Damien, Forever (An Art of Sinners Novel)

by Tempest Phan

  I pulled up to Damien’s house. He was sitting on the porch steps, lost within the folds of his black hoodie, as he smoked a cigarette. He stood up slowly when I came to a stop.

  He finally recognized me when I got out of the car and walked toward him, bells echoing in the night.

  He started laughing. “Look at you, Baby Elf! And fuck, look at those wheels!”

  I smiled at him, hand on my hip. “Would you like to go for a ride, my Damien James?”

  His eyes smoldered when he replied, “What do you think?”

  I lost my breath for a second. Did he mean what I thought he meant? I looked into his eyes, saw something I couldn’t quite read there before he shuttered them. I shook my head and handed him the keys. He reached down to touch my stupid hat.

  “You look adorable, baby doll.”

  I laughed again as I headed toward the passenger side. “Get in, babe!”

  He threw down his cigarette, stepped on it with the heel of his Vans, and folded his big body into my car.

  “Holy shit, she’s amazing.”

  I giggled in response. “She?”

  He winked at me. “Where to?”

  “Wherever your heart takes ya.”

  He nodded and off we went. We just drove around, got on the freeway to test out the speed, feeling so free and young and happy.

  We were blasting some old school emo, and it all felt so right.

  “Are you going to Rach’s New Year’s Eve party, Dame?”

  He shrugged. His tongue darted out to touch his spider bites.

  “Come with me,” I said. “I promised her I’d come.”

  And that I would bring him along, but I didn’t share that last part out loud. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about the fact that girls wanted to get with my best friend. Of course, I knew he’d already fucked a few at school. Objectively, most wanted to get into his pants, but for all the wrong reasons. I wasn’t stupid. He was gorgeous, and that in and of itself was enough. And yes, if rumors were to be trusted, he was amazing in bed. Of course. But it wasn’t just that.

  All of these rich, pretty girls wanted to bag themselves the resident bad boy, the dark and inked and dangerous boy, the boy who wouldn’t give them the time of day, who couldn’t care less about all of the fawning they did over him. The boy who would never, ever call them the next morning. Also the one whom they’d pretend not to know if they ever came across him at one of their posh gatherings. Good enough to be in their beds, to be another notch in their belts, but never good enough to be seen with them, or God forbid, meet their parents. I knew these girls.

  But I also knew my boy. He wasn’t some heartless fuck ‘em and leave ‘em guy. The fact is, he simply took what was offered. He didn’t ask for more and didn’t want more. And he was never the one who told. Ever. The girls were all too happy to gossip among themselves as to whomever had been lucky enough to bag him. I sighed.

  He glanced over at me, oblivious to my sordid train of thought.

  “You ok, baby doll?”

  “Come with me?” I repeated.

  He paused for a heartbeat before nodding. “Hell, why not.”

  I smiled and reached over to swipe his bangs from his eyes, my fingers lingering on his face. I realized I did that a lot. It was just that secretly I loved touching him. Touching him, smelling him, being near him.

  “Dame . . . what the girls say about you . . .”

  He snorted and flashed me a smirk, his eyes bright with amusement.

  “What?” I yelled out.

  “Probably all bullshit.”

  “They say you’re quite the ladies’ man . . .” I ventured.

  “Oh? Is that right, hmmm? Baby girl, is that what they call fucking these days?”

  “Oh! You’re awful!” I said, smacking him in the chest.

  He just smirked some more.

  “Do you like any of them? Maybe someone like Rach?” My voice was small, and I hated the note of insecurity. I bit down on my lip.

  He sighed, before pulling to a stop, and I realized that he’d driven us back to our spot at Pine Lake. He turned to look at me, something funny in his eyes that I just couldn’t put my finger on.

  “No.”

  “Not a single one of them?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Is what they say true?” I asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear and looking away, to avoid his piercing gaze.

  He didn’t respond, so I chanced a glance.

  “What do they say?” he asked finally, staring straight through me.

  “That you’re amazing in bed,” I blushed and could feel my face flush at least ten shades of red. But I went on, “And, um, that you’re just in it for the sex, and that you’ll tell them that upfront, and that you never sleep more than once with any of them. Ever.”

  He laughed. “I suppose that’s true. I am a promiscuous bastard.”

  “Never more than once?” I asked again, both fascinated and repelled by the very idea of Damien fucking anyone, much less so many girls.

  “No. More than once means that it means more,” he explained. And then, in a barely audible whisper, “I’ve never met anyone who could mean more.” But something in his eyes betrayed him, and his tongue came out to play with his spider bites. I wouldn’t let it pass.

  “Not anyone?”

  He paused. His shoulders tensed and he furled his eyebrows as he considered my question. He opened his mouth only to shut it again, grinding his teeth for a full eight count. He turned away. In a careful voice, he then said, “Not anyone . . .” and, after several heartbeats, added, “except for you.” And then he looked at me. “You mean everything. Everything to me. I won’t cheapen it.”

  His words made me feel tipsy. I breathed in deeply, then said, “What isn’t cheap can’t be cheapened, Dame. Maybe, maybe this could be more . . .”

  He laughed and looked away again. “Do you know what else they say?” He’d completely ignored my quiet plea. “That I’m good just for one-night stands and perhaps to wash their cars. They couldn’t possibly let their daddies meet me, dirty trailer trash that I am. No, baby. There is no worth there.”

  He didn’t say it, but I could read the indictment in his eyes: even you have to hide our friendship from your father.

  Did he think we couldn’t work out because I was too good for him? The horrible realization hit me, and I looked at him, unable to articulate the fury inside me, the words I wanted to tell him to drown out all of the awful things he’d only ever heard about himself. I wanted him to know that he was everything to me, too, and that, unlike what he’d implied, I wasn’t, could never be ashamed of him. But I couldn’t get the words out. I couldn’t get them out because while I could never think that, my world, my own father, did. And so instead, I said, “I won’t give you up, Dame. I promise you. I won’t ever give you up. I’ll wait until you’re ready, but I won’t ever give you up.”

  Bella

  The New Year’s Eve party at Rachel’s was loud, with the usual suspects doing the usual things. I looked around and at the teens making out on the sofa, but he wasn’t there. He’d promised he’d meet me here after he got off work, but I was over an hour late. I’d ended up covering an additional shift at the kitchen. With NYE and all, they’d gotten overrun. I’d texted him in the middle of the rush that I probably wasn’t going to make it after all, but lo and behold, here I was. He hadn’t responded to my latest text, but his car was parked outside.

  He was still here.

  I texted him again, but no answer.

  Gingerly I side-stepped the booze spilled on the floor and made my way up.

  I could hear Rachel’s voice, indistinct. Damien’s familiar, soft bass-baritone replied something as unintelligible. I headed toward the sound. It was coming from her bedroom, the door not quite closed all the way. Before I even got there, I knew what I’d find. And yet, I could not stop myself. With trembling hands, I pushed against the door gently, widening the crack just a bit more.<
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  Rachel was on the bed, sitting up on her knees, trying to pull Damien in for a kiss. He pulled back, not letting their lips touch.

  “I don’t kiss.” He growled softly, leaning against her ear. “Take it or leave it.” He stepped away, almost as if he were inviting her to turn around and leave.

  “I don’t need your kiss,” she replied and tugged on his belt. He smirked and then swung her around until she was on all fours. He pulled her underwear down and I watched, horrified and fascinated, while he quickly put on a wrapper and grabbed her by her ponytail, taking her, hard. He drove into her, over and over.

  “Oh, yes, fuck me. Fuck me harder!” she moaned.

  He kept plunging into her, his face nearly stone, his jaw set. He was shirtless, and I could see the beginning of hickeys on his pale neck. He still had his jeans on, slung low on his slim hips. Seeing him like this gave me a weird, heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know why, but he slowly turned his head toward the door, and his eyes met mine. Their color darkened and his mouth opened slightly, as he continued pumping into her while looking straight at me. His eyes never left me as he fucked her, and I could feel my pulse quicken. I knew I was blushing, and it wasn’t because of the embarrassment. In and out he continued, in and out, harder, harder, until his breath came out faster and faster, and still he stared at me, in my mind as assuredly doing to me with his eyes what he was doing to her with his cock. Suddenly he closed his eyes as he let out a silent cry. I stepped away from the door, ashamed at having witnessed such a private act, ashamed that it had both turned me on and repelled me, ashamed that I had wanted—still wanted—to be Rachel.

  On unsteady feet, I found my way back downstairs, wondering how we would ever be able to look at each other in the eye again. Images of Damien’s naked, sculpted chest and muscular hip, of his gorgeous face as he fucked, made me flush, lose my breath. How would I ever be able to face him, when all I could see and think of was his perfect, near-naked form? How awkward would that be?

  And yet I still wanted to see him, to talk to him tonight.

  I found a quiet spot in the library in the back to settle my racing heart. Maybe I’d just sit here and wait it out a bit, until I felt composed enough to face Dame again. I walked over to one of the walls, where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves boasted a treasure of tomes. I grabbed a random book from the shelves. Wuthering Heights. Good choice. I made my way to the large sofa in the middle of the room. There was a coffee table, littered with empty cans of Coke. There was also a half-built mechanical dinosaur of some sort, with pieces piled next to it, a random screwdriver nearby. This was likely where Rach’s brother spent his time building his nerdy models. I smiled and began reading.

  “There you are.”

  A chill snaked down my spine.

  I looked up from my book, and then pressed it against my chest, like paper armor.

  “What is it, Jon?” He came closer, so close I could smell the alcohol on his breath. I felt uncomfortable with him so close.

  “Looking for some company. This party blows.”

  I set my book down and got up. “I was actually leaving.” As I walked around him, he grabbed my arm.

  “So soon? I just got here. Stay with me. Let’s talk.”

  I tried to pry his hand off me, but he squeezed harder. “Let me go, Jon. You’re drunk.”

  “Aw, come on. Don’t be like that. You used to be so hot for me,” he slurred as he bent down to try and kiss me. I pushed his face away with my free hand.

  “Let. Me. Go,” I said, the firmness in my tone belying the fear that had started to pump through my veins. I tried to pull away but he only tightened his bruising grip.

  “Come on, you little slut,” he snarled. “Or do you only spread your legs for white trash with pierced cocks?”

  That he would refer to Dame like that made me lose my cool. I slapped him. This only seemed to enrage him and he hit me, nearly missing, before throwing me down on the couch and falling on top of me. I balled my fists and punched him, thrashing around, my knee jamming up into his groin, yelling for him to fucking stop. He groaned in pain and put his hand on my mouth and his full weight on me, immobilizing me.

  “You bitch. I guess you want it rough, huh,” he said as he pulled violently on the neckline of my shirt, tearing it down to expose my bra. He groped my breast with his other hand, pushing the cotton material out of his way, his sweaty, disgusting hand touching me in a violently intimate way. No matter how much I tried to move and kick, I couldn’t. He was much too big and had a linebacker’s strength.

  Could this really be happening?

  I was panicking. Maybe I could reach the screwdriver? Too far and I was pinned down. I was about to gouge his eyes with my fingers when suddenly, I heard an unrecognizable guttural roar of pure rage. I looked up to see Damien barreling toward us, eyes wild with fury. He spun Jon around and slammed a fist into his face. A sickening crushing sound of bones breaking, and suddenly blood was gushing out of Jon’s nose.

  “Motherfucker!” Jon screamed in a high-pitched gargle, out of control. He grabbed the screwdriver from the table and swung it wildly at Damien, hitting him below the eye and dragging it down his cheek, drawing blood.

  Damien ignored the river of blood now pouring down his right cheek, grabbed Jon’s swinging arm and threw another punch into his solar plexus. Jon crumpled onto the floor. He was gurgling, whimpering, crouched in a fetal position as Damien pummeled him, each hit from his brick-like fists meeting tender flesh, inflicting damage. Finally, reality set in, and I jumped up to grab one of his arms.

  “Stop, Dame! Stop! Please stop.”

  Damien turned his wild gaze to me, anger still radiating from his frame, blood spilling from his split cheek, nearly out of control. He must have seen the look of fear on my face, because the manic edge in his eyes slid away and he softened and stepped back. He nodded at me before turning back to a whimpering Jon.

  “Don’t you ever fucking dare lay a finger on her again, motherfucker. You hear me? Do that again and you’re fucking dead. I will fucking flay you alive.” His voice, now back to a soft, savage growl, was made all the more menacing by its barely restrained quiet rage, by the bone-chilling violence in his words.

  He glanced down at me, turmoil in his eyes as he took in my ashen face, my torn shirt, my barely covered chest. With trembling fingers, he swept my hair away from my face, gently tugged on my bra to readjust it, pulled my shirt closed. He unzipped his hoodie and draped it over me with hands so soft and gentle it made my heart clench. He then put his hand in mine and led me away. People were looking at us oddly as we walked on. Outside, the adrenaline left my body and my knees buckled. He stopped and caught me gently and carried me to my car, cradled against his thumping heart.

  I huddled closer, pressed my face against his chest harder, desperate for more closeness.

  “Baby,” he whispered.

  The tears finally started to fall, and I was unable to hold them back. The terror of what had almost happened, coupled with the devastating relief that it hadn’t . . . and, if I was honest with myself, flashbacks to him and Rachel unsettled me even more.

  I remembered the roar, a sound I had never, ever heard from my soft-spoken Damien before. Dame who only spoke in shadows and whispers, he’d roared so loudly the sound had bounced violently off the walls, the full power of his usually restrained anger now unleashed.

  “Baby.” He stroked my hair softly. Suddenly, I realized that in spite of the tenderness he showed me, and the gentleness of each of his movement, his body was tense. I looked up at him and saw the hard edge in his eyes, anger barely under control, still. And then I realized that he was not ok. Not ok at all.

  “Dame.”

  He looked at me, a war still raging in his eyes. “That motherfucker almost—”

  “But he didn’t. I’m ok. Nothing happened. Thanks to you.”

  His cheek was still bleeding. I reached down to the glove compartment to grab some Kleenex. I
wiped gently before holding the tissue down over his wound, hoping the pressure would stop the blood. He didn’t even wince. The cut was deep, not so deep that it would require stitches, but deep enough that I was afraid it would leave a scar.

  He laughed, the notes dark and fraying. “Thanks to me?” he rasped out. “If I’d been with you instead of trying to fuck anything in a skirt, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “It’s not on you! You can’t be expected to be with me at all times!”

  He moved his cheek, denying my ministrations to instead hold me closer. “I care for you so much. If anything happens to you . . .” His fingers gently traced my cheek. It was a bit sensitive, but nothing too bad, in reality. Nothing compared to the state my Damien was in.

  “Not on you, babe.” I grabbed his hand, carefully. His knuckles were bloody and bruised. Again, I reached for the box of Kleenex before gently wiping his hand.

  “That must hurt,” I said softly.

  “I couldn’t save her.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  His sister.

  “It wasn’t on you to save her.” I finally understood the torment eating him inside, the torment brought in full force to the fore when he had thought me in danger.

  “It was. I was supposed to be watching her.” The despair in his voice, the anguish in his eyes, shattered mirrors to his broken soul, tore my heart apart.

  “You were a child, Dame. A child. Barely old enough to be outside alone. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “If I’d been watching her more closely, if I’d been paying attention to her instead of whatever the hell it was I was doing, she would still be here. This wouldn’t have happened to her.” He turned his eyes to me, full of darkness and despair, and my heart bled for him.

  He clenched and unclenched his fist, testing it. “I would have killed him.”

  I placed my hand on his cheek, turning him gently toward me. “It isn’t on you. Not then, not now,” I said softly, forcing him to look at me, making sure I kept him here, with me, saving him from drowning inside of his dark memories.