Camden (The Henchmen MC 18)

There was also the river, of course. That long, peaceful place I still found myself visiting every few days, looking off at the mansions flanking the other shore. Rumor had it that famous people lived there. Jon Bon Jovi at some point for sure. Likely others also. My mother would have freaked out had she been around to be that close to him. Livin' On A Prayer had practically been the soundtrack of my childhood. We would drive to work belting out It's My Life.

While my budget didn't allow for it, the fact that there were so many places to get to-go food was also a huge perk if you had the disposable income to utilize them.

I don't know what it was; I just liked the place.

I often felt like since my mother passed, I could never really find a place that felt anything like home. The constant moving didn't help, I was sure. But it went deeper than that. Nothing ever felt quite right.

Navesink Bank felt right.

It felt like a place that could be a home.

One day.

Someday.

But I also knew with perfect, biting clarity that it could not be that for me.

I would need to leave.

Sooner or later.

Likely sooner.

That thought sent an uncomfortable slicing sensation through my insides, sharp and burning, piling on to an already bad day.

One of my clients, a twelve-year-old perpetually moody boy with a frustrating if-I-don't-do-it-perfectly-right-away, I-don't-want-to-do-it-at-all perfectionist streak, had dropped out without notice. He had been signed up for once a week double sessions. Eighty dollars suddenly gone. It was money I desperately needed, stealing away what small sliver of security I had felt over the past week.

It all seemed to hit me at once, sitting on my couch wondering where the hell I could trim some more fat from my budget. It was all sinew and bone as it was.

A knock at my door had my stomach leaping, apprehension something alarmingly familiar.

I didn't have a weapon, but I took a page straight out of Tangled, and reached for a frying pan before moving toward the door, going up on my tiptoes to glance out of the peephole, letting out a shaky breath when I saw nothing there.

Placing the pan down on the cabinet holding the TV, I unlocked the door, swinging it open to nearly trip over a very unmistakable sight. A brown bag nestled inside a plastic bag, the paper top stapled down. I would know that kind of takeaway on sight anywhere. As if that wasn't enough, the smell wafted upward, making me take a deep breath, almost able to taste it.

Chinese food.

Clearly left at the wrong door, though.

Then I caught sight of something that hadn't been there when I had gotten home from a dog walking job a few hours before.

Writing on the whiteboard.You said you liked fried rice, but you didn't say what kind. Got you veg, chicken, beef, and pork. - CamThere was a distinct squeezing sensation in my chest - strong, undeniable - something both reassuring and completely unsettling somehow at the same time.

He'd gotten me food. Four days worth of food. For no other reason other than being a good neighbor, a new friend, my all day and night texting buddy.

He didn't know about the job, about me worrying about how I was going to be able to pay my bills and keep myself fed while losing an important client.

Yet how timely was his offering.

Four days of food I didn't have to pay for. And not just beans and rice and lentils. Takeaway food.

Kindness wasn't unfamiliar to me, but I had to say it had been quite a while since I had experienced it.

Wetness flooded my eyes as I bent down to retrieve the bag, my gaze sliding to his closed door as I stood again, feeling a tear spill over, slide down my cheek, brushed hastily away before turning to erase the board.You have no idea how badly I needed this. Thank you. XXI was crying.

Over Chinese food.

This was what my life had come to?

The barest bit of kindness completely undoing me.

But there was gratitude and joy as I dove into a carton at random, finding chicken fried rice, and moaning over how good it was.

I didn't hear from Cam.

It wasn't unusual for there to be a gap of a few hours when we weren't in contact. I had clients. I was sure he had a life that didn't involve reaching out to me. It wasn't weird.

What was weird was the fact that when I crawled into bed well past midnight, there had still been no text.

I tried to shake it off. He was likely busy for a change. I tried to go to sleep, figuring he would text me in the morning.

But then my eyes sprang open in the darkness, a sickening thought taking over me.