Chasing Castles (Finding Focus #2) Page 11

  “It’s still going to be a while before we have him cleaned up and ready for visitors. A nurse will be out to let you know when he’s in a room.”

  But he is going to wake up.

  He is going to be okay.

  And that is enough to keep my heart beating.

  “I’m gonna call and check on Carter,” I say to whoever’s listening as everyone watches the doctor go back behind the doors.

  Needing some fresh air and to hear my little boy’s voice, I step outside the emergency room doors and dial Ms. Becky’s number.

  “Cami?” she answers with worry in her voice.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “How’s Deacon?”

  “He’s . . . he’s gonna be fine,” I tell her, still needing to hear that for myself.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she says quietly.

  “How’s Carter?”

  “He’s good, sitting out at one of the tables talking to Mr. Wilson.”

  I laugh lightly, loving the picture of Carter sitting at Ms. Becky’s bakery, talking it up with Mr. Wilson. No telling what that conversation is about. “Can I talk to him?”

  “Sure, sweetie.”

  I can hear a rustle as she covers the phone lightly and calls to Carter, telling him I’m on the phone.

  “Mommy?” Carter’s little voice comes through, and it warms me more than the afternoon sun.

  “Hey, baby,” I say, closing my eyes as I try to rein in my emotions. “Are you bein’ good for Ms. Becky?”

  “Yep.”

  His adorable four-year-old voice is almost too much for me to handle sometimes. I love this age. He’s so smart and knows everything. I swear, he’s four going on forty sometimes, but he’s also still so small and impressionable. He soaks in everything he hears and sees, which often makes him act and sound just like the men in his life.

  “Someone will be there to get you soon, okay?”

  “Okay.” He pauses, but I can hear the hesitation there, and I wonder what he’s overheard through all of the chaos today. “Is Deke hurt?”

  “Yeah, baby,” I tell him because I’ve never been one to lie, especially to Carter. “But we just talked to the doctor, and he’s gonna be just fine.”

  “Does he have a bad boo boo?”

  “Yeah, on his leg.”

  “Is he getting’ stitches?”

  He knows all about stitches because my daddy hurt his hand working on the tractor a few months ago and had to have a few. Now, anytime he gets a cut, he’s worried about needing stitches.

  “Probably.”

  “That’s gonna hurt,” he says, and I can hear the worry.

  He loves Deacon so much, and his little heart is so tender.

  “You should go hold his hand,” he whispers.

  “I’ll see if they’ll let me,” I tell him, even though I know they’re probably already stitching him up as we speak.

  “I need to see him,” Carter demands.

  “Soon,” I promise.

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, baby,”

  “Love you.”

  “Put Ms. Becky back on the phone.”

  He sighs and then the phone is rustled again before Ms. Becky picks back up. I tell her that someone will be by to get Carter in the next couple of hours, and she tells me not to worry.

  I can’t help worrying, especially about Carter. He’s mine. Even though he’s surrounded by people who love him, he’s my responsibility. Sometimes, I feel like I’m overcompensating for the fact that his father isn’t in his life, but I can’t help it. The responsibility of loving him and caring for him is my most important job. Right now, my biggest concern is getting Deacon home to him.

  In less than a week, Deacon and I will be married, and he will be Carter’s father—the only one he’s ever known or needs to know. Deep inside, I know even if Deacon and I hadn’t made things work, he would’ve still been a constant in Carter’s life. The fact that our paths finally crossed again, and this time at a point where we’re both ready, makes me believe in fate and destiny and that everything happens for a reason.

  Camille

  Past

  THE DAY AFTER I GOT back from spending Christmas in French Settlement, I accepted Tristan’s offer to work the front desk in his gallery. I also accepted his offer to stay the night at his apartment, and our relationship instantly went from lukewarm to boiling. Tristan and I have great sex. We’re good in bed. Outside of bed, we’re okay. I’ve always heard that there’s a fine line between love and hate and that people in love fight passionately. I’m not sure if I’m in love with Tristan, but the passionate part is there. It’s been a learning experience, to say the least.

  “Rise and shine, Mon Cheri.” Tristan wakes me with kisses to my shoulder and neck before sweeping my hair to the side and moving down my naked back. The stubble on his chin tickles my side, and I can’t keep still any longer. I giggle and turn over, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  “Ah, there’s my beautiful angel,” he whispers before kissing the tip of my nose.

  I love when he wakes me like this. I don’t spend every night at Tristan’s apartment but, when I do stay over, he’s always so sweet in the mornings. He also loves morning sex, so it’s a win-win situation because I love sex with Tristan. I love the way he makes me feel. I’ve never felt so wanted and worshiped. It’s addictive.

  After we’ve both showered and had breakfast, Tristan reads the paper while sitting on the balcony outside of his bedroom and I get ready for work.

  “Are we riding together this morning?” I ask while pulling my hair up in a bun. I don’t have classes today, which means, I’ll be at the gallery.

  “Camille, you know how I feel about us arriving to work together.”

  I do, and I don’t like it. Occasionally, I’ll bring the subject up to see if he’s changed his mind. He doesn’t like it when I do that either. A couple of weeks ago, he accused me of playing house. It made me so mad I didn’t stay over for a week. I honestly had no plans of staying over ever again, because he made me feel childish. Then he showed up at my apartment, with an expensive bottle of wine, telling me how sorry he was and that he was stressed over an art deal that he’d been working day and night on.

  I know the gallery is stressful, so I forgave him. But, I don’t like feeling like a dirty secret, so I still push occasionally. It wouldn’t hurt for him to acknowledge our relationship in public.

  “I just don’t see what the big deal is,” I tell him.

  Tristan sighs and puts his newspaper down. “It’s tacky, and I’m growing very tired of you pushing me on this. I will not parade my personal life in front of my employees.”

  I finish getting ready, putting on a bracelet Tristan bought me and grab my purse. “You’re right; it’s much more tasteful to let them gossip about me fuckin’ the boss rather than you and I puttin’ up a united front.”

  He throws the paper onto the floor and is in front of me within seconds. His hands grab my waist tightly, pulling me against his chest. His mouth is so close to my ear that it makes me squirm, but he doesn’t let go.

  “You are fucking the boss. Don’t forget it.” He sucks on the skin just behind my ear long and hard, leaving a mark. Bastard. This isn’t some macho way to claim me as his; it’s his way of reminding me that he calls the shots here. “Now, get to work before I dock your pay for being late,” he commands.

  “You’re an asshole,” I mutter, as I walk out of the room.

  “Don’t forget to take your hair down, Camille. I’d hate for that hickey I just gave you to cause any problems today,” he calls after me.

  I ignore him and leave my hair up. Fuck him for trying to control and manipulate me like that. He may, technically, be my employer and my boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean I have to do what he says.

  I’m practically seething when I get downstairs, so instead of taking a streetcar or the bus, I decide to walk to work to give myself time to calm down. I welcome the morning sun an
d the interesting people I pass. They all help take my mind off Tristan and put me in a better mood.

  I hate it when we fight, but he can be so temperamental and pushy. I’ve never been one to let someone walk all over me. We’re both so stubborn, but we’re also passionate, especially when we make up. I guess that’s why our relationship works.

  After work, I take the bus to my apartment. Tristan wasn’t at the gallery very much today, and when he was, I did my best to avoid him. I’m just not in the mood to put up with him and a night alone should be good for both of us.

  Bright and early the next morning, I’m startled by a knock on my door. I check the peephole and sigh when I see that it’s Tristan. Opening the door, I greet him with an unamused expression and my hands on my hips.

  “Mon Cherie . . . Mon Cherie,” he grovels, wrapping his arms around me and hugging me tight. “Please forgive me.”

  “Forgive you for what?”

  “For being the controlling asshole that I am. I let my ego get the better of me again, and for that, I am truly sorry, Camille.” I watch for telltale signs of a lie because this seems to be a pattern with him. But he never breaks eye contact with me, and I want so badly to believe him.

  “I’m tired of these stupid fights, Tristan. If we’re going to be together, it has to be all or nothing. I won’t be your plaything. When you won’t be seen comin’ to work with me, it makes me feel dirty . . . like we’re doin’ somethin’ wrong,” I confess, leaning into him. Sometimes, when we argue like this, I wonder if he thinks I’m immature, but I can’t help what I feel.

  “Of course, my darling,” he whispers in between the kisses he’s placing on my neck. “You’re right, and I’m a fool to treat you like you’re anything less than the goddess you are.”

  That’s laying it on a bit thick, but who am I to stop him?

  He pulls back and reaches into his breast pocket. When his hand reappears, a necklace is dangling from his finger, sparkling in the early morning sun. It’s gold and covered with tiny diamonds that meet in the middle where a larger stone hangs. It’s not my style, but it is beautiful.

  “For you.” He unlatches the necklace and drapes it around my neck. Standing back, he admires it . . . and maybe me, as well. I’m not sure.

  “Thank you,” I tell him with sincerity, my fingers tracing the delicate chain. “But it’s not necessary. You don’t have to buy me somethin’ every time we fight.”

  “I bought it for you because I care deeply for you and I want you to have something beautiful to wear to your first gallery exhibit.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, trying not to get my hopes up because he’s mentioned showing some of my paintings before, numerous times, but it’s never happened.

  “I’m going to have a showcase at the gallery for your art. I’ve told you that.”

  “I know, but I . . .” My words drift away before I start another argument. “Thank you, Tristan.”

  Jumping into his arms, I let the anger from our fight fade away. I don’t want him to try to buy my affections, but if he’s seriously planning on showing my art, that must mean he respects me as an artist . . . and a girlfriend. Truthfully, that’s all I want.

  “Now, Mon Cherie,” he says, untangling my legs from his waist and placing me back on my feet. “I want you to go to your bedroom, take off your clothes, and wait for me.”

  His deep voice makes my entire body tingle, and the way he’s looking at me makes my heart race. I begin unbuttoning my blouse as I walk down the hall but stop when I hear him call my name.

  “Camille, leave the necklace on.”

  It’s funny, when I’m here in New Orleans, I can feel the twinge of being homesick, but it doesn’t bother me much. But when I’m in French Settlement, I often wonder what the heck I’m doing in New Orleans. I have to remind myself of Tristan and the gallery and everything I’ve accomplished since I left home . . . and none of that would’ve been possible had I never left.

  Sometimes, we have to do things because it’s what’s right for us, for the time we’re at in our lives.

  Today, I’m feeling particularly homesick, so before I make my much-needed phone call to Annie, I grab a latte and sit on a bench at the local park. It’s the closest I can get to actually having coffee with her at the plantation.

  “I was just tellin’ Sam that you’d better not miss our phone date,” she says instead of answering the phone with the traditional ‘hello’.

  “I’m glad I called then. I don’t need to be in the dog house,” I say, jokingly.

  “Like you’ve ever been in the dog house a day in your life,” she says with a laugh. I love her laugh; it’s almost as good as her hugs—able to mend a broken heart and right all the wrongs in the world when needed. “Alright, spill it,” she demands. “I can already tell somethin’s on your mind, and I want to know everything.”

  “I don’t know.” I sigh, trying to decide where to begin.

  “Is it school?”

  “No, school’s great. I mean, I’m super busy tryin’ to finish everything so I can graduate next semester, but I still love it.” I sigh again and pause. “I guess I’m just worried I’m losin’ my inspiration. I don’t know what to paint anymore. And when I do, it feels forced.” I groan at the admission and slump down on the bench.

  “Sounds like you need to take a break and relax a bit.”

  “That’d be amazing, but I just don’t have time. Tristan has me workin’ all day and night lately, helpin’ him get the gallery ready for a big-time local artist’s show. It’s not the work I mind. I find this side of the art world very interesting, but I hate that it’s zappin’ all my creative energy.”

  “So, when are you gonna have your opening night?”

  “I still don’t know. Tristan said he’s tryin’ to find a time for me on the calendar, but . . .” There’s no need to finish my sentence because it’s always the same. He’s been promising me my own show since we first met, but still nothing. I rarely ask him about it because I don’t want him to think that’s the only reason I’m with him. It’s not. He’s smart and handsome and great in bed. We have fun together when we’re not arguing, and he can be very sweet when he wants to be. It just bugs me that he doesn’t seem to respect, or even like, my art . . . not like he used to, anyway. I mean, it’s what brought us together in the first place.

  “Well, then what else is botherin’ you? And if you say nothin’, I might whip you.”

  I can’t help but laugh. I wouldn’t put it past her to drive down here and set me straight if I needed it.

  I let out another deep sigh. “I think I’m just havin’ one of those moments where I question every decision I’ve ever made.” I try to laugh so that my words don’t sound so heavy, but it falls flat.

  She’s quiet for a couple of minutes before she says, “I thought you were happy in New Orleans?”

  “I am. On most days.”

  “And the days you’re not?”

  “I miss home.”

  “Then come home,” she says like it’s such an easy thing to do.

  “I can’t just leave, and besides, I love it here. I do.”

  “Then what’s goin’ on that makes you unhappy? Does this have anything to do with Tristan?” She says his name like she’s trying it out, not wanting to commit to it, and I feel awful for not sharing more of this part of my life with her. “Tell me about him. All I know is that he owns a gallery.”

  “Well, his parents own it. He runs it for them.”

  “And?”

  “And, he’s great . . . on most days.”

  “And the days he’s not?” she asks. Her voice takes a sudden turn and doesn’t sound like her usual chipper tone.

  “I don’t know,” I hesitate. I hate this because I do care for Tristan and I don’t want to talk badly about him, especially to Annie, because I want her to like him, but everything that’s wanting to come out of my mouth right now would solidify her opinion of him.

  “You can tell m
e, Cami . . . and you know, it always stays right here,” she says, reassuring me.

  “We argue a lot,” I admit. “Not all the time, but occasionally, and the times we’re not arguing, I feel like I’m biting my tongue to keep from starting somethin’. Lately, I feel like I can’t do anything right by him. He never takes an interest in my art anymore, and if I do show him something, he has something critical to say. But then there are days when I feel like he gets me and appreciates me, as an artist and as a girlfriend. I’m just not sure what to do.”

  “Well,” she begins. I can tell she’s trying to be diplomatic. “Relationships are never easy. And with love comes passion, and sometimes, that means arguments, especially when you’re trying to figure each other out.”

  Yeah, I get that.

  “But, Cami, honey,” she continues. “No matter what, you’ve got to stay true to you. Don’t let him dull your shine. If it’s not working out, it’s not working out. You can’t fit a square peg in a round hole.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. You just gotta love Annie’s analogies. But it makes sense. And I guess it’s up to me to decide if Tristan is a square peg or not . . . or am I the peg? I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out. I have to, because if I don’t, I might just lose myself, and I refuse to let that happen.

  I’m Camille Benoit.

  I might bend, but I won’t break.

  “I’m so excited to see Tucker perform tonight,” I tell Tristan as I step out of my work clothes and walk into his closet.

  “I can tell,” he replies. “I can’t even remember the last time I’ve seen you so happy.”

  Even though he can’t see me, I still roll my eyes and try to ignore the resentment in his tone. I refuse to feel guilty for being happy about seeing my brother tonight. And, as far as the last time I was this happy, I know exactly when it was. It was a few months ago, on the opening night of my show. That night was a dream come true and has brought some new opportunities for me, but I know not to bring it up to Tristan right now. It would just put him in an even worse mood.