*Author Note: This is a work in progress and parts of this chapter may change before final publication.

CHAPTER ONE

 

 

 

CJ Sheridan lay in bed, hands clasped behind his head. He felt the pull of the camera even from across the room where it sat on the beat-up motel dresser. Early morning light danced over its worn leather case as dust motes floated in the beams, golden and weightless. He knew he should be moving on—the itch in his bones and the restless stirring in his gut told him that much. But for a moment, as the rest of the world lay in slumber, CJ allowed himself the luxury of stillness.

Mark Taylor had warned him that the camera would call to him. That it would somehow send out energy or cosmic waves or whatever the hell it was that drew CJ to use the camera, but he’d been certain he could resist. He clenched his jaw, glaring at the inanimate object on the dresser. He felt like an unwilling sky diver, clinging with all his might to the side of the airplane, but eventually, the pull of the adventure, the thrill of the save, would suck him out into a freefall. Only he had no parachute. If he dove out of the plane, he’d have no backup. No Mark Taylor or his father to run to his rescue.

He threw back the sheet, the only covering he’d needed in the musty, humid motel room. The air conditioner had chugged on a few times during the night, but it was no match for the heatwave enveloping southern Kentucky. He pushed off the bed, the springs creaking a protest. The map on the nightstand was folded to an open road that led through the heartlands, to a place not marked but felt—an intuition that guided him more surely than any signpost.

He padded to the dresser and stared at the camera as if challenging it to a test of wills, but when he traced a finger over its cool surface, a ritual of reverence for the power it wielded, the power he'd once feared and now respected, he knew he’d lost the challenge. He’d bought film last night, the first step in his defeat. His vow to never use the camera an empty threat to whatever power controlled the magic in the antique piece of equipment.

The camera, his unwilling inheritance from Mark, was both his curse and his compass, guiding him to places where one shot—one moment—could change the course of a life. Yet it wasn't just about the shutter's click or the image that would bloom to life; it was about the after. The ripples each photo sent through the universe and through him, the way they tied him to strangers in ways he couldn't begin to understand.

CJ had seen the camera's work—a truth revealed, a danger averted, a moment of unexpected grace. But he also knew its toll, the weight of consequence and the bitter taste of what-ifs.

A quick shower and shave, and pulling on his last clean pair of jeans, knew he’d have to stop somewhere longer than an hour, if only to do his laundry.  He slung the camera bag over his shoulder. He dropped by the motel office to drop off his key and pay his bill. CJ thumbed through the remaining bills, calculating what he’d need for gas, food, and lodging and knew he’d have to find a job somewhere.

So far, he’d worked here and there as a day laborer. He didn’t care what they had him do. He’d put up drywall, weeded flower beds, cleaned gutters, picked fruit, and even worked as a server at a ritzy event. He was glad he’d packed his white dress shirt, black pants and good shoes. That was the only requirement of the job. That, and holding a tray of champagne glasses steady as he wound his way through the party. It had been his easiest gig, but most of his jobs had been back breaking physical labor. He craved it. When he was working hard, he didn’t have time or energy to think about Blanche.

As he slid his wallet into his back pocket, he inquired about where a guy might get hired for a day or two.

The clerk waved a hand towards the window. “Take a right out of the lot and go down about a mile or so. There’s a home building supply there. There are always a few contractors looking for someone willing to work.” The clerk, a skinny young man with bad acne shook his head. “The work sucks though. I tried it one day and then got this job.” He spread his arms, grinning like he’d won the lottery. “I ain’t never looked back.”

CJ pasted on a smile. “Nice.” He turned the doorknob and nodded both his thanks and a goodbye.

* * *

 

 

CJ's boots crunched on the gravel as he made his way to the suggested home building supply. The morning was already warming up, the air thick with humidity. It was the kind of day that would have a man sweating through his shirt before he'd swung a hammer or lifted a board. CJ didn’t mind. He welcomed the honest work, the clear goals and endpoints, the simplicity of physical labor that didn’t require him to grapple with guilt or regret for past choices.

He spotted the building supply place just as the clerk had said, its yard bustling with contractors loading up supplies, their trucks backed up to the loading docks, exhaust fumes mingling with the scent of fresh lumber and sawdust. CJ approached a group of men who were checking a list, their banter easy and familiar.

“Looking for work?” one of the men called out, eyeing CJ's sturdy frame. The man’s face was weather-worn, the lines around his eyes deep as if he smiled often and worked even more.

“Yeah, if you've got something,” CJ replied, his voice steady, betraying none of the tangle of thoughts he was trying to suppress. He’d perfected the stoic mask and the monotone. It kept people at arm’s length.

“We could use an extra pair of hands,” another man chimed in, passing a heavy box to his companion. “We're shorthanded today, someone’s brother’s wedding or another one’s long-anticipated fishing trip. You know how it is.”

“I do,” CJ agreed with a nod, though he didn't, not really. He didn't have the same ties, the same reasons that would pull him away from a day's work. His reasons were of a different nature, and he only wished he had something light and joyous to attend to.

They set him to work without much fuss, and soon CJ was hefting boards, the roughness of the untreated wood scraping against his newly formed callouses. He worked steadily, allowing the rhythm of the labor to consume his focus. Each board he stacked was a temporary stay against the images that would flicker at the edge of his vision when he allowed his guard down — a laugh, a flash of red hair, a pair of eyes that held stories he could no longer be a part of.

Lunchtime came and the workers gathered in the scant shade of an old oak tree that stood like a sentry at the corner of the lot. Sandwiches were pulled from coolers, the air filled with the crackle of chip bags and the low murmur of conversation.

CJ sat a little apart, his own lunch a simple affair — a couple of pieces of jerky and an apple. But he found his gaze wandering, watching the men as they joked and complained about the heat, the work, the antics of their children. It was a camaraderie he felt on the periphery of, a warmth he could almost bask in if he let himself.

“You're quiet,” a voice observed, and CJ looked up to see one of the men sitting down beside him. “First day jitters?”

“No.” CJ shook his head and ripped a piece of jerky from the stick and popped it in his mouth. He chewed for a moment before replying, “Just not much of a talker.”

“A man of mystery, huh?” the man said with a teasing smile. “We don't get many of those around here. Name's Pete.” He offered a hand whose callouses made CJ’s look like mere rough patches.

“CJ,” he responded, taking the offered hand in a firm shake.

Pete nodded. “Glad to meet ya. Well, CJ, around here, we look out for each other. You work with us, you're part of that, even if just for a day.”

CJ nodded, the acknowledgment tight in his throat. Part of something. It was what he was running from, and yet, in moments like these, it was exactly what he yearned for.

As they returned to work, the sun climbed higher, the heat pressing down on them like a physical weight. CJ worked alongside the others, the day stretching out in a pattern of toil and sweat. He tried to lose himself in the back-breaking work, and almost succeeded, but his last moments with Blanche would flash through his mind. With the flash, cam crushing guilt.

The day waned, and as the sun began to dip, casting long shadows across the yard, CJ felt the day's fatigue in his bones. He also felt something else — a glimmer of satisfaction, a sense of completion. It was enough to keep the ghosts at bay, at least for today.

As the final hues of the sunset bled into twilight, CJ bit back a groan as he stacked the last board. He felt the day's labors in every fiber of his being but although weary, it was a good weariness, one that came from hard work and the sense of having earned every aching muscle. The other workers were slapping each other on the back, saying their goodbyes, plans for cold beers and family dinners hanging in the air.

CJ hung back a little, nodding to the others as they called out their farewells. Pete clapped him on the shoulder, “Not bad for a day's work, huh? You sure you can't stick around? We could use someone like you.”

There was a moment, a heartbeat really, where CJ considered it. The steady pull of a normal life tugged at him with Pete's words. But then the image of the camera, silent and waiting, flashed in his mind, and he shook his head. “Can't. Just passing through.”

Pete nodded, understanding—or perhaps not understanding at all, but accepting it nonetheless. “Well, if you ever come back through, you know where to find work.”

CJ offered a smile, feeling the camaraderie he'd briefly been a part of slip away as he turned to leave. He mentally tallied his earnings. It was enough to cover his immediate needs and keep him moving. Right now, that's all he really needed—to keep moving.

He was about to step out onto the road when he heard a commotion at the front of the store. A woman's voice, strained with urgency, broke through the normal hum of evening activity. CJ's steps faltered, then drew him forward, towards the sound.

There, in front of the building supply, stood a woman with her arms full of bags and a child tugging at her skirt. Her car, hood propped open, emitted a thin wisp of smoke. CJ watched as the men offered well-meaning advice, but no one moved to help.

It was none of his business. He could walk away—he should walk away. But CJ cursed under his breath. He never was good at shoulds.

He stepped forward. “Need some help?”

The woman looked up, and for a moment her eyes met his. They were a vivid green and he was glad they weren’t blue. She brushed a strand of auburn hair from her face and managed a tired smile. “I don't suppose you know anything about cars?”

CJ shrugged, his first job on the road had been in car repair shop. While his job had been to clean tools and answer phones, he’d listened and learned, asking questions when he could. He’d only spent a week in the town, but he’d learned a few things. Besides, his dad had made sure he knew the basics when he’d started driving. With his job taking him out of the country, he wanted CJ to be able to fix minor issues. “I can take a look.”

As he approached, the child—a girl with pigtails—eyed him with open curiosity. CJ offered her a wink before turning his attention to the engine.

It wasn't anything major, just an old hose that had given up the ghost. He used a bit of duct tape he’d retrieved from his glove box— a temporary fix, but it would hold until she could get to a mechanic.

The woman watched him, her gaze assessing. “You're not from around here,” she stated, not a question but a fact.

“No, just passing through,” CJ said again, his explanation slipping off his tongue naturally these days. He’d said it enough. He wondered when he’d be able to stop saying it. When he’d finally outrun the guilt.

“Well, passing through or not, I'm grateful. I'm Lucy. Lucy Chase.”

CJ glanced at her, taking in the earnest gratitude in her eyes and the quiet strength in her stance.

“I'm CJ. Glad I could help.” He gave an extra wind of tape just to make sure then tore it off and tabbed the end so whoever did the real repair could unwind it easily. “There. Try it now.”

Lucy had already loaded her groceries and now made sure her daughter was safely inside. At first the engine sputtered, but then it came to life. CJ grinned. He’d missed the adrenaline and satisfaction of helping someone in need. He’d have to remember that just because he wasn’t using the camara—at least not yet—that he could still help people in other ways. Maybe each good deed would be like a weight added to the scales, and eventually, when he was old and wrinkled, the scale would balance.

“Well, CJ,” Lucy said, offering her hand, “you're a bit of a hero in my book. How can I ever thank you?”

CJ considered her words. There was something about Lucy, something about the straightforwardness in her gaze, that made the thought of staying linger, that made him wonder if some roots might be worth the chance of stillness. But that was a dangerous thought—dangerous for him, dangerous for the potential of 'what if' that Lucy Chase presented.

“Just pay it forward,” he suggested, smiling so it wouldn’t sound like a command but a suggestion. “That's thanks enough.”

With a nod, he closed the hood of her car with a firm push and stepped back. He felt a tinge of something more than the usual urge to flee—it was a reluctance, a hesitation brought on by the pull of her smile and steady gaze.

“Be careful out there, Lucy,” he said, the farewell catching slightly in his throat. Then, with a resolve that felt a bit more forced than usual, he grabbed the roll of tape from where he’d dropped it on the ground turned back to his own Jeep.

He didn't look back, not because he was afraid of what he'd see, but because he might just be afraid of what he'd feel. Feelings were the one luxury too costly to indulge in.