by L. J. Woods
His.
Eighteen
“Favourite Halloween movie.”
Slamming the shot glass onto the table I’m staring Damien in those kaleidoscope eyes. He’s down to his boxers and I’m in my bra, panties and socks and like most days in the King house, it’s been hard to keep our hands off each other.
My thighs are still sore from the continuous barrage of Damien’s cock, and yet, I still crave his touch. Too much? Apparently not for us.
“One,” he starts.
“Two,” I continue.
“Three,” we say at the same time before I blurt out, “Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
He chuckles, taking a second before he responds, “Vivarium.”
“You didn’t say it with me,” I huff, rolling my eyes before taking a drink from the bottle between us. “Wait. Viv-what?”
I still don’t know what time it is. We haven’t been keeping track. We’re on the second-floor landing overlooking the foyer, asses on the floor. One of Damien’s black t-shirts hangs off my frame and it feels softer than any shirt I’ve worn. Even the ones Holly got me don’t feel as good as this and I’m starting to wonder if it’s because it’s his.
The last week has been nothing but drinking, talking and hot-blooded fucking. It’s the most one-on-one time I’ve had with Damien. While he knows my dark secrets, we’re learning a lot. For example, Damien King is a confirmed insomniac, not like I didn’t see that coming. I know because I am too. But it’s easier to sleep with him around. And if not, he’s there to drink me into a haze or fuck me into exhaustion.
He pulls the bottle to his lips. “I’m not sure if it’s technically a Halloween movie, but it’s horror,” he says, wiping a drop of bourbon off his bare chest.
Weed scattered in front of us, I start rolling another joint. “Well, what’s it about?”
“Aliens.” He’s resting his forearm on his knee, hardly taking his eyes off me. His bulge sits in my line of sight, pressing against the fabric.
“Aliens?” I ask. Didn’t take Damien for a science-fiction kind of guy,
“On the surface.” He scratches at the back of his head. That’s his thing when he’s feeling vulnerable. When Damien King is saying those crass words or demanding threats, it’s like second nature. But when having a normal conversation about movies? It’s like he’s hesitant to reveal that he’s human. Yet here he is, revealing it to me. “It touches on societal norms. Marriage. Kids. The fucked up American dream.”
“Hm.” Licking the paper I seal the joint. “Kind of like Rocky Horror then.”
“Wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen it.” He pours us both another shot before he takes the joint from me, finishing my roll. I’ve been hazy all week. The Damien King Christmas experience. While everyone else is having their Hallmark moment, that’s not for us. We rather stay piss-drunk and stoned, forgetting the world around us.
“You what?” I snort, my voice louder than usual with this much alcohol in my system. “Fuck Elf, we’re watching that this Christmas.” Heavy metal plays in the background, old takeout containers piled high in the kitchen. I feel like a rockstar on vacay. This could be the vacation I needed all along. One with only Damien and me.
“We’re going to have to up the stakes,” I say, squinting. “While I’ve enjoyed learning about what you like, if we’re going to trust each other, I need to get inside your head.”
He hands me the rolled joint and I light it, watching it in the flame.
“Alright.” He bites his lip. “Fuck this movie bullshit. I raise you a body count.”
Coughing at his words, not the joint, I pass it to him. “What?” My body freezes up but I’m trying hard to play it off.
His eyes narrow as he takes a puff like he’s already trying to figure it out. Or he’s thought of it before. “You heard me.”
“You want to know how many guys I’ve slept with?”
“Or girls.” He’s not even being cheeky, saying that with a straight face.
“Okay.” If I’m going to dig deeper into Damien, he’s digging deeper into me too. But of course, by his rules, where he gets to ask the tough questions first. Grabbing the bottle from his hand I take another long chug before I take another puff. Wiggling my body I try to shake the nerves, my hair whipping side to side. Not like I have anything to hide. “Three,” I force the words out. “Including you.” My body gets chills saying it and I glance down at my knobby knees before I meet his eye again.
His head falls to the side, a lock of hair in front of his eye. “Zane and …”
“It’s not important,” I say.
“Coward.”
“Fuck you. You’re jealous.” I keep the joint between my fingers, pulling my knees to my chest.
“You won’t unless you tell me.” His eyes turn into slits. “Who was it? Christian?”
“What? No!”
“Your foster parents?”
He’s direct and it’s hard not to look down when he says it. I can’t even meet his eyes. Instead, I pull the joint to my lips, pulling on it hard. When his hand comes to my knee it startles me, and I instinctively smack it away, my head doing the best it can to push the memory out of my mind.
“Jo?” Damien leans closer, taking the joint from my fingers. He tilts my chin to meet his gaze. Then my eyes blur. I try to look away but he keeps me there, searching my face before he takes a deep breath. “Shit, really?”
“It was a long time ago,” I say, my voice almost a whisper. Four years to be exact.
When I told my foster mom what happened with my foster dad, that cold night in my new bed, she brushed it off. Told me to get tested and not to let it happen again. So I shoved it in the dark spot in my mind behind the death of my parents and vowed to move on. Stronger. Better.
“Jo?” Damien’s voice brings me back to the present. I’m already brushing him off before he says anything else. I know what’s coming next. An apology on their behalf. A pitiful look. “I slept with my nanny.”
“Woah,” the word falls off my tongue. Well, that’s not what I expected.
He finishes the joint, his hand lingering on my knee, heat forming underneath. His face tenses, so does his grip when he says, “Five years ago.”
Shit. It’s like Damien has the same twisted past as I do, except his past is covered in gold and diamonds. I’m relieved he’s not prying or saying those canned responses most people give rape victims. It’s like he completely understands.
He laughs and while it surprises me, I realize why when he goes on, “My dad commended me. Might’ve been the last pat on the back he ever gave me.” Scoffing, he reaches for the bottle. “Makes me want to slam my fist through Luca’s face again.”
“So it was you.” This whole time I thought he got someone else to do his bidding but … is King my knight? Always there to save me? If I wasn’t so sure he orchestrated those pranks at school, I’d believe it.
There’s a buzzing from the bottom of the steps and it doesn’t quit, my phone vibrating along the surface. I can see the name that lights up my phone from here and I steady myself getting up, my legs more wobbly than I expected.
“Easy, Rowland,” Damien warns, his hands out to help and I can’t help but feel warm. His desire to make sure I’m okay even when I’m only walking down the stairs makes me wonder if I got it wrong about him.
When I grab my phone it’s on its last ten percent, having not charged it for days but I’m happy it’s alive. “Willow!” I yell, a little too loud again.
“Jo?”
“Hey, baby sis!” I try to slow my slurs, steadying my voice. Holding on to the rail, I take a breath, my head still a little spinny from our conversation and the booze. Be normal. “What’s crackin’?”
“Crackin’? Are you drunk?”
She knows me too well. “No!”
Willow laughs, “I guess it is Christmas. Insider tip, Elizabeth likes her nog, extra spiked.”
“It’s what?” I stumble at her words, my grip on the rai
l stopping my fall.
“Christmas! That’s why I called! I wish you were here! Marseille is beautiful but I miss you already.”
My hand comes to my chest. Even though my sister has her crew, I’m happy to still be important to her. “I miss you too, Low. A lot.”
“How’s Cabo?”
“Uh,” I stall. Do I tell her I’m with Damien? I don’t want to worry her so I’ll save that conversation for when she gets back. “Great!” I shut my eyes tight, hearing myself lie to my sister again.
“Did you and Christian—”
“No!”
“Willow?” Damien asks from the top of the stairs and I try to cover the mic with my hand.
When I nod, I’m happy Willow didn’t hear him as she rambles on about all the excursions she’s been on. The things she ate. What she’s seen. Hell, they even gave her an Apple Watch for Christmas. My sister would have never had this opportunity otherwise and it’s hard to ignore that some good could come out of Eden. For the both of us.
“Jo?” Damien calls again.
“Low? I gotta go.”
“Okay! Merry Christmas, Jo. I love you.”
“I love you more. Merry Christmas.”
“Everything okay?” Damien asks after I hang up.
When I make my way up the stairs, I lean against the rail. “Yeah, she wanted to say Merry Christmas.”
“It’s Christmas?” Damien asks, eyebrows at his hairline.
“Seems so.”
He smirks, taking my hand, as he rises from where he sits. His lean abs and pecs come into full view again. His porcelain skin smooth and inviting as always. “C’mon.” Holding onto the rail, he starts leading me down the steps.
“Where are we going now?” I ask, my body stumbling into a wall as Damien leads me down a long hallway to a big brown door.
“Careful,” he laughs. Damien takes me between his large palms before he opens the door. Hitting a light, we continue down to what smells like a basement. Mothballs and sawdust.
“Are you gonna kill me?” I ask, careful not to go flying down these stairs. He squeezes ahead of me and I stop when I make it into a large room. It’s like a rec room on steroids. Two black felt billiard tables. A large screen in front of plush recliners and a bar that looks bigger than the one at Emilio’s encased in rich dark wood. Something rustles from the door behind the bar and I make my way to it, my feet on the cold hardwood floor. When I’m in front, something glittery and soft lands on me. “What—” A large fuzzy spider sits on my head and I hate that I yelp. Blame the whiskey. “What the fuck, King?”
He stops rummaging around in a room organized with boxes and labels, turning to me over his bare shoulder. “Did you just call me King?”
“No.” My cheeks fill with heat. “The whiskey did.” When I stick out my tongue, he bites his lip and it’s like we’re thinking the same thing but my curiosity gets the best of me. “What’re you doing in here?”
He pulls out a long box before he pulls out two big plastic boxes behind it. “Decorating.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t traditional.”
“I’m not.” He turns a box around to show me the label. It reads, “Halloween.” The box next to his long toe has a white tree on it. He picks it up, hoisting the box on his shoulder while grabbing one of the large plastic boxes with little effort. Kinda like how he handles me. “C’mon, Rowland. Let’s fuck up Christmas.”
* * *
Damien King is full of surprises.
For better or worse.
This time it’s better.
With a soft, velvety blanket thrown over us, I look up at our creation from the living room floor. The white tree dazzles under dim lights, decorated in nothing but Halloween decorations. The black ones. Spiders and their webs. Black pumpkins and bats. We were even able to find some black on black tinsel to string around the tree along with purple lights. Not to toot my own horn, but it looks like a piece of art.
Our piece of art.
I’m drunk as fuck. Higher than a blimp at the Santa Claus Parade. But with the giggles I have going on, I’m happy as fuck too. It was way too early to give up on the idea of a good Christmas because Christmas with the devil is perfect. We have Rocky Horror Picture Show playing in the background and this Halloween x Christmas mashup feels entirely like us.
A mess.
“Ready for your gift?” Damien puts down what he’s calling his ‘Christmas Punch’, a concoction of whiskey, cognac and gin with cranberry ginger-ale. His reddened eyes droop, but he’s been unable to wipe that smirk off his face the entire time.
We’re below the tree, my back against his chest. After we got the thing up, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. “Thought you already gave me that,” I say with a giggle. Spreading my knees, my body between his legs, his fingers tighten on my thighs.
“Don’t get me started, Rowland,” he growls moving me forward while he reaches for something.
When I turn around, he pulls out a square velvet case, black with gold trim and I lower my brows. A snort escapes my lips, “Jewellery? Really? How basic do you think I am?”
“Don’t be stubborn.” Damien pushes it forward. “Just open it.”
It almost slips from my hand as I take it, and with one last glance in his grey-blue eyes, I open it.
There’s a key, a gold “J” the only thing on the keychain. “Wh—”
“It’s to the house.” He’s eager to explain. He never wants to explain. “Y’know, since you like crashing my parties so much.” And now he’s playing it off.
“Damien,” I say, sitting up, turning to him on my knees so I can see his gaze. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”
“I’m telling you to accept my gift.” He glances into his cup but I don’t miss his cheeks going red.
We’re hardly even dating. Does he think this will fix everything? Fix us? “And if I say no, are you going to turn into The Beast?”
He looks up from his glass, eyes narrowing. “Are you saying no? I’m not asking you to be my wife. Not yet.”
I ignore that confession, already confused enough. “What are you asking me then, Damien? What is this supposed to mean?”
His nostril flares, “Nothing.” That makes me snap the case shut, pushing it to him, but he pushes it back. “You were about to go to Cabo with Christian, but you won’t take the key?” He asks this like I’m being ridiculous.
“When did you even get this made?” I ask in return. “You’ve been with me the whole time.”
“We have spares, and don’t change the subject,” Damien opens it again. “Take my gift.”
Staring at the key, my mind is buzzing like a rocket. How do I take this when I don’t even trust him? When he doesn’t even trust me? Is he saying that he trusts me? The key starts to blur, the shitty effects of the whiskey and weed cocktail making this decision harder. So why do I take another fucking swig?
“Jo?”
Wiping my mouth, I keep my eyes on the key, shining under the ceiling light. My heart wants me to grab it, I can even feel my muscles tensing to reach for it but …
My eyes narrow, Damien’s voice muffling the longer I stare at the key.
Fuck.
The key!
How did I forget? I’ve been in this house for so long and I didn’t even think to check. Too blinded by Damien’s charm … and his cock.
Without another word I’m on my feet, heading to the foyer. My bags have been sitting there all week, not needing anything from them since I set foot in this house.
“Rowland,” he calls, voice bellowing through the empty home. “We’re not through with this conversation.”
I’m stumbling to my bag. When I get there, I rummage through until I find it.
The key. The same one I took from this house.
It’s time I find out what’s in that drawer.
Damien calls after me as I make my way to the stairs. I have a stumble, the room a little blurry but my mind
is one-track. If he wants some sort of commitment I need to know what we’re dealing with.
Did his dad have something to do with my parent’s death? Did he?
Taking the key, I’m climbing up that grand staircase. I don’t hear my name again until I’m at the front of Sebastien King’s office. When I get inside, things are a little different than I remember. A lot of the books and nick-nacks around are in boxes like they’ve been making room for the next CEO. The next heir to this kingdom.
“Jo!” I can hear his steps in the distance, but I’m not stopping now. Stepping over a white box of strewn around documents, I find that drawer under his desk again.
“What are you doing?” He’s at the door, glass still in hand. “How do you know that’s there?”
Sticking in the key, it fits and my heartbeat picks up.
Damien stumbles over. “Where’d you get that? I’ve been trying to get into that drawer for weeks.”
The drawer unlocks and Damien’s eyes widen. It’s as if he knows there’s a treasure inside. He sways, bottle in hand. “Open it,” he demands.
I do.
Inside sits a couple of pages. Another police report but this time it’s not for anyone I know. There’s a bill for an ambulance, a lens and a list of more names I don’t recognize.
This isn’t what I expected. That isn’t what I wanted.
A feeling of defeat washes over me and I’m deflated.
“What is it?” he asks and I see the lump in his throat go down as he waits for an answer.
“Some old documents.” Slumping in the chair, I shuffle through the drawer again before taking everything out and scattering it across the desk. I find absolutely nothing. “Fuck.”
Reaching over the desk I grab the bottle from Damien’s hand. I don’t care how drunk I am, this shit is disappointing. Unnerving. It’s a puzzle I can’t solve.
Damien’s eyes lower when he takes one of the pages in his hand. “It’s never just some old document,” he mumbles, his eyes darting around the page before he falls backwards.
“Damien?” I’m on my feet where I get a good view of him, laying on the floor, staring into that paper like he’s trying to make it burn. “You okay?”