Camden (The Henchmen MC 18)

"Vibes like death?" I repeated, brows furrowing.

"Yeah, I mean, he's got this lethal aura around him."

"Well, I mean, he is Cam. Camden. And he is a biker. I wouldn't say he has a death vibe. He's been really sweet."

"Oh, I'll just bet he has been," Gala agreed, eyes knowing, smile a little wicked. "He's a charming bastard. In his own way. Those eyes of his say a lot, y'know? Plus, he's an amazing tipper."

"That does help," Jazzy agreed.

"Well, if Cam says you can post them up here, then I guess you can. Are you bringing him his usual back as thanks?"

"I, ah, sure. Yeah. That would be perfect actually." They were the last of my flyers. I figured I would drop them off then continue my exploration of the town.

His usual ended up being a large coffee and a box of donuts.

Donuts.

I couldn't shake my amazement over that fact as I climbed the stairs to our building, dropping them off outside his door when my knocks went unanswered.

I understood a sweet tooth. Mine started bothering me around that time of the month when literally anything with sugar was calling my name. But I hadn't exactly known a lot of guys who had one. Guys I knew always snacked on chips or jerky or other salty and savory stuff like that. Not sweets. I found it oddly endearing that he had a weakness for donuts. And I liked it more than I should have that I knew this about him as I scribbled a quick thank you on the whiteboard before heading out.

I eventually made my way through the shops part of town and over toward the water, looking up at the impressive Italian restaurant sitting out of the water on poles, watching as the sun started to go down, making the lights come on, casting their reflections on the gently moving water.

I could see myself inside there some day when I had saved up enough money. Sipping a glass of wine, twirling spaghetti on a fork, taking in the ambiance, knowing the name of the waiters and the hostess because this was my spot. The place I went to celebrate life events, or simply treated myself to a couple times a month.

I wanted that.

And I wanted to get coffee at She's Bean Around even if it took me an hour to get to the counter. The show would be worth the wait. The sense of familiarity of having a 'usual' would be so welcome after for so long being a no one to everyone.

Before I could fall into too deep a pit of self-pity, a group of loud teenagers came charging down the path I was moping on, making me shake off the sad mood, and move along, letting them alone to enjoy the last days of summer - and freedom - something they seemed to celebrate by taking a bunch of pictures and videos while someone blasted a song I didn't recognize.

Rounding the corner to my apartment, I found the coffee and donuts gone, the board wiped of my handwriting and replaced with his own.Don't mention it. I hope it helped. I hope you're settling in. - CamWas I?

I guess I was, I decided as I let myself into my apartment. There wasn't much of me around. There hadn't been much of me to bring. My suitcase was tucked away in the closet, a few items of clothing - enough for two day's worth - folded on top of the dresser. There was a handful of my things on the counter in the bathrooms - creams to get a head start at slowing aging, some serum that kept my hair from getting too puffy in the humidity of late summer, my shampoo, conditioner, and soap in the shower. There was a book and a pile of music on the coffee table, my guitar case propped up on the loveseat.

But that was it.

That was all I had, all there was of me to spread around.

Each new place I moved in to prompted this almost overwhelming urge to go to the local big box store, to grab sheets, towels, candles, art for the walls. Something. Anything. I wanted to nest, to create a place that felt just a little bit like mine.

It was a waste of money, though, and I avoided it whenever possible.

The places I rented came furnished with the essentials. I had learned to be alright with just those.

That said, it did feel a bit weird as I lowered myself down on a dead man's couch, reaching for my guitar - a well-loved relic from my mother's childhood, the only piece of her I had left. She had never gotten the hang of it - I don't have the hands for it - but kept it because it reminded her of her father. As it turned out, I had my grandfather's hands. I never even had any lessons. There would have been no money for them, even if my heart had yearned for them. But I had learned the basics of reading music from books and videos we loaned out from the library. And before we knew it, I was able to play just about anything simply from memory.