Hell in a Handbasket

chapter six.

Hooray! I'm finally getting into this idea of semi-quick updates... hopefully I'll kick out lucky number seven sooner rather than later. Let me know what you think; I know this is a pretty goofy chapter compared to the rest. Pretty Cameron-oriented, though. Which is a good thing, no? Thanks again to everyone who's still reading, and thanks to new readers, too! I love you all! Also... I've put in a few character banners in the earlier chapters, but have nothing to spruce up this one, soooo... if you're inspired at all (unlikely, buuuuut...) I'd love to see any creations :3 You're wonderful! Enjoy!

If he didn’t want to be touching my leg he would have moved his hand. I wasn’t aware of the movie we were watching, how many of our lovely neighbors had stuffed themselves into the living room, or even the couch I was sitting on; only Cameron Sutton’s glorious knuckles resting casually against my kneecap. I had begun to understand the outline of the plot, the character development, and catch some of the cinematic elements he spoke of, but all that blew into a swirling mess of a quickened heartbeat and stiff posture when he brushed my leg with his hand in search for a more comfortable lounging position. And left it there.

Between Collie’s chocolate milk, Liam’s reassurance, and skin-to-skin contact with Cameron Beautiful Sutton, I had rediscovered a fraction of my ability to function as something close to an anthropoid being after my beloved father took a sledgehammer to my every morale. Two days after I had stormed away from my fancy French dining experience I had even managed not to make a grotesque expression and stop smoke from blasting out of my ears when I saw my dad trying to call me. And it was often. Thrice since the opening credits it had hummed a deceptively pleasant monotone ring against the coffee table, and thrice I had banished it to voicemail. I saw many benefits in powering my phone down or chucking it into a pond, but I wanted him to know my silent treatment was intentional, and I hoped it stung like a hornet.

But as relentless as my ignorance, the calls trudged on with the determination of a team of sled dogs. Another series of vibrations cut holes in the movie’s dialogue. I narrowed my eyes at the helpless device, inexplicably apprehensive of my decision to cut the ropes and let dad plunge into a black abyss of wondering. I felt Phil’s presence somewhere, staring out his only window, but couldn’t wiggle through his scruff of hair, in his ear, and into the midst of his advice; until I became a successful telepath, I was on my own.

The noise didn’t distract Collie – who had draped herself strategically across the laps of three boys from the floor below – and didn’t keep Liam from convincing himself ‘Angel’ from upstairs had symmetrical facial features for a single blink. Only Cameron had ears attuned to my worries, or so I had optimistically decided when he looked briefly at my spastic phone and asked with cautious humor: “Did you want me to get that?” His hand was still on my leg.

I had to give a moment’s pause to ensure my expression hadn’t scrunched to an unnatural, pug-faced scowl. “Nah, it’s only looking for attention,” I responded, joking like it came with ease rather than an avalanche of panic, dreading that he wouldn’t be sympathetic to my wit. But it won me a gentle sort of smile as he looked back to the TV, so soft I wondered if it felt like his hair… Filled with a giddy confidence, I explored the cave of conversation further, daring him to stray from his concentration, a charmer toying with a cobra. His hand was still on my leg. “I can turn it up if you want?”

“Depends,” he started, his trained gaze watching the screen. “What’s your ringtone?”

“Just some hardcore guitar riffs,” I teased, biting back a smile, feeling those pretty blue eyes giving me a sidelong glance. There was no hiding the flush that rose to my cheeks. His hand was still on my leg. “I’m actually in the middle of a big punk rock phase.”