by L. J. Woods
Kissing Willow on the head I take one last breath. It would be stupid of me to not see this through. Damien’s right. The lakehouse could have our answers. With one glance at Willow, I decide I’m doing this for us.
Here we go.
When I climb in the car, Damien presses on the gas before I can even close the door, his Lambo screeching as we drive out the lot.
“What the fuck was that?” I ask once we’re off school property.
Damien takes his shades from the compartment on the roof all chill like he didn’t have a bratty fit in the parking lot. “What was what?” he replies.
I knew it was coming, a deflection with a question, but it’s still infuriating. Mostly. Damien’s reaction tells me that he’s not as done with me as I thought. And now that I’m sitting here in his car, I’m wondering if I’m in the same boat.
“You know what,” is my only response.
“You mean showing up to school riding shotgun with Perez?”
“He stayed with me last night after you disappeared. Again!”
“I called you seven times.”
“We were having din—”
“What did you do?”
My brows furrow, his eyes still on the road as he hits me with his questions. “Nothing. We —”
“That’s right,” he cuts me off again. “You didn’t do anything because he doesn’t touch you the way I do. He never will. His cock will never feel as good as mine does, he can’t handle someone like you the way I can. So stop thinking otherwise.”
Excuse me? “Someone like me? What the fu—”
“When I call, you answer,” Damien doesn’t take his eyes off the road, hands gripping tight to the wheel.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do. Not unless we’re …” I trail off, hoping he’ll cut me off but of course, when I want him to do something, he doesn’t. With his hands on the wheel, he lets the dead air settle, waiting for an answer before his impatience wins. “We’re what?”
“Nothing.” I’m fidgeting with the watch on my wrist, refusing to meet those heartbreaking eyes. I’m scared to say it. Don’t know why. It’s like I’m afraid he’ll deny something I’m not even sure we have. Looking out the window, the road looks familiar, Eden Lake coming into view and I keep picking at my nails, chewing my cheek. We’re close. “You think it’s a good idea to head back there?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You don’t think it’s too soon?”
“Is it too soon for you?”
Yes. God, yes. But I don’t tell him that. “No.”
“Good.” He doesn’t say anything else when he turns up the volume on the sound system. The Clash. And just like that, I’m reminded how much alike we are. Settling into my seat I take a deep breath, the words to “The Guns of Brixton” soothing my mind and when Damien takes my hand, it gets easier.
“For a rich kid, I’m surprised you’re into punk rock,” I say, grasping to his hand, his soft skin. I hope he doesn’t notice how tight my grip is.
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, his hold tightening on my hand before he answers, “My mom played a lot of it growing up.”
I smile at Damien revealing another piece of his past. “Your mom’s cooler than you.”
That gets a laugh, one that eases my anxiety. Soothes my soul. “Shuddup, Rowland.”
With my head against the backrest, I’m enjoying this moment, watching the scenery go by.
This is it.
We’re heading back to the scene of the crime.
And we’re doing this together.
* * *
It’s like a dark cloud looms over the place when we arrive.
I can hardly admire the modern architecture before Damien parks the car and heads inside. It’s like he’s forcing himself to face the music and he’s bringing me with him.
Is that why we’re here?
Does he need me or is this wishful thinking?
Getting out of the car I take in a whiff of the crisp air. Pine and wet leaves. With one last look at the glistening lake in front of me, my fists tight, I head for the front door.
It’s not like I remember. Not like the scenes that keep replaying in my head.
The foyer isn’t a mess with glass, blood and porcelain. Streaks of red don’t trail to the kitchen. Everything shines and sparkles as if nothing happened at all.
Damien stands in the glistening kitchen, broad back towards me in his leather jacket. He’s staring at the island, frozen in place.
“Damien?” I call to him but he doesn’t answer. There’s a chill in the room as I move towards him, the place smelling like Febreze and bleach. He doesn’t hear me behind him because when I ask, “You okay?” he jumps as if lightning struck.
“Jesus, Rowland,” he mutters, walking towards the sleek black stairs. He grips the rail like he can hardly walk before he mumbles, “Bathroom.” Without a glance in my direction, he makes his way up the stairs in slow strides.
He leaves me standing in a space that’s getting spookier by the second. When I take another look around the room, most of the decor is wood and concrete, white walls matching the white counters in the kitchen. Coordinating white sofas sit in the open living room. It’s glamorous as usual but the King’s getaway home feels more like a showy hotel.
Pulling my jacket around me, I cross my arms before my eyes land on the thermostat. Walking over, I fiddle with the buttons before I see that it’s on. But as I stand by the front door, it all comes flooding back.
My breathing gets heavy and I start to freeze up, the scene replaying in front of me like it’s happening live.
The gun.
The blood.
So much blood.
I’m seeing Sebastien King’s body lying in front of me and it’s getting harder to breathe, my throat closing in.
BANG!
The shot that started it all rings loud in my head and I can’t fucking take it anymore. I’m running for the stairs, gripping to the rail, my legs shaking as I climb.
“D-Damien?” I’m struggling to call him as I try to catch my breath.
I need him.
“Damien?” I call again when I reach the top of the steps. The dark hallway opens up in front of me, my mind sending me for a whirl as I hold onto the wall. The last time I touched these walls, Damien had me against them. His firm hands all over my body, his lips in every crevice he can find. But now I know what happens when we get together. Evil. Sin.
Death.
Despite all that, in his arms or his presence is where I want to be. Especially right now. Back in this house.
There’s a light at the end of the hall and it looks like it’s coming from the bathroom, the door cracked. There’s a shuffling sound coming from inside and while I wait to hear the telltale signs of a guy taking a piss, I don’t. Instead, as I get closer I hear …
SMASH!
“Damien?”
There’s a shuffle in the bathroom before the door shakes and I know what he’s about to do so I lunge for it. Pulling on the knob, I get to it before he gets a chance to slam it closed.
What I see breaks my heart. I catch a glimpse of the bathroom and it’s totalled. I’m not surprised. His signature when he’s feeling something, anything, is to smash the world around him. Like it’ll all make it better.
“Get out of here,” he says. He’s pressing on the door but he’s not yelling or demanding. He says this like he’s already defeated, his face red and wet. But I’ve been here before, and no matter how ruthless, or brutal he is, I know he needs me as badly as I need him.
“No,” I say, pushing on the door but fuck, he’s strong. So I do the thing that makes me feel weaker and stronger at the same time. I own my feelings. “I need you, Damien.”
Silence.
After another second of pushing against the door, the weight eases, letting me inside. There’s blood coming from his knuckles, the glass shattered above the sink.
He looks more lost and angry than
I expect. That makes it easy for me to give in, wrapping my arms around his waist like I did when I needed him at MOCHA. Only a few seconds go by before his arms close in around me, my head against his chest. The longer we stay here, the tighter his hold feels before his head hits my shoulder. His back hits the wall before we’re sliding to the ground, but I don’t let go. I won’t.
Once we’re on the floor, his head drops to my chest and I pull him in my arms as his body goes limp. As if he’s letting it all fall on me.
“He’s—” There’s a wobble in his voice, a choke. “Gone. Just like that.”
“I know, but I’m right here.” I say the words I wish someone told me when my parents passed away, but what he says next leaves me breathless.
“Always?” I’ve never heard his voice sound so little, so broken as if he can’t believe he’s asking me this. When I don’t answer, he looks up at me with glassy eyes. “Say it.”
It’s easier than I think when I let the words through my lips, “You’ll always have me, Damien. No matter how hard I try to fight it. No matter how hard you fight it. We’re too fucked up not to have each other. You and I both know that.”
He exhales, settling into my hold, as if he knows it too.
* * *
“Bingo.”
A yellow folder slides across the grey master bedroom floor, hitting what’s left of my burrito.
We’ve been at the lakehouse all afternoon, the fall sun starting to set. The only thing to get us off that bathroom floor was the promise of finding some clues. And food.
We haven’t talked about going back into the kitchen or the living room downstairs. There’s a bit of warmth in this room I’m grasping onto. A cabinet of files and documents sit in the small office off the bedroom, and once Damien got himself together, he dove in. Bringing back an armful of files, he scattered papers across the bedroom floor. He said it wouldn’t be easy, so I’m relieved to hear the sound of a win.
“What you got?” I ask, my own stack of papers and files on my lap and it feels like we’re in the middle of a Riverdale mystery.
The room is more stunning than I remember, glass walls in front of the bed letting the moonlight in. Dark walls and furniture offset silver and white fixtures, and the plush rug under my butt matches Damien’s eyes.
Not that I’ve noticed.
A couple of pot lights above cast a shadow on his face, making him look even more regal than he usually does.
“Proof that my dad sent Marion a large sum of cash a decade ago from his personal account.” He pauses before sliding over another sheet of paper. “And proof that she spent it all on a month-long vacation with some simp in Ibiza.”
“Okay, so she’s bad with money.”
“Bad?” Damien’s chuckle ricochets into that knot tightening in my stomach. His chiselled cheeks reach his eyes. “That woman is abysmal. It’s why my dad kept her out of his business plans. So if she takes this company, it’s going to tank. No doubt about it.”
“What are you gonna do?” I ask. “Talk to her about it?”
He chuckles again, “There’s not much talking when it comes to my family.”
While he looks over the pages again, I finally get the air to ask, “Soo … your family’s French?”
“Fainéant. That’s Marion in this case, literally. The do-nothing King.” When Damien switches to French I have to make sure drool doesn’t escape my jaw-dropped mouth. “After my dad got a chance at the company, he moved to North America and changed his name from Roy to the English equivalent. King. Said it was better for business. Meanwhile, my dear aunt was doing her whole joie de vivre schtick. Now she thinks she’s entitled to our cash.” He glances down at a couple more files in his hands. “I need leverage. Something that’ll get her to back off. For good.”
“More of your dad’s money?” I’m trying to sound casual and not at all pleasantly surprised to learn Damien comes from French lineage. How cultured.
“If only it was that easy. She’ll come right back once she’s blown it all. There’s a reason she’s after the company. Continuous income. But she’s too short-sighted to see that she’ll run this thing dry.”
Leverage, huh? Smoothing a hair behind my ear I tell him what I know, happy he’s opened up to me again. “I saw Isaac leaving your house the other morning.”
His eyes narrow. “So? He always crashes after parties.”
“No, he—” I take a second to choose my words so I don’t say ‘Isaac is fucking your aunt.’ “He was leaving the room your aunt stays in. Naked.”
“Isaac fucked my aunt?” Damien’s quick to piece it together, full lips twisted, eyes turning to slits. His gaze shifts to my ear, his face looking more disgusted by the minute before his eyes fall back on me. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”
“You’re not blaming this on me, are you?”
“You’ve known all this time.” His jaw clenches but it only makes mine clench too.
“When was I supposed to tell you, Damien? When you were ignoring me the next day? Had you stuck around instead of leaving me like you usually do, you would’ve seen it yourself!” I get up from where I’m sitting, the anger forcing me to my feet before my eyes land on a name that makes me boil. “And what the fuck is up with the Evergreen deal?”
“What?” Damien looks even more confused now. Those thick eyebrows lower, gaze on me. One I’ve seen before. Like he’s making me the enemy again. “What do you know about Evergreen?”
“You mean I know something before you do?”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Medusa?” That threatening tone is back and fuck … it excites me. That’s bad, right?
But I drop the bombshell anyway, sighing, “It’s my mom’s company.” He pauses for a second before he sends a folder flying across the room. I flinch when it hits the wall, flopping to the floor. “But I don’t know anything.”
“Am I supposed to believe that?” Damien’s on his feet, walking towards me. “That you’re not here doing the same thing Marion came to do? Take my money?”
I scoff, chest tightening as anger builds again. “Are you fucking serious?”
His chest hits mine, grey-blue eyes zeroing in. “If I can’t trust you, you’re not leaving this room. Not with what you know now.”
“Back off, Damien. I keep telling you I’m not the enemy.” My hands land against his chest, my eyes dropping to his lips before I force them back to his eyes. But they’re too supple-looking. Too soft and marshmallowy to not give it a second look. That only makes me remember what they feel like. Makes me want to feel them again.
“I’m trusting you with this, Jo.”
He’s saying he’s trusting me but, “Can I trust you?”
His finger lands on my arm as he smirks. It’s like he knows what he does to me. Like he knows that simple touch has goosebumps rising to my skin before he says, “Only if you’re mine.”
Twelve
Damien King does something that I’ve never felt before.
Even after all this.
“You trusted me before.” He leans into my ear, “Right here, remember?” His voice is low and husky, like this whole banter turns him on and when he nibbles my ear, I let him like a mesmerized idiot. “You trust me with your body, don’t you, Medusa?” His breath lands on my neck and his body presses into me some more but the cat’s got my tongue. I can’t speak. I can’t move.
He tilts my chin towards the ceiling, my frozen body under his spell. “You trust me with that pretty little pussy too. Remember how I feel inside you? Remember how I made you mine, or do you need a reminder?”
A trail of kisses lead from my neck to my cheek, and when I don’t protest, his lips slam into mine.
And I’m a goner.
There’s something about Damien’s kiss that’s like kryptonite. Like delicious poison and I can’t get enough. He moves my arms above my head, locking them in place with my back against the door. It’s like the very first time I tasted this sinful fruit and every k
iss only makes it juicier. Sweeter.
Divine.
“Damien.” His name lands against his lips before I find the little bit of willpower left inside me. “You can’t fuck me if you don’t trust me.”
Damien leans back, his cheeks flushed, brows low.
His grip loosens on my wrist and I already miss his lips on mine, his power releasing my control. I’m starting to regret saying a damn word as he stalls, his eyes wandering my body like a buffet. His hand comes to his chin like he’s considering something before he says, “Is it Christian?”
What? “No, Damien, this is about us. Whatever it is that this is,” I pause, his words going through my brain. Body ablaze. “You think I killed your father for fucks sake. Do you actually want anything to do with me or are you just horny?”
“Fine. You didn’t kill my—” He looks down at the floor. “Him.”
Fucker. Now I’m mad at two things. One is that he actually listened and stopped touching me. “Then why did you say that? That’s fucked up, even for you!”
He shrugs, meeting my gaze again. “My dad died and I like getting under your skin. And into your clothes.”
“Damien,” Now I’m the one warning him, fists clenching. “You—”
“You like it, Jo,” he says with confidence, crossing his arms. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re playing at dragging Christian along but we both know I’m where you want to be. You love to hate me so I can take control. You know it. That’s why it rocks your world when my cock is deep in that ass.”
“Fuck you!” My cheeks are warm, my body a mixture of anger and heat and I can’t help but push against his chest. I’m pounding, letting the frustration out on his thick body and the less he reacts, the more I want him to feel it. “You said I killed your dad to egg me on? What kind of sick fuck does that?”
“One who has a raging hardon for you,” he says it like he’s chuffed with himself and goddammit, I look right at it.
He’s hard as hell. It’s raging. Bulging.
Closing my eyes, he chuckles like he knows before his chest is on mine again, my hands pinned to the side. “Tell me you don’t want this and I won’t. But don’t lie to yourself. You want me to fix this? Let me.” His lips are close enough that it’s easy to close the distance, his tongue parting my heart-shaped mouth. My body rebels against my mind, giving into pure, lustful sin. Or is it more?