Free The Dying Breath by Alane Ferguson Page B

like me.”
    “No, she likes you,” Cameryn clarified. “She doesn’t trust you.”
    He gave a wicked grin. “Wise woman.”
    What was that supposed to mean? Cameryn flushed as Justin closed the distance between them. “Kidding,” he told her. “Actually, I planned ahead. On the off chance you invited me to hang out I brought two choices of movies, although from the shadows under your eyes I doubt you’ll stay awake for either one.” Reaching around, he pulled two DVD cases from an inside fold of his jacket. “Comedy or”—he held up a second plastic square—“action movie with exploding guts. What’s your pleasure?”
    “Comedy,” she said. “I’m definitely in the mood to laugh.”
    “Excellent. Let’s ask your mammaw to join us.”
    Cameryn waited a beat before saying, “You’re not serious. You want my grandmother to watch a movie with us? Why?”
    “Because even though you’ve decided that all you can handle is friendship, I’m looking ahead. If we’re going to be together then winning over your mammaw and your pop is on my agenda.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Okay?”
    As they settled into the couch, a foot of upholstery respectfully between them, her grandmother watched, eagle-eyed. She’d been pleased by the invitation, Cameryn could tell, and Cameryn marveled at how effortless Justin made it all seem. He’d chatted up her grandmother as if they were the best of friends, and as the opening credits rolled she felt Justin move closer. In some ways his presence soothed her. Light flickered across his face as the scenes changed, and from beneath her lashes Cameryn watched Justin instead of the movie. There was no denying how handsome he was—the sharp juts of his cheekbones changing as the reflection slid across the planes of his face, hair curling softly against his neck, his shoulders broad. In the background she heard the creak from her grandmother’s chair interrupted by quiet bursts of laughter.
    The edges of the screen blurred as she tried to pay attention, but the dialogue wove through her mind, musical notes tied to language instead of words. She floated in this world like a bubble, drifting from one scene to another until suddenly she was back in the autopsy room. But this time it was Kyle on the table and Justin who held the knife. The blade gleamed at Kyle’s shoulder but Cameryn yelled for Justin to stop. At that moment Kyle’s eyes snapped open. His icy hand grabbed her arm—
    “Wake up, Cammie. It’s just a dream. You’re only dreaming.”
    It wasn’t Kyle’s hand, but Justin’s, that held hers. Blinking, she looked over to the empty rocking chair. “Your mammaw gave up,” Justin answered before she could think to ask the question. “She went to bed, but not before she reminded me that your pop was on the way.”
    “What—what time is it?” she asked thickly.
    “Ten thirty.”
    “Wow. I can’t believe I fell asleep. And you let me?” She rose up from his shoulder. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
    “I let you sleep because you needed it. You’re heavier than you look, though. My arm is completely numb.”
    Cameryn punched his shoulder. “Stop!”
    “I’m serious,” he laughed, but this time he caught her wrist as she tried to hit him again. “Listen, I should go. It’s late and your pop won’t like it if he finds out his daughter slept with me. Ouch! ”
    Switching to her left hand she caught him in his upper arm.
    “Man, you hit like a guy. No, I cannot let you do that again,” he said. He grabbed both wrists.
    Trapped, she looked up at him. His hair was tousled as though he’d been sleeping, too. She was aware of the illumination from the television, of the way their breathing cadenced together, of how close his face was next to hers so that she could feel his heat. All traces of playfulness vanished as he released her right hand and touched the bottom of her lip. She felt herself shiver. Her hand rose up to touch his cheek, stroking it with