
I had too many questions. Most of them starting with why.
Erich pushed himself to his feet. “We should figure out where we’re staying before the town wakes up and someone decides to talk.”
I stood as well. “Lead the way.”
My smile didn’t reach my eyes, but I forced it anyway.
Chapter 7 – Camille
Night came quickly. I spent a lot of the day watching “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” on the tiny TV provided by the motel we were staying at, and Erich used the time to make trips down to the lobby or laundry room to scavenge through and steal other people’s clothes after his four-hour nap. It was about 7:00 at night when he brought me a short red dress and a pair of sandals, with a somewhat comical, lopsided grin.
“This was the best I could do,” he explained, dropping them on the bed for me. “You should put the jacket over it in case someone realizes it’s theirs.”
That was the least of my concerns. “Where did you find sandals?” I asked, holding one up with the tips of my fingers to examine it like it was carrying a disease I could catch. It was cute, but cheap. Highly likely a box-store shoe made by the millions and sold at JCPenney. It was brown with elegant strapsand fake diamonds on the front, open to show my toes. It wasn’t so much a beach sandal as it was a casual outing sandal.
“Lost and found,” he answered, though I couldn’t quite tell if it was pride or if he knew it was ridiculous. “I wasn’t sure on your size, but they were the only pair of shoes down there, and I wasn’t about to walk into someone’s room to find any.”
So he did draw the line somewhere. I slipped one on my bare foot. They were a little small. The straps were tight across the front, but they would do for a few hours, and I wasn’t too concerned about blisters considering the alternative was showing up in socks. I took it off and picked up the red dress to inspect it.
The dress was surprisingly gorgeous. It was short, tight around the hips, with spaghetti straps. It must have been someone’s cocktail dress—maybe worn to nightclubs or casual business outings at a nice restaurant with a posh bar.
“Thank you. It’s perfect.” I smiled politely, forgetting I had told myself I would try to avoid using manners and common courtesy around him.
It was as if I hadn’t said anything. He didn’t respond to my “thank you” as he fixed his hair in the mirror. Even though it had been less than a day since we met, I was starting to get used to the way he brushed off my courtesies. I lifted myself off the bed and took my new outfit into the bathroom to change.
The motel was fairly nice despite the bargain price. I assumed it was because we were in a smaller town without much traffic. It wasn’t dirty like I had imagined most motels to be. It had one bed, the TV, a worn couch, a tiny bathroom, and a kitchenette. It was built to feel like a small home away from home, for lack of better words. I imagined the kids who did escape this town would stay here when they came back for weddings or funerals.
I shut the door behind me and examined myself in the mirror above the sink. My neck was horribly bruised from last night—swollen red speckling the outline of bite marks, purple where Reed’s fingers had gripped. There was no doubt the bruising would darken over the next few days, then fade to yellow until I could begin the process of forgetting it. I had bags under my eyes, and my lips were chapped and broken. In short, I was a train wreck and had no way of fixing it.
Why hadn’t Erich said anything about my appearance? He seemed blunt, and I got the impression he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt my feelings if it meant saying what he thought.
I set the dress and sandals on the counter and stepped back out, hiding half my body behind the bathroom door. Erich was straightening his jacket when his eyes met mine in the mirror. He turned to face me.
I made a small motion toward my neck, trying to appear casual. “How should I get rid of these?” I asked. I assumed he could see them clearly from where he stood. Seeing myself in the mirror, I looked like the undead.
“Shit. I didn’t think of that,” he muttered. “Do they hurt? Do you want to stay here instead?”
I shook my head. “I can cover them. I just need something to do it with. I can get creative.”
The truth was, I didn’t want to show him how weak I was. I needed to prove I could keep up. Maybe more to myself than to him, but that was a different issue.
“I think you should take the night to recover. Ice them. Get the swelling down.” His eyes flicked between mine and the bruises.
“I want to go out tonight and start as soon as I can,” I insisted, tightening my grip on the bathroom door. Even if he was right, what would I do stuck in this room all night? Watch more TV and sleep? I would rather learn from him and leavebefore he realized who I was. I didn’t know him well enough to trust that he wouldn’t turn me in if he saw my face on a missing poster.
Without another word, Erich walked past me and out the door. A few minutes later, he came back with a small purple bag, zipped shut. My eyes widened, and I was about to ask how he got someone’s makeup bag when he placed it in my hands and shook his head.
“The lady at the front desk was happy to help when I told her my wife forgot her makeup,” he said. “She needs to go easy on it anyway—her face is basically painted on.” He turned away, checking his wallet and belongings. “She just said to return it later.”
I was impressed. I had no idea how easily he could slip into a role like that. He was observant, too. The tally in my head was starting to even out for the street-smart criminal who helped me escape my nightmare hometown.
I went back into the bathroom and opened the bag. Blush, foundation, eyeshadow, lipstick, eyeliner, mascara—plenty to work with. Thankfully, I knew what I was doing. My mother had insisted I learn at a young age.
I started with my neck, blending eyeshadow shades to match my skin and hide the marks. It took time to find the right tones and make sure they wouldn’t smudge. Then I worked on the foundation, trying to keep it from shining too yellow against my pale skin. After that came the rest—eyeliner, mascara, blush, lipstick.
By the end, I was presentable. Less like I had crawled out of a grave, more like I was ready for a night out. I teased my hair around my shoulders to cover what I couldn’t conceal, grateful for its volume and thickness.
