Damien, Forever (An Art of Sinners Novel)

by Tempest Phan

  Later, much, much later, I carried her into her bedroom, half asleep against me. I laid her down gently on her soft bed, pausing to step back and look at her, completely overwhelmed by her beauty, by the love—beyond obsessive—that I felt for her.

  Bella Mei Grace. My baby girl.

  Finally, I joined her, sinking into the soft comforters and mattress, pulling her against me as she sighed, making my heart flip again. I fell asleep, dreamless, for once, her gentle breathing keeping mine from running out of control, keeping my demons from taking over. And when she awoke in the early hours of the morning, the pale dawn sending soft rays through the white blinds on her window, bathing her gorgeous face in soft light, I made love to her all over again. And over. And over. And again.

  For the rest of that weekend, in fact, we never left her bed. I drank her in, making up for lost time, I knew, and for any future that would likely stretch on without her. I touched her all over, memorizing every single curve, peak, and valley on her beloved body, memorizing the caresses, the sensitive spots that made her lose herself, hoping that with each touch, each sigh, each time she made that soft sound in her throat right before she screamed out my name, my hunger for her would lessen. But it never did. I fell deeper and deeper for her, more hungry for her love than ever.

  “Oh Dame,” she whispered, still flushed from her climax. “Why is it always so devastating to have you?”

  “I don’t know.” I caressed her slim arm, my fingers moving over her gorgeous, pale breasts, their enticing dusty pink nipples erect against my hand, making me want to bite into them.

  But instead, I looked into her hazel eyes, and we were taken back to that afternoon in her kitchen, when I’d whispered to her that being with the right girl would likely feel downright devastating.

  And it did.

  It really fucking did.

  “I don’t know,” I lied again, my stomach crawling with pain at what I had to do next. “But this can’t go on.”

  She looked away. I gently cupped her chin, brought her eyes back to mine.

  “This was my first time,” I said. “My first time going bare with anyone. And to do that with you . . .” I closed my eyes and leaned my head back to rest against the pillow.

  She kissed me gently on the cheek. She understood.

  “You are like the rains after a ravaging fire, baby.” Our eyes tangled, held for the space of a few heartbeats before I rasped, “But you’re also the inferno that’s burnt its way through my soul. And I will always, always thirst for you. Always.”

  She pinned me with her stare, seeing right through me. “You say that and yet . . . You’re leaving me.” She shook her head in disbelief, her hair spilling over me. “And you’re not coming back, are you?”

  I nodded as she sat up, turning away from me.

  A devastating fire. And I knew that in the morning, the panic would set in, the shadows would overcome me. I could perhaps have lived with the aftermath, but I was doing the exact thing I’d spent the past year trying to prevent. I was pulling her in instead of letting her explore what freedom should taste like. Freedom I didn’t have so couldn’t give right now. And she, like me, would have no way out.

  She deserves more. So much more. Her father was right.

  Every night for nearly a year, as I laid, sleepless, imagining her in her own bed, alone, I made promises to myself, for her. That I’d leave this hellhole. That I’d make something of myself. That this wasn’t going to be where it all ended for me, for us.

  But until then, I had to let her go.

  And so, on that fateful spring day, I said goodbye. I knew that once I boarded that plane, yes, she was right. I wouldn’t ever return. Because if I did, I wouldn’t ever be able to live up to my promises for her. And she wouldn’t be able to live up to hers.

  I saw her tear-stained face and my heart constricted. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I shut my eyes, willing the familiar panic away.

  “Hun. Hun, are you ok?” The flight attendant was leaning in, her kind face lined with concern.

  With willpower I didn’t know I had any longer, I attempted a smile and said haltingly, “Flying isn’t my favorite thing,” and winked at her.

  She looked a little dubious, but smiled at me. “Well, you let me know if you need anything, ok?”

  Three Years Later

  Bella

  Dame never came back to Cali to see me after that. I hadn’t seen him in three years since that last goodbye. We were never in the same room together, even when I flew home. He’d either be mysteriously absent, excuse after excuse as to why he wouldn’t be around to see me, or my dad would ensure that every second of my days there were accounted for—he was orchestrating it all, still.

  But in those long years without Damien near me, not a day went by without him sending me a note, a snippet of poetry, part of a song in progress, samples from a new band he thought I might like. He’d also text me hello and goodnight daily, without fail, and FaceTime me every Sunday night. And so my first thought—and text—upon awakening in the morning were for him, as were my last before turning off the lights. I’d send out prayers into the universe for him to be safe and happy, even if he chose to be so without me. I knew I would be able to help him through his demons, save him from those long nights, if only he’d let me.

  And still, I spent my college years waiting patiently, ok, sometimes not so patiently, for him. Although he’d never acknowledged it, gently pushing me instead to accept coffee with the cute football player in my physics study group, or lunch with the gentle pre-med student, or again, dinner with the ambitious poli-sci major. And I came back from these dates and their bland, disgusting kisses and empty promises with my heart more set on him than ever.

  It made zero sense how much he pushed me away. I’d seen the look in his darkened blue eyes when he’d held me in his arms. I was his.

  In a particular moment of desolation, I went to see Saint again, taking him up on his offer to expand my cherry blossoms. But really, I was only using that as an excuse to try and make sense of it all, as he was likely the only person who could explain Damien to me, besides Damien.

  Saint had moved back to L.A., apparently, but was in the bay area frequently for “business.”

  When I walked in, he greeted me like an old friend, giving me a bear hug. As the black needles went in, so did my dark words spill out.

  “Why is he acting like that, Saint? He keeps pushing me to see others, but he admitted that the very thought literally makes him ill. Why is he being so stubborn? Why can’t he see?”

  I couldn’t help it. I too felt nauseous, my stomach somersaulting all over the place as I tried to fight this bitter truth. And it wasn’t the pain from the needles. At all.

  It seemed odd that I could lay bare my heart like that to a near stranger, but something about the tattooer felt safe and comforting. Maybe because he’d been there for my Damien, always.

  Saint leaned back in his chair, tattoo machine in hand, not meeting my gaze as he changed out the needles so he could start the shading work.

  When his indigo eyes fell back on mine, he smiled a smile so gentle, so at odds with all the piercings and ink and leather, and rasped, “It’s not stubbornness, although we both know our boy has that in spades. It’s just . . . All things in their own time, Bella. It won’t make sense until it does. And until then, all things in their own time. You can’t rush, you can’t push.”

  I’d looked at him skeptically, at first, because he was right. This—he—made no fucking sense.

  He was also a lost poet, clearly.

  I hugged Saint goodbye and went home.

  Over the next few days, I thought about what he’d said. And the more I thought of it, the more I allowed his words to flow in my mind, through my heart, the more I began to allow myself to just let go. Bit by bit, I said goodbye to my hopes for Damien, who didn’t want me by his side in this fight, and so it was no longer mine to fight.

  Instead, I’d continue to cheris
h his friendship.

  All things in their own time.

  I stretched out in my bed and grabbed my phone, immediately opening last night’s post-goodnight message.

  DAMIEN:

  Check this, baby: “She’s the girl next door, the girl next door . . .” and then . . . nothing. Your boy’s stumped.

  DAMIEN:

  PS: And goodnight, kisses and bites x2 . . .

  I quickly texted him hello. His response was immediate:

  DAMIEN:

  Hey :)

  ME:

  Check THIS, MDJ: “Didn’t want her in my bed, so kept her in my heart instead.”

  DAMIEN:

  Goddamn, baby girl! Stealing it. xx!

  I smiled and jumped out of bed. Today, I had to stop by the San Francisco offices of Stone Law. Something about important documents my father wanted me to pick up and store for him until he arrived for my twenty-second birthday. I didn’t understand why he didn’t simply have them delivered to him, but he kept emphasizing the confidential nature of it, and that I needed to be the one to be trusted with it. Once again, I wondered if my father was disappointed that I had not been born a boy. Or pursued a legal career.

  I pulled into the parking lot and headed toward the tall glass tower where the firm occupied the top suite. Only the very best for Stone. Very reminiscent of Davenport & Ellis. Of course, privileged, powerful men were the same everywhere. Predictable. I took the elevator up the thirty-seven floors, smiling at the receptionist who greeted me behind her glass desk when the elevator doors opened.

  “Welcome to Stone Law, San Francisco. How may I help you?”

  I was about to respond when a trio of sharply dressed men emerged from one of the great oak double doors, talking and laughing. Power radiated from them, and they had the swagger that only old money multiplied by new could buy. The one in the middle was tallest and blond, and unlike the other two, only in his shirtsleeves, which he’d rolled up to his elbows. I could see tattoos of waves inching up his left forearm, looking incongruous against the expensive shirt and the posh and powerful surroundings. And when he looked up, piercing steel grey eyes trained on me, I blushed. Lukas Fucking Stone, Esquire, a.k.a. Viscount Ryding.

  “Well hello, Miss Mirabella Mei Grace Davenport!” Laughter was in his voice. The two men near him glanced over as well and smiled my way, an appreciative look in their eyes, only short of predatory. What was it with these men who thought the whole world was at their beck and call?

  “Lukas.” I nodded curtly, images of my embarrassing conduct three years ago coming to flood my mind.

  And they were clearly on his mind as well. I saw the laughter in his eyes as I watched him make his way to me, energy and charisma emanating from his tall and powerful frame. “Your father mentioned you’d be stopping by,” he said in his crisp British accent, as he stopped in front of me and extended his hand. “Delighted to see you again. I’d hoped it would have been much sooner, given where we’d left things off.”

  I could feel the flush heat up my face but batted the embarrassment back down. I managed a smile and grabbed his hand in a handshake, but he expertly maneuvered it to instead place a gentlemanly peck on it.

  His lips were incendiary, and I stole my hand back, nearly expecting it to have exploded into ashes.

  “Where we left things off? I seem to recall leaving you standing all alone on that dance floor, Lukas.” My voice wasn’t nearly as steady as I would have liked, as my hand was still on fire from his touch, and my thoughts were chaotic inside my head. I blurted out, “And where’s your nose ring?” Had I imagined it, in that dark club all those years ago?

  “Ouch, love.” He winked. “But damn observant for someone who really only meant to leave me pining after her in a disco. And I was. Pining that is.”

  I snorted.

  He smiled and looked towards the receptionist. “Evelyn.” He turned back to me as he gently placed his hand on my upper arm and pushed me toward one of the large corner offices. My skin was burning from his touch. Not looking at Evelyn while he addressed her, he continued, “Please have an almond milk mocha delivered to my office.” Leaning in, he winked conspiratorially and said, “See? I remember.”

  And just like that, he took me to his office, blatantly ignoring the two men who’d walked out with him. Clearly, he was at the top of the pecking order here.

  “Please, have a seat,” he said, closing the door while gesturing to a black leather sofa occupying the center of the large, frosted glass-paned room. His office boasted floor-to-ceiling clear windows overlooking the water on two sides, and I was pretty sure it could hold my entire apartment.

  “Lukas, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I lied. What was it about this man that made me so . . . self-conscious? The fact that I’d made a spectacle of myself with him on a dance floor several years ago couldn’t have anything to do with my discomfort. I found myself blushing as I looked at him and saw him laugh at me with his eyes. I felt so naked.

  “Mirabella,” he said, my name on his lips sounding incredibly decadent. “No almond milk mocha?”

  “I’m here to pick up some files for my father, and I really have to go.” I looked away, still refusing to go over and sit. In a step, he closed the distance between us and peered down at me, cocking his head. He didn’t say a word, so finally, I glanced up, only to lose myself in his gaze. Was I a puddle on his hardwood floor yet?

  I was once again struck by the wolf-like quality of his eyes, cool and grey, with a restrained wildness lurking just beneath. A few heartbeats passed before he said, “Right, then.” I felt his warm breath on my face and flushed even more. What was up with me?

  He walked over to the massive oak desk occupying one of the corners of the room, opened a drawer, and pulled out a large manila envelope. In a few steps, he was near me again.

  “Here,” he said, handing me the envelope. “Miss Mirabella Mei Grace Davenport,” he added, just above a whisper, his eyes caressing mine. No, fucking mine.

  The man was sex on legs.

  I needed out of there. I made a grab for the envelope and spun toward the door.

  “Mirabella.”

  I turned back. “Yes?”

  “Have dinner with me tomorrow. I don’t bite—”

  He smiled but I cut him off, “Let me guess. Unless I want you to.” I rolled my eyes at him, pretending irritation I didn’t necessarily feel. “You’re so predictable, Stone.”

  He didn’t respond, instead pinning me with his wolf eyes. I could feel my face flush ten shades of red. Images of my grinding against him flashed before me. He remembered it. I could see it in his eyes, in the fires burnishing his steel grey gaze.

  “Indeed.” The word left his mouth in a lazy, crisp drawl, an invitation sealed and delivered by that lopsided grin slanted across his luscious lips.

  I breathed out and shook my head. “I’m sorry, Lukas, I just—”

  “Please, Mirabella,” he said softly. “We’re friends, aren’t we now?”

  Friends? This is the third time I’ve ever seen him. Ok, fourth if you count the time he came over to hang with my dad. And fifth if ten minutes spent grinding against a stranger can ever be held against me in his court of law.

  “Or at the least, I’d love for us to be,” he added.

  I sighed, anything to get out of this inferno. I needed the outside air to cool off. Make that a cold shower. “Ok, tomorrow.”

  “Brilliant!” he said, clapping his hands once as he leaned over and opened the door for me. “Please, allow me.”

  I stepped out quickly, nearly running over a surprised Evelyn who was coming my way, coffee in hand.

  “Miss Davenport! Your coffee!”

  “I’m so sorry, Evelyn. I have to go,” I said, not looking back. It was all I could do not to sprint out of there like a wuss. What was wrong with me? I passed the two men from earlier, who were standing by the reception desk, deep in discussion. As I nearly ran by them, I caught them looking at me.

&nbs
p; “Michael Davenport’s daughter . . .” I heard one say.

  “Shit!” said the other. “The Davenport? From Davenport & Ellis? No one told me the Iron Man had a hot daughter.”

  And then, Lukas’s low, menacing tone, “Careful there, boys . . .”

  The elevator doors closed and I was spared the rest.

  Later, when I got back to my apartment, I felt a pang of panic. What had I gotten myself into? I picked up my phone, intent on FaceTiming Dame, when a call came through.

  Lynda.

  “Hey honey,” she greeted me in her sing-song voice.

  Impeccable timing . . . Lynda would know.

  “Lynda. I have a date with Lukas Stone,” I said without preamble.

  She laughed. “Well hello to you too, Mira. Anyways, about Lukas. I’m not surprised. He’s as charming as ever.”

  I started pacing in my living room. “Would that be cheating?”

  I heard a rustling sound on the other end, a door closing, before she replied, “On whom?”

  Like she needs to ask.

  “On your Damien friend?” she continued. “So tell me. How long has it been since—”

  “Three years.”

  “And you’ve been on dates and kissed other boys . . . so, I think you’re in the clear, don’t you?”

  “This feels . . . different, Lynda.” I tried to rub the headache away from my brows and forehead as I stared out my window to the quiet street below.

  “Listen, honey. You’ve told me Damien has been ok with you dating. You two haven’t been a thing since, well . . .”

  Since ever, Lynda. Because he won’t let it.

  “He’s got his life, Mira. It’s time you let go and have yours,” she finally said, very gently, knowing how hard these words would sound to my tender heart.

  My lungs constricted.

  All things in their own time, Bella.

  ***