Damien, Forever (An Art of Sinners Novel)

by Tempest Phan

  “It’s no use, baby. Don’t even bother.” I don’t know if he was referring to his guitar or to his mom. Probably both.

  I turned around to gently place his guitar on the back seat before facing him again. I opened my arms and he fell into them. My heart was breaking for him. To have endured an entire childhood and adolescence being told how worthless he was, to be battered emotionally over and over again, to be made to bear the guilt of Emily’s tragic death, and to be scapegoated for his father’s abandonment. She might as well have struck him daily. The damage inflicted was the same.

  “I fucking hate her,” I gritted out as I gently stroked his dark hair, vocalizing what I knew he would never, ever allow himself to say out loud. “Fucking hate her. She shouldn’t say these things. They aren’t true. My Damien James, they aren’t true.” I kissed the top of his head. “It will be ok,” I continued, although I didn’t know how I could make it so. “I’m here for you. I’ll always be here. I promise you. You’ll always have me.”

  He finally looked up, agony stealing the light from the true blue of his eyes. My Damien, who never showed me anything but strength and steadiness. My heart was breaking for him over and over. I wanted to save him, to drown all of his pain, stomp it down and keep it from ever resurfacing. I couldn’t, and so instead I promised myself that I would never be one of the ones who’d hurt him.

  “My whole life, she’s told me that I deserved my name. She named me Damien because I was the devil to her, like that kid in The Omen. The devil, Bella.” He shook his head again and looked down. “But it’s when she says all of these horrible things about Emily, about my dad that it becomes the most unbearable,” he whispered. “And today, when she broke his guitar . . . And I don’t know why I fucking care so much about his damn guitar. He left us . . . He left me . . .” He didn’t finish. He just pulled away and placed a palm on his face.

  “You’re not the devil. You’re my Damien James. And it’s ok to care about your dad,” I said, likely making things worse. “He left, but it doesn’t mean you can’t cherish what you had before.”

  He shook his head again. His eyes closed. “There was nothing there before, either. I can pretend by holding on to his guitar that there was. But, Bella baby. There never was. My family was never like yours. Ever.”

  I didn’t respond, just pulled him against my heart. I felt powerless against his pain.

  Bella

  I hadn’t been able to concentrate since that moment, several weeks ago, when I’d witnessed just how very little affection was present in Damien‘s life. Those years he was away, where I’d felt like he had abandoned me, that was his reality.

  How much more selfish can I be?

  He’d always projected power and confidence, an unshakeable sense of self. And yet, he’d been battling his fucked-up shit quietly. And it was so heavy I didn’t know what to do. It broke me wide open for him. I wanted to help but didn’t really know how. And so, I did the only thing that had been in my power. I’d taken his guitar to an antique shop to have them magically fix it. Because material things, I knew my way around. Emotional ones? Maybe not so much.

  “Mirabella, please be home for dinner tomorrow night. I am hosting a peer from a law firm in San Francisco and NYC and need you there.” My father poked his head out of his study to address me. He’d been back for a few weeks since his last weekend away and had made it a point to always be around. I knew there had been intent in that.

  I swiveled away from the piano and looked toward him. I had taken on hostessing duties in the past couple of years, a necessity given my father’s position in the firm. While he did not entertain often, when he did, I was always expected to be glittering and perfect, which always felt like swimming upstream. “Of course, Daddy,” I responded. “Just one? Who is it?”

  “Mark Stone, from Stone Law. His son will be accompanying him.”

  “Oh, Mark Stone,” I repeated. “The esteemed Earl of Warwick.”

  Mark Stone, the British aristocrat whose very name could enhance the prestige of any firm. “Is his son a lawyer too?”

  “Not quite. He’s actually interning with us this year, through next summer. His name is Lukas. He’s quite the brilliant scholar. Completed his undergrad in less than two years, and next fall, he’s heading off to Stanford Law, the second-ranked program in the country.”

  “Only the second-ranked program?” I sneered. My father and his incessant competition and love of pedigree.

  He glared at me. “Apparently, he was also accepted to top-ranked Yale, if you must know. But Mark tells me his son loves the beach and . . . surfing.” He said that in a tone that was clearly critical of anyone making such a momentous decision based solely on what they loved IRL. Typical. He added, calling me out on my mocking tone, “And it’s Lukas Stone, Viscount Ryding.”

  “Ah, I see. Privileged and blue-blooded to the core,” I shot back as I played a few notes with my index finger. “And a ten-month internship? You must really like his lordship.”

  My dad snorted. “Please be home by five tomorrow. I need you to let the chef in, and Lynda won’t be able to stop by until six or so. And I won’t be home until seven. Dinner is, of course, at eight. And please check the attitude.”

  I sighed deeply.

  “What was that, Mira?”

  “Nothing, Daddy.”

  My father raised his voice, only just slightly, and said, “This one is important, Mira. I’d like to get closer to Stone Law.”

  My father very rarely shared details, of anything, but particularly of his work life, with me. That he made it a point to call this out made me realize how significant this was. And I didn’t care. He’d never looked at me with this same level of interest.

  “Speaking of Stanford,” he continued, loosening his tie and rubbing the tension from his neck.

  “Yes?’ I knew where this was going and semi-dreaded it.

  “Did you send in your acceptance?”

  I turned back to the piano, thinking through the right words.

  “Mira?” There was the slightest hint of irritation in his voice, now.

  I took a deep breath, clenched and unclenched my fists, and turned my head to look at him again. “No. Daddy, I think I want to stay in state. I sent in my acceptance to the UW already.”

  His face turned white, then slightly red. He reached out to the doorframe and gripped it, his fingers curling over it.

  Finally, his tone made more ominous by its softness, he said, “Why.”

  Not a question. There was never any room for questioning, for discussion, with him.

  I stood up, rubbed my arms as I crossed them over my chest. “I want to stay home, Daddy. I don’t want to leave.”

  He blinked three times, ran a hand through his hair while he stared at a spot on our hardwood floor.

  When he raised his head again, he didn’t look angry anymore. “I can’t have this conversation now, Mira,” he said simply, his voice even, calm. Was that anguish in his eyes? I didn’t know how to interpret it, so I turned back to the piano and concentrated on the piece in front of me, Liszt’s La Campanella, which I was meant to play at the Valentine’s Day charity event hosted by his firm.

  My hand slipped as I tried to hit the five sharps. I bit my bottom lip and tried again. This time, I nailed it, and the rest of the complex piece continued to flow without a hitch. I hit the last note, and turned back toward my dad, half expecting him to have stalked off.

  But he was still there. His eyes were closed and he was leaning against the doorframe. He opened his eyes, and I saw even deeper emotions in them. He rubbed his hand over his face, and when he looked at me again, he was inscrutable.

  “You look so much like your mother, Mirabella. And this was her favorite piece to play, because it was so difficult.”

  And he walked back into his study, closing the glass double doors behind him.

  ***

  “Shit, shit, shit, it’s fucking dead,” Damien bit out softly, hitting his steer
ing wheel in frustration.

  “Oh crap!” I responded, clearly not helping. His car had come to a dead stop a few miles from my home. And tonight was my dad’s fancy dinner party. He’d already warned me to be on time.

  “It’s ok, Dame. We’ll figure something out.”

  He rubbed his hands against his face. “Damn piece-of-shit car. You’re going to be late.”

  I reached up and swept the hair falling over his eyes. “Not your fault. I’ll figure something else. Maybe if I call a Lyft?”

  He shook his head. “Won’t get you there on time. I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to get you in trouble.”

  My heart constricted. He was the one with the car problems on his hands, and yet his only thoughts were for me.

  Damien looked at me. “Let’s ride on my board. I can get us there more quickly than either a Lyft or walking.” He got out of the car and went to his trunk to grab his board.

  I followed him. He slammed his trunk shut as I looked at him, no doubt skepticism all over my face.

  “Trust me, baby doll. It’ll be faster.”

  I nodded.

  He smiled his crooked smile at me as he threw down his board. “Ok, you’ll have to hold tight and stand still, ok? Go with the flow of what I’m doing. Don’t fight it.” He stepped onto his board, and I gingerly got on behind him, holding him at the waist for dear life.

  “All right, Bella baby. Ready?”

  I was absolutely not ready for this.

  “Yup!”

  He gave the ground a gentle kick, and off we went.

  I screamed and laughed out, feeling exhilarated as the wind blew in my face.

  “Baby! Stand still!”

  I laughed harder. “I am!” I wobbled against him.

  “No you’re not! You’re wobbling! Stand still or we’ll fall on our asses!”

  He laughed his beloved, deep, full-throated laughter as he continued guiding us on his skateboard, the pine trees lining the road zooming by. I don’t know how he could manage to not only keep us upright, but also fly us down the road at relatively high speed. We’d be home in no time.

  “Check us out. See that? That’s riding in style!” he barked out, laughing harder, making me even weaker in the knees.

  “Dude, sign me up for this every damn day!” I wobbled some more.

  “Oh fuck, baby girl, watch it!”

  I couldn’t help but continue laughing. The entire time, I held him tight as deep belly laughs wracked through me. Finally, the laughter receded, and I just savored the feel of him against me, my upper body molded against his back. I could feel the wind whipping around us. He smelled of pure Damien-ness: sandalwood and smoke, making me slightly light headed, giddy even. His left hand came down to gently rest on mine as I held him tightly against me.

  Finally, we turned into my neighborhood.

  “Almost there,” he said as he began to carefully guide his board through the wrought iron gates and toward my driveway, slowly losing speed before coming to a gentle stop. “Home!” He turned to me slightly, a foot on the ground, winking as he bowed. I laughed and threw my arms around his neck. He stumbled a bit, nearly slipping and taking me and the board with him.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered, as I laughed harder.

  I stepped off the board and he grabbed it in one hand, holding my hand in the other. We walked toward the door.

  “I better go,” Damien said to me, as he kissed me on the top of my head.

  “Come in. My dad won’t be home ‘til later. And when he is, he won’t even know you’re here. You can hide out in my room.”

  “Is that what you really want?”

  “Yes. Come. Rest up. I’ll figure out your car with you tomorrow so you don’t have to deal with it alone,” I said, smiling up at him. “Stay . . .”

  He sighed and smiled. I grabbed his hand as we snuck upstairs to my room. I shut the door behind me and laughed.

  “He might find me here, you know.”

  “Nah. He’ll be too busy entertaining to even pay attention,” I said softly.

  The door rang. Right on time.

  “That’s the chef my dad hired. Wait for me while I let him in, ok?” He nodded as I went downstairs.

  I let the chef and his two assistants in. They knew the drill—we had them over a few times a year, whenever my dad had guests over. I let them find their way to the kitchen while I ran back upstairs to Damien.

  I said to him as I closed my bedroom door, “I’m going to get ready. Feel free to just hang out, ok?” I smiled and walked to my bathroom.

  Damien

  I sat on the edge of her bed, looking at my dirty feet on the cream-white carpet, trying to not watch her get ready in the bathroom. But Bella and me, we were like opposite poles on magnets. There was no fighting her pull. And so I glanced over, even though I shouldn’t have.

  She had a plush white robe on and was taking out large curlers from her hair before gently tousling it so that it fell in long, loose coils down her back. I watched her, fascinated, as she put on her makeup, brushes and powders flying about. As if she needed any of it. She’d turn to me every once in a while to say something, and I would just nod. She was absolutely gorgeous. There was something incredibly intimate about being near her, making easy conversation, as she was getting ready. It wasn’t simply that she was naked under her robe, although that fact didn’t escape me.

  It was just . . . sitting around her, being near her, a deep part of her life. We mattered to each other. To be needed, to love and be loved. She filled this deep chasm inside of me. There was no way to put this into words.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw her walk to the far end of her bathroom so she was mostly hidden from me. Mostly. As she shrugged out of her robe, the side of her naked breast, waist, and hip were fully visible to me. I should have looked away, but I couldn’t. I was completely under her spell. She put on some white cotton panties and a bra, bending over while she adjusted her breasts. I felt my cock thicken painfully and hated myself for still looking. Looking at something I had no right to look at. She put her dress on, a pale pink chiffony thing with an asymmetrical neckline, and headed toward me. I swallowed and tried to hide my growing discomfort.

  “Will you do me up,” she said lightly, as she turned her back to me.

  My body stirred again at the suggestion, until I realized she was simply asking me to zip her up. With self-disgust piling at the bottom of my throat, I walked the few steps over to her. She was holding her hair up in order to give me full access to her zipper. A rogue tendril had fallen out, and I gently brushed it over her neck, my fingers burning at the feel of her soft, satiny skin. Did I imagine that she was trembling beneath my fingers? She grabbed my hand softly, and turned around giving me the gentlest of smiles.

  “I’m so grateful for you, my Damien James Mortensen,” she said.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Moments like these . . . you and me, just hanging out, and yet, it fills up this deep, deep emptiness I have in my soul,” she whispered.

  She understood. Of course she did.

  I smiled at her. “Turn around, sweetie. So I can finish this.” She spun around, and I pulled the zipper up, letting my fingers brush against her gossamer skin again.

  She let down her hair, which cascaded in loose waves over my fingers, down her smooth, pale neck and back, just like the way notes curved and flowed across a sheet of music. Unable to help myself, I ran my fingers over, through her hair. She turned around and smiled, “Watch it, babe. I just spent an hour getting all done up!”

  I laughed and bent down to kiss the tip of her adorable little nose. As I stepped back, I thought I caught something in her eyes, which made my heart constrict. Nothing could ever come of this. Why was I being so careless?

  “How do I look, Dame?” she asked me. As if she needed to. I knew I couldn’t hide the adoration in my eyes. I was only human, after all.

  “Ok, I guess,” I drawled.

  She guffawed and hit me. “Shi
t, thanks! Remind me to come to you next time I need a pep talk!”

  I smiled, and in all seriousness, responded, “Absolutely, heartbreakingly, devastatingly beautiful.”

  She looked at me for a second, her eyes bright with emotions that tore at my heart.

  She raised herself on her tip toes and pressed a kiss on my cheek.

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  Suddenly, her phone beeped. She walked over to read it. “Oh, just Lynda. She mentioned she was on her way and that she’ll let herself in. Thank God for Lynda! I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

  “Hey, would you mind if I jumped in your shower? That ride over made me feel a bit funky.”

  “’Course not! There are clean towels in the linen closet next to the shower. I’m going downstairs to make sure all looks ok, and I’ll be back. My dad should be here in an hour or so.”

  I watched her walk out and headed to her shower. Truth be told, I needed to cool myself off after seeing her nearly naked. I stepped in, turned the handle to cold, and tried not to think of Bella, or the lovely side of her breast, her naked hip. Dammit.

  ***

  Bella

  Lynda had done an amazing job setting everything in place. I don’t know where we would be without her. After thanking her and watching her drive off, I headed back upstairs.

  I was fully aware that I had—perhaps intentionally—left the door open while getting dressed. While I’d made it a point to go to the back of my bathroom where Damien couldn’t necessarily see all of me clearly, perhaps I was hoping that I might have piqued his interest. I shook my head as I neared my bedroom and opened the door. I was confused, so incredibly confused. I didn’t know what I wanted.

  As I closed my bedroom door behind me, he walked out of my bathroom, a towel wrapped low, so very low around his slim hips. So low that I could see the carved V of his sculpted lower abs. I swallowed hard.