Snakes Among Sweet Flowers
By Jason Huffman-Black
Two-time ex-con Camden Sanders has decided that Hog Mountain—an isolated community on the outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia—is the perfect place to continue running small scams without the threat of more prison time. But there are a few problems with this plan. One is the neighborly citizens of Hog Mountain thwarting his dirty dealings at every turn with their kindness. Another is Jackson Rhodes, a closeted Hog Mountain police officer who can see right through Cam’s good ol’ boy act and plans to catch him red-handed despite the attraction they both can feel. But the biggest problem of all is that Cam’s past is threatening to catch up with him, and it could mean trouble for more than just himself.
To Ethan and Mark for believing in me.
I also want to thank my friends and family who encouraged, read, reread, and helped me make this novel into reality. I couldn’t have done it without you all.
ALTHOUGH THERE
is an actual Hog Mountain, GA, in relatively the same location mentioned in the book, the town in this novel is fictional.
CAMDEN SANDERS
stood from where he had been leaning over the engine of the year-old Honda. Out of the corner of his eye, he took stock of the car’s young owner. Not more than twenty-one, the boy looked panicked at the sight of smoke coming from under the open hood. Although the car wasn’t anything special, the clothes and particularly the watch the young boy wore told Cam what he needed to know. Probably still living at home, maybe fresh out of college, and trying to show his father he could take care of his own problems, even if he was living off his dad’s dime.
Cam sighed, curling his top lip as he sucked his front teeth, staring at the engine a moment longer. “Okay, John.” Cam always used his customer’s name. It helped give the impression they were friends and that Cam had their best interest at heart. “I can see this car is your baby, and I know how that is. It’s why I’m gonna help you out here. We’re gonna fix her up right.”
He nodded his head until John nodded along.
“Now, on jobs this complicated, I would normally have to charge over a thousand. See, when I worked in the city, they set the prices, you know? Out to take all the money they could get. But I ain’t like that. I just wanna help people and make a livin’, not a thievin’, right?”
He locked eyes with John, making sure John was following along. And the boy was right there, looking at Camden like he was his savior.
“I’m sure you’re savin’ money for something besides handin’ to some mechanic like me. That’s why I’m gonna do you a solid, man.” Cam leaned over the engine again and pointed to the area around the end of a black hose that had a small amount of white residue. “Now I learned this trick from the old man that trained me. See this white here? It’s calcification from the pH being all wrong in your motor oil. It’ll destroy a car faster than lettin’ the water deoxygenate in your radiator. But don’t expect them city mechanics to tell you that. They fix the damage, don’t tell the owner the
real
cause of their problem.” He stood back. “Immoral the way they do.”
The boy was just smart enough to be stupid, the way Cam liked them. He’d moved out to the small, recently upwardly mobile community of Hog Mountain on the far outskirts of Atlanta in hopes of finding people with more money than sense, and so far, he had hit pay dirt. The old country town had attracted a class of people who could afford the gas for a long commute back into Atlanta. Lots of upper middle class, kids getting money tossed at them to keep them out of the hair of Dad and the new trophy wife, divorcées using alimony and child support to fund their yoga and club memberships, living in a near-rural area where they trusted all the local businessmen to be honest and fair.
By the end of the day, Cam had made a simple repair of a leaking hose, charged John more than ten times what it should have cost, and had the boy promising to bring the car back monthly for a “free” check of the oil’s pH.
After watching the little Honda drive off, Cam pulled the garage doors closed on the former gas station he’d paid cash for several weeks ago. The pumps were no longer operational, but he only needed the garage area and a place to sleep anyway. It had come with the dilapidated farmhouse behind that he now lived in. It had been a smart move, getting away from the city and his former associates, cutting ties with a group of thieves that were making good money but also becoming increasingly violent. Camden liked his con games light on danger and high on rate of return. He’d already done prison time twice and was finally done with parole and off the books. He wasn’t going to push his luck again.
Camden stripped himself of his stained work shirt, exposing his inked skin as he walked back toward the industrial-sized sink. He dropped his shirt to the floor near the back door. Most of the tattooing on his arms were prison tats, which he’d gotten colored and enhanced once he was out, but the one on his chest was the only one that had been there before his first stint in prison.
Over the left side of his chest was a blackened anatomical heart with a leather strap squeezing it tightly and crimson blood dripping to create a puddle beneath. Scrawled in what looked to be the blood were the words
Et tu, Brute?
He’d had it put there as a reminder of the pain of betrayal, although, at the time, he hadn’t known what real betrayal was. Having a friend run and leave him to take the rap for shoplifting was pretty mild when it came down to it.
Camden scooped some of the orange stuff beside the sink and lathered up his hands and arms to the elbows, then frowned as he took a small brush to work on the black around his nails. It was what he hated about being a mechanic. He enjoyed working on machinery, liked fixing things and the solitude of working without someone else there with a running commentary, but he hated the way it left behind a stain on his skin to announce his unworthiness. Then again, didn’t he have plenty of those? Life had a way of doing that to him.
Once Cam washed the soap from his arms, he grabbed a clean shop towel and stood back from the sink, taking a moment to examine himself in the little mirror that hung above it. He dried himself as he studied the face in the reflective surface. The blue eyes, which had always helped him earn the trust of others, were starting to come off more as cold. The pretty-boy looks were sharper and light on the “boy.”
At thirty-six, he could see the marks of hard living on his skin, but not near as hard as some others he’d known. For the most part, he’d stayed away from the drugs he’d pushed to others, kept his drinking to the weekends, and worked out when he could, at least while in prison. Cam had always been in the scams for the money, not as some way to self-destruct, but he’d seen his fair share of those who chose each and every aspect of their lives as a way to destroy themselves.
There were lines at the corners of his eyes and one between his eyebrows, likely from holding his “I will cut you” frown firmly in place while serving time. That face had just been for show, though. He didn’t have violence in him. At least not without some just cause, he supposed. Cam ran a hand over his closely cropped hair. It looked black when cut so short and there wasn’t a hint of gray. His beard and mustache were trimmed just as closely, but still visible. He’d always been concerned with appearances. There was no need to look scruffy, even if he was a grease monkey.
Movement around his legs distracted him from his thoughts, and he glanced down with a grin. “All right, Tom, we’re almost done here.” The orange cat had adopted Cam not long after he had moved in and now spent most of the hot July days lazing close to the box fan that kept a breeze circulating in the unair-conditioned garage. Tom had now insinuated himself enough into Cam’s life that he knew Cam’s standing in front of the sink heralded the end of the day.
Cam dropped the towel back to the counter next to the sink and took a moment to make sure the place was all locked up, the fan unplugged, and the lights switched off before scooping up his shirt. When Cam opened the back door of the shop, Tom led the way out. Cam had yet to let the huge cat in the house, although he had made the mistake of putting a bowl of water on the porch.
He made his way across the littered backyard of the garage toward the small white clapboard house that sat behind it. He had bought a swing blade and cut the grass down to about calf height, but that had only revealed all the old tires, engine parts, and beer bottles the higher grass had been hiding. The property had sat empty for a while before Cam bought it, and he felt sure that during that time both the yard and the house had been an unofficial site for teenaged parties and trysts.
The old house looked as worn-out as he was feeling that evening. The place could do with a coat of paint, new roof—some tender care, for sure. If he planned to stay there, which he hoped he would, Cam was going to have to do some work on the little cottage.
It was the first home he’d ever owned. Although for the people around these parts, it wasn’t much to write the family about, he felt some pride for it, like he was finally coming up in the world.
On the first floor, it had three small bedrooms and a large country kitchen in the back—although he didn’t consider himself much of a cook—but the best part was the large second floor—“the attic” was what the realty agent had called it. It was under the gables and the entire length and breadth of the house, but the last owner had finished the area into a large master bedroom with attached bath, which Cam had claimed as his room.
He headed up the steps to the front porch. They were a bit wobbly and so was the handrail. Another for his list of projects. At some point, he was going to have to start on that list before the house fell in around him. As he made it to the door, he took the handle in one hand while leaning and putting the other hand out in front of Tom, knowing all too well the cat would make a try to scamper inside with him.
“Sorry, boy. I’m sure you got fleas or ticks or something I don’t want in the house.”
He slammed the door closed behind him, but then turned to peek out the window at the cat as he slumped down right in front of the door in the shade of the porch.
God, I am such a sucker.
With a grumble, Cam stripped off his shoes and socks before making his way into the kitchen, tossing his shirt and socks into the washer as he passed it. “Tom survived just fine before you came to town. He’s playing you,” he mumbled to himself. He’d read an article about how cats had domesticated themselves in order to take advantage of the perks related to being a pet. “The damn thing is running a scam and you are falling for it.”
Shaking his head, Cam opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bucket from KFC along with several styrofoam containers. The last five pieces of chicken went on a plate, and then he emptied the other containers of green beans, mashed potatoes, and brown gravy. While his dinner spun in the microwave, he made himself a huge glass of iced tea and placed it on the little kitchen table along with the final styrofoam container, the last of the coleslaw. Then he leaned against the counter next to the microwave in eager anticipation.
Although there were several fast food selections in the small town, the KFC was out near the interstate. Before moving to Hog Mountain, five miles of driving had seemed pretty standard to get somewhere, but that had quickly changed once he’d relocated. Everything in the small town was much closer, in more ways than one. And country miles seemed so much farther than city ones, so when he’d made the drive out to the interstate a couple of days before, he’d bought the biggest barrel of chicken KFC offered plus several cartons of each side, even though he would be the only one eating from it. He’d finally worked through to the last of the food, and without the large red-and-white bucket in his refrigerator, it was pretty bare. He added a trip to the grocery store to his mental list of activities for the weekend.
A ding sounded as the microwave stopped, and Cam pulled the plate out and gingerly took it to the table along with a fork from the drawer. The chicken was always better fresh, but even heated over, it was better than anything he could have whipped up on his own or the shit he’d eaten while incarcerated. He scooped the rest of the coleslaw onto his plate and then dug into the meal.
Fried chicken always reminded Cam of his grandmother. She used to cook for him when he was younger and spent the weekend, or months on end during the summer, with her. She had been his savior while growing up, taking him out of a home with a drunk for a dad and a mother with her own survival—and her “stories,” as she called her TV shows—to worry about. His grandmother had put him in piano lessons, encouraged him to get good grades, and supported him, even when he had come out to her. She would have loved his farmhouse’s big, airy kitchen with all its counter space and windows. He wished she’d been around long enough to see it.