Page 9 of Echoes in the Storm
I’m totally fucked.
One social interaction with somebody who genuinely wants to help, and I’m a thousand miles away again, wondering who is really a friend and who is a foe.
Nobody can be trusted—it’s a lesson I learnt the hard way.
Especially not myself.
Cammie
That man has some serious walls stacked up around him. I rub my arms as I head back to the car, partly from the chill of the night, but mostly from the apprehension he causes me.
I’ve always been the kind of person who can’t sit idly by and watch somebody struggle when I’m perfectly able to help. But shit, I think Mum might be right: my empathy will be the death of me.
I can’t pick what it is about the guy that makes me wary of him, just that it’s not a fear-for-your-life kind of panic. More like I’m waiting for him to destroy me emotionally as a person before he vanishes as quickly as he appeared in our neck of the woods.
I know why I offered to drive him into town. It wasn’t purely for his safety. It was because a forty-minute round trip, plus however long it takes to find him a place for the night, gives me the distraction I search for day-in, day-out. Half an hour, an hour. However long it takes to sort out Duke is less time I have to spend lying in the dark, lamenting the silence.
It was never quiet before. I never appreciated that until all I was left with were the echoes of my thoughts.
He sits on the porch as I bring the Beamer up to my parking spot beside the house. Military-style boots leave me wondering what his history is, why a clearly fit and regimented man sits lost on the porch of a weathered old villa, presumably miles from home.
His dark and cautious gaze tracks me as I walk toward him, turning my keys over in my hand to find the right one.
“Would you like a drink?” I slot the key in the lock and twist. “You’re probably thirsty, given how warm it was today. I’ve got most things in the fridge, so take your pick.”
He rises as I push the door open, and just stands there.
I take a step inside as I hold his firm stare. The way he looks at me, it’s as though he’s waiting on me to work something out for him.Of course.
“I’m such a moron,” I say with a nervous chuckle. “You’ve been out there all afternoon; you’re probably starving.”
He swallows, his chest rising with the deep breath he takes. “Now that you mention it, I am kind of hungry. But I can wait until we get into town.”
Something switches behind his gaze, a frustrated rage igniting, yet carefully contained as he steps forward. I move back to let him in, contemplating leaving the door open in case I need a fast exit. Yet as I study the stiff set of his shoulders as he stands in my entryway, bag in hand and back to me, I realise that rage is centred inward; he doesn’t meanmeharm.
Just himself.
Sad.
“I’m afraid that although I can cook, I’m not much of a foodie, so the options are a bit limited.” I chuckle as I shut the door, mentally scolding myself for coming across as such a giggly mess. “I can offer packet pasta, a couple of microwave meals, and, if you’re lucky, I might have some bacon in the freezer to go with eggs on toast.”
His lips curl up a little on one side as he drops his bag.Was that a smile?“I’d be happy with dry toast, so whatever you can spare is appreciated.”
“Come on,” I scoff. “I’m not that Mother Hubbard.” I wave him through with me and lead the way to the kitchen.
He takes a seat at one of my two barstools as I busy myself preparing what I’m sure will be killer scrambled eggs.
“So how far did you have left to go?” I ask as I set the pan on the stove.
“You mean, how far am I from home?”
“Yeah.” I pull out a stainless-steel bowl and set it down.
“About three hours.” He traces a finger across the counter, his eyes glazed as he watches its path.
“Yeah?” I crack the eggs in, adding herbs and salt, and my favourite: dry bacon bits. “North, south, west …”
“West.” He watches my movements as I pour the egg mixture into the pan and stir it around.