Camden Read online

  The next song was by someone she hadn't heard of and didn't know. She zoned out for a few minutes, her stomach rumbling. She'd need food soon. With a pre-paid Visa that was nearly tapped out, and sixty dollars plus the change in her pocket to last for who knew how long, she'd have to stay frugal. She didn't dare reach out to anyone else, not until she knew more about what was going on. She'd taken a chance leaving a message for her best friend, but at least she'd waited this long to do it.

  Levering herself off the bed, Yara searched inside her backpack for a bag of chips. Bingo. Breakfast of champions. The salt and powdered cheese hit her taste buds like a tsunami. Water. Where was her bottle of water?

  "Miami Police are losing hope of finding singing sensation Yara's remains."

  Yara stopped mid-crunch and lunged for the remote on the bed, turning the volume up on the TV.

  "The star was reported missing six weeks ago after disappearing in Biscayne Bay. Yara, born Yara Marie Bujold, was declared dead after three weeks of intense searching. Authorities say drugs and alcohol likely led to the singer drowning in the choppy waters of the bay. No foul play is suspected. Bujold had a meteoric rise to the top of the pop charts, despite her troubled personal life."

  "Oh, please," Yara scoffed. "God, people will believe anything."

  Her mobile phone rang, startling her.

  She answered and held her breath.

  "Yara?"

  "Siv." She exhaled a sigh of relief. "It's so good to hear your voice."

  "Shit, Yara," the other woman exclaimed. "I can't believe it's really you. It is really you, isn't it?"

  Yara smiled. "Yeah, Siv. It's me."

  "How do I know, though? That's it really you."

  "Um, well...you could ask me something only I would know."

  "This is so Law and Order."

  "Right? Go on. Ask."

  "Okay, well..."

  Yara could almost hear her thinking on the other end of the call.

  "What did I give you for your twenty-fifth birthday?"

  Yara laughed. The sensation was foreign to her after the last month and a half, and it brought tears to her eyes. God, she missed her life. Missed her family. Missed her friends.

  "You knew I wanted that Holzweiler bandanna that we saw at Nordstrom's, the two-hundred-dollar one."

  "I still can't believe it cost that much."

  "I know. But you found a similar one on Amazon for fifteen dollars and ordered it for me."

  "Only it wasn't one bandanna, it was ten."

  "Twelve," Yara corrected her. "And I still have ten of them. I'm wearing one right now."

  "Are you really?" There was a smile in Siv's voice that warmed Yara from the inside out. "You should send me a pic."

  And just like that, reality came crashing back in.

  "That's...not a good idea."

  "Oh." Siv's voice went quiet. "Right, sorry. Wasn't thinking."

  "It's okay."

  "It's not, Yar. If we're going to do this cloak and dagger shit, I need to be more careful. I don't want anything to happen to you. Anything else that is."

  The realization that she'd be rescued by some random stranger had kept her sticking to the shadows now. Her head down, and her eyes on the ground. The trouble with having such an unusual eye color was that it made you stand out. And you couldn't wear sunglasses all of the time, not without drawing attention to yourself.

  She'd picked up a cheap baseball cap.

  Between the baggy clothes and the absence of her long, chestnut hair, which she tied up in a bun before she went out, Yara barely recognized herself in the mirror.

  "I'm okay. I'm going into the city today."

  "To talk to those Skin guys?"

  "One of them, yes."

  The Skin Agency. Sounded mysterious, almost cool. When Yara had first learned of them, learned who they were and what they specialized in, her stomach turned sour. That a company could thrive on ruining people's lives for profit, the idea was unfathomable. She was convinced they'd been the ones to plant the fake stories about her party prowess, at Marcus Kaine's behest.

  "Are you sure that's such a great idea?" Siv asked quietly, fear clearly evident in her voice. "They're the reason you're in this mess."

  "Marcus is the reason I'm in this mess, Siv. He's the reason I'm walking around like the living dead. These guys, they're just minions."

  "I'm just so glad you're away from him," Siv all but whispered into the phone. "I've been watching the news, his interviews. He keeps Lacey glued to his side now."

  Lacey Sharp was nineteen years old. The same age Yara had been when Marcus found her slaving away over a fryer in a mall food court. He'd promised her the stars, and she'd fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.

  "Yeah." A shudder passed through her. "I'm worried about her too, but I want my life back. Without him in it. And maybe I can help Lacey and the others too, while I'm at it."

  "And you think the Skinner dude will help you? Why would he even want to?"

  Yara glanced over at her backpack. "He probably won't want to, but I'm not going to give him the option of saying no."

  "Meaning?"

  "Leave it to me."

  Siv sighed. "Yara, don't do anything stupid."

  "They made me out to be a junkie, Siv. They faked pictures, paid people to lie about me. All to keep me under Marcus's thumb. They stole my name. My identity. My voice. My fucking music."

  "I know," Siv replied, her voice filled with sympathy. "I know, baby girl. I can't believe some of the bullshit they're spinning. And people are eating it up."

  "I'll expose him. I'll get the truth out there, even if it kills me."

  "But doll," Siv said. "It might."

  Yara had nothing to say to that.

  "How are my parents?"

  "Distraught. Angry. Your father wants to have a memorial. Your mom says it's too soon."

  Yara hated the pain she knew she had to be causing her family. She smiled knowing how stubbornly her mother would hold on to any shred of hope, sending out a whisper of encouragement. Don't give up on me yet.

  "Mom is always right. Though it would be funny to see who showed up at my funeral."

  "Yara..."

  "Seriously, how many people get to attend their own wake?" Yara laughed. It sounded brittle to her own ears.

  "It's not fucking funny, Yar." The voice on the phone seemed to shatter into a thousand pieces. Yara heard Siv sniffle and longed to hug her, to comfort her.

  "Shit, Siv, I'm sorry." She ran her hand over the bandanna covering her hair. "I'm a little slap happy. Haven't slept more than a few hours a night for the last month or so."

  "I know. Do you have enough money? I could wire you some more."

  Yara wanted to say yes. She was desperately low on funds, but she had to stick to her plan.

  "It's too risky, I'll manage. Besides, it's only for a little while longer."

  "What're you going to do? Walk into your local TV station and announce your return from the dead?"

  "Maybe, I dunno. First I have to deal with Camden Skinner."

  "Are you going to his office?"

  "No. Apparently, he owns a bar. I'm going to scope that out, see if I can catch him there."

  "That actually makes me feel better," Siv said, her voice a bit brighter. "Public place, and all."

  Yara glanced at the ancient clock on the nightstand. "I don't have many minutes left on this phone, so I'm gonna go."

  "Oh, okay. Be careful, yeah?" Siv's voice broke her heart. Of all the people in the world, Yara was glad she was the one who knew she was still alive. She'd made the right decision in telling her.

  "I will. Keep an eye on my folks."

  "Of course! See you soon, I hope."

  "Absolutely, you will."

  Ending the call, Yara plugged the phone back in, wanting to top-up the charge while she showered and brushed her teeth. Her jeans were badly in need of washing. They could practically stand up on their own, but she climbed back into t
hem and added all the layers - t-shirt, hoodie, hat, glasses - that had become her armor. Packing everything else back into her knapsack, she hoisted it onto her shoulder and headed out. Check-out time was noon, and she wasn't sure she'd be back at this particular roach motel.

  She decided to head into the city. It was big enough for her to get lost in for a few hours. And she had time to kill before she stood face-to-face with one of the men that had helped to ruin her.

  Jesus.

  There were so many ways for that encounter to go.

  But there was only one way she needed it to end. Camden Skinner had to help her. He had to. Otherwise, her life really was over.

  Four

  The pub was a little piece of Scotland in Cam's adopted hometown.

  Philadelphia was a mosaic formed by little chunks of far away cultures and lands. Skinner's fit right in. Warm and welcoming, with framed pictures of Highland heather on wood-paneled walls, it was gleaming oak and polished brass. Comfort food to stave off your hunger and ale to quench your thirst.

  Cam had opened the pub less than a year ago after he and Pierce had landed a particularly big client.

  His brother had bought a Bugatti, but Cam had wanted a place to call his own, a place he could relax and feel at home. His condo, though spacious and well-appointed, felt cold. Empty. Because it was. He'd not had the time to invest in anything serious with any of the women he met. Truth be told, he hadn't met anyone he'd even wanted to get serious with.

  Skinner's had become a surrogate for Cam's social life. Within its walls, he could relax a bit. Unclench. Be Cam the bartender and not Camden the hired gun. There, he could reclaim a bit of his old self. For a few hours, anyway.

  It was fitting that, not long after he'd decided to turn a new page, one of his oldest friends happened to stroll into the bar unannounced.

  "Well, look who finally decided to drop in."

  Cam smiled wide at the sight of the six-foot-four bruiser walking his way. He rounded the bar and met the man in the middle.

  "Yo, Cam." Constantine Zimin, professional ice hockey phenom, pulled Cam in for a hug. "How are ya?"

  "I'm good, thanks."

  Cam had known Zim since their days at university. He'd been rink-side for Zim's development into a world-class hockey player and had watched his career with pride. Always good for a laugh, Zim smiled and followed him further inside.

  "When I saw you back in July, you said you would come check out my new place."

  Zim rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, sorry about not getting over here sooner. But I'm here now."

  "Better late than never."

  He led Zim to the end of the bar, where the latter took the stool on the end and picked up a menu.

  Cam continued around and through the opening until he stood on the other side. He placed a coaster on the bar top and braced his arms there awaiting Zim's stamp of approval. With Pierce's open disdain for the place, Cam was looking for a little validation.

  "So, what do you think?"

  "It's nice, Cam. Really." Zim flipped the menu over. "Whoa. Especially this big-ass list of what's on tap."

  Camden laughed. "You know me. I love my ale. Fancy anything in particular? Or you want me to make a suggestion?"

  "Gimme something dark."

  "A stout?" Cam had already grabbed a pint glass. Etched with the Skinner family crest, they were a particular point of pride.

  "That'll work." Zim nodded. "So, what made you decide to open a pub? Are things slow with Skin?"

  Cam grunted. "Skin is fine."

  Zim arched an eyebrow, watching Cam as he pulled a practiced pint of Belhaven. The creamy head floating over the dark chocolate ale always made for a pretty picture.

  "And Pierce?"

  He shrugged one shoulder. "Pierce is Pierce."

  Cam wasn't in the mood to talk about his brother or Skin, and Zim wasn't one to press. One of the many things Cam liked about him.

  He scraped off some of the foam head and set the glass down in front of Zim. Folding his arms, he waited for him to take a sip.

  Zim's eyes rolled into the back of his head. "Fuck."

  Cam smiled. "Aye. S'good, right?"

  "Perfect, thanks."

  He watched as Zim's dark eyes took in the rest of the pub.

  Cam had wanted the place to feel authentic, so he'd designed private spaces into the room. Darkened booths, velvet-covered benches, and upholstered leather chairs filled every nook and cranny.

  Zim frowned. "Did you just open for the day?"

  "We were slammed for lunch from noon to two, but there won't be anyone in here again until around five when happy hour starts. After that, we'll have a steady crowd until we close."

  There were only a few other people in the bar, which was totally manageable for Cam while he was by himself. The second shift would be in soon enough to handle the evening crowd.

  "So, what have you been doing with yerself all summer?" Cam leaned against the back counter.

  "Did some work with a youth hockey camp up in the Poconos, and there's a college kid in my neighborhood that I've been working with too." Zim took a sip of his beer, closing his eyes to savor it. "Damn, that's good."

  "Thanks," Cam replied, pleased. "You think you might coach when you retire?"

  "I hadn't thought about it, but I did enjoy working with the kids."

  "I bet the youngins' were thrilled to skate with a Cup champion."

  Zim shrugged. "I didn't even bring it up. When they did mention it, I made sure they knew it took a hell of a lot of work to get your hands on that trophy."

  Cam chuckled. Zim was the only guy he knew who would downplay winning the Hockey League Cup, with an expansion team from New Orleans, no less.

  "Oh, I'm sure ye did."

  "Meaning?"

  Cam grabbed a rag from behind the counter. He chose his words carefully as he wiped down the bar-top.

  "You and my nagshead brother, both so focused on what you want to do you don't stop to appreciate what you've done. What you've accomplished."

  "I do appreciate it," Zim argued. "I just don't go around bragging about it. I didn't win the Cup by myself."

  "No one said ye did, mate," Cam ran a hand through his hair. "Anyway...did you manage to have any fun on your break? You're heading back down for training soon, right?"

  Zim nodded. Barely. "The camp was fun."

  "That's not the kind of fun I mean. Tell me you at least got laid." Cam crossed his arms, studying the other man. "I can't imagine the amount of play you can get after winning something like that."

  "No comment. But, hey, I get the Cup all to myself in a few days. I could let you borrow it," Zim joked. "Use it for a pussy magnet."

  "As if I need a fecking trophy for that."

  Zim lifted his glass. "Touché."

  Cam tilted his head in acknowledgment. Zim was a good guy. One of the best, in his opinion. He'd always thought he'd make it far and knew it wouldn't go to his head. There he stood, the winner of one of the biggest trophies in sports, and he was the same old Zim.

  Cam wondered how much of the old Cam was left after seven years of Skin. Wondered if there was any coming back from some of the shit he'd done in the name of profit. He had to do better. Be better. Zim was the model of the man he hoped to be. Which reminded him...

  "Hey, you mentioned something about starting a foundation? In Mila's memory?"

  Zim nodded, wiping his lips. "Yeah."

  Zim's twin had passed away when they were seventeen. As much as they butted heads, Cam didn't know what he'd do if he ever lost Pierce. The very thought cut right through him like a knife.

  "I think that's fantastic, mate. How is it coming together? Do you need anything from me? I have a lot of connections, you know."

  "You do, don't you?" Zim eyed him. Cam could see his mind shifting gears. "I'll be sure to pick your brain about that. But, yeah, things are coming together. I'm trying to get it off the ground before I leave. Eva, my attorney, she's got the
legal stuff under control. My job is to talk to the beneficiary."

  "Have you chosen one?"

  "Yeah, and I have a meeting with them tomorrow before we hold a benefit announcing the venture."

  Cam nodded, already thinking of ways to get involved. "Good, good. I'm sure they'll appreciate the help."

  Bodies pouring through the door drew his attention, and he glanced at his watch.

  "That'll be five o'clock."

  It was the happy hour crowd. Not Cam's favorite customers, but their money was green. He didn't really need Skinner's to be solvent, but it sure made him feel good to turn a profit with the place. To be able to employ people with work that was honest, if not noble.

  On cue, Kristoffer emerged from the back room. He was a Penn student, over from Oslo for a year of study. The kid barely looked twenty-one, and Cam had initially hesitated when he'd applied for the job, but he was an efficient employee.

  Camden watched with some amusement as the six-foot, ungainly blond wove his way between the tables and over to the new arrivals. The women were already checking him out, no doubt trying to decide if he were legal. As usual, Kris was oblivious.

  "That one," Cam nodded over toward the waiter. "He's as clueless as you are when it comes to the fairer sex."

  Zim turned slowly back to him. "Clueless? I'm not fucking clueless, dude, I just...I don't have time for games. Women play games. Hell, men play games too."

  "Some games are fun." Cam grinned wide, leaning in conspiratorially. "Say you go over to that table, right? That redhead's a pretty one. You could go over there, introduce yourself, tell 'em you're friends with the owner. Offer 'em a drink. On you, of course."

  "Of course." Zim rolled his eyes.

  "Ask what they do - lawyers, by the look of them." Cam tried to keep the disgust out of his voice, really he did. "They ask what you do, and you tell them." He snapped his fingers. "Instant damp panties, mate."

  "Jesus." Zim chuckled.

  "What?" Cam held his arms wide, feigning innocence. This felt good, this banter. He was just a regular guy poking fun at a mate. This is what he wanted. Needed.

  "I don't need tips on how to pick up women, Cam."

  He didn't. A personality transplant, perhaps. The guy was wound pretty tightly.