by Adore Ian
“The guy she’s bangin’,” Declan whispers loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
Richard walks forward. He’s tall and stately with an air of self-importance—just like my father. “Nice to meet you, Damian. Your mother has told me so much about you.”
I shake his hand. “You don’t have to lie to impress me, Richard. The mere fact you’re dating Nadia is impressive enough.”
He smiles uncomfortably.
Declan claps Richard’s shoulder. “Dick here is the Pres and CEO of Gainnes. As in Gainnes Hotels.” A global brand of full-service hotels and resorts. “He was just telling me about a string of tropical islands they purchased to build resorts on. I think we should plan a trip.”
“I think you should switch to water,” I say, taking his glass and emptying it into a nearby plant. He frowns when I hand it back. “You’re in high school, remember?”
Nadia clears her throat. “Damian, why don’t you put your jacket in the coat closet and join us in the sitting room.”
It’s not a question, but I do what she wants. I’m not looking to start a fight. The sooner we get through this dinner, the sooner I’ll be gone.
The moment I sit down she turns to me. “Would you like something to drink?”
She’s perched on a white leather sofa next to Richard. Declan and I sit across from them in matching armchairs. The fireplace is going and the piano in the far corner is playing classical music.
“No thanks.”
“How is school?”
“Fine.”
“How are your classes?”
“Fine.”
She smoothes the hem of her dress. “I’m glad you could find time to come home for the holiday.”
She pauses like she’s waiting for me to agree. I say, “Declan made a compelling argument.”
“Oh? And what was that?”
I don’t need to look at my brother to know he’s enjoying this.
“He threatened bodily harm. Naturally, wanting to preserve the reputation of this family, I decided to acquiesce to his request.”
She smiles at Richard. “Boys. Always such a handful, what with their jokes and stories and all.”
Anger spikes my blood at her use of the word stories. Maybe I’m overreacting, but I think that was a jab at me. At my story. The one she and my father minimized by pushing it under the rug.
“Would you like a drink, Nadia?” I ask. “Your hands are noticeably empty.”
She looks down her nose at me. “I’m not drinking anymore.”
I snort—an automatic response to bullshit.
“I’m serious, Damian. Not drinking today is a big step for me.”
Richard puts his hand on her knee. “Your mother has dealt with a lot since your father’s passing. I’m very proud of her sobriety.”
Declan chuckles. “Hate to break it to you, Dick, but the drinking didn’t start with our old man’s death.”
“I’m aware,” Richard says. “We’ve spent a great deal of time talking about the whys of her illness.”
“Addiction,” Declan spits.
“Dec,” I warn.
He glares at me. “No. She doesn’t get to rebrand her addiction just because she’s finally acknowledged it.”
“Alcoholism is an illness,” Nadia snipes. “It’s a disease.”
“Disease it may be,” Declan says, “but last I checked, Type 1 Diabetes didn’t cause anyone to mentally check out of their parenting duties, did it?”
I must be an asshole because I see his point. Plus, he’s angry. He’s allowed to be angry. I’m angry too, but years of therapy have helped me accept that either of my parents acknowledging their faults or apologizing is not something I should expect. And while it would be nice to hear, it’s not something I need to hear. Not anymore.
Also, if my mother were serious about her sobriety, then I think she’d be a little more receptive to hearing about how her substance abuse played a role in ruining our family.
“If you don’t want to support me, that’s fine,” Nadia says. Then, to my utter horror, both my mother and her shiny new manfriend look at me.
I stare. And stare. And finally say, “What?”
Nadia bristles. “Wouldn’t you like to set the example for your brother?”
I blink. Narrow my eyes. Put on a good show of acting like I have no clue what she’s talking about. I open my mouth. Close it. “Are you… asking for my support?”
“Yes.”
“You’re asking me to support you?” And because I am a grade-A douchebag, I squint at the ceiling like I can’t comprehend. And really I can’t because support is the one thing she’s never given me.
“Yes. Damian.”
Declan pantomimes sipping tea.
I sit back, crossing an ankle over a knee, smug as fuck. “If anyone finds out what happened,” I say, “it will embarrass this family and ruin your reputation.”
Those words—her words—taste like acid on my tongue, rake like hot coals over my skin. I sit murderously still, willing her to see every ounce of hate I’ve ever wasted on her and my father. I’m not even sure she remembers saying those words to me. Not sure she remembers making me, her own son, feel like it was my fault when my father’s friend touched me inappropriately. When he forced me to touch him inappropriately.
When she doesn’t move, I know she remembers.
A sick, vindictive sort of satisfaction settles into my stomach. The part of me that needs control, needs to be heard and obeyed and believed, flares in triumph at the gigantic Fuck You I just served.
“Excuse me.” I get up and leave the room, overwhelmed with the urge to call Marrin and share my victory with her. But I can’t. Not yet.
Instead I find the kitchen and help my family’s chef make dinner.
Just like old times.
Eventually, I have a mostly silent, tense dinner with Nadia, Declan, and Richard, which ends when I decide someone needs to put Declan to bed. Why anyone thought he should be allowed to drink is beyond me.
When Dec is safely tucked in next to a bucket and a bottle of water, I head for the door. I’m halfway into my jacket when Nadia walks into the foyer.
“Are you leaving?”
No, I’m going outside to take a piss.
“Yep.”
“Well… Goodbye. Drive safely.” She sounds like a robot.
I adjust the collar of my jacket. “Have fun with Dick.”
When I open the door, she says, “I’m sorry.”
Cold air assaults my face but that’s not why I freeze.
I stare at my Jeep.
I don’t need to stay here, I’m free to go. I’ve performed my proverbial son duties for the year. But the thirteen-year-old in me wants more.
“For…?” It comes out angrier than I intended.
“You know.”
The urge to punch a fucking hole in the wall plows into me like an eighteen-wheeler on the interstate, right along with the need to scream at her to say what happened to me out loud. To fucking acknowledge what happened and to admit that she and my father were more concerned with reputation and image than with actually helping me.
“Later, Nadia.” I slam the door behind me like a fucking child and proceed to stomp across the porch.
Behind me, the door opens and shuts lightly.
I don’t turn around, taking the stairs two at a time.
“For what happened.” Her voice is so quiet I almost don’t hear it.
Emotion clogs my throat and I find myself rooted in place. My breath is hot, forming heavy white clouds on the air. For a moment, that’s all that moves.
“I wasn’t… I should have protected you.”
She doesn’t continue and I don’t have anything to say. She’s speaking for her benefit, not mine. If this is what she needs to say to maintain her sobriety, fine. Thanks for inviting me to Thanksgiving so you could use me to feel better about yourself.
I don’t remember getting in my Jeep and driving away.
I do re
member leaving a message about needing an appointment with a therapist I’ve used a few times while at school, and turning on a playlist that helps keep me calm.
A little over an hour later, I’m filling up my tank at some random station when my phone vibrates.
Marrin: I need help. I’m scared.
An acute sense of dread pools like oil in my belly. Marrin never asks for help or admits to being scared.
Damian: Where are you?
Seconds later, I’m in the Jeep, speeding down the highway.
14
Damian
I turn down the street where the Braxton is located. It’s just after ten o’clock but because it’s Thanksgiving, the streets are deserted. I crudely park in front of the bar and call Marrin. She answers on the first ring.
“Damian?” Her voice is hoarse, ragged.
“I’m here. I’m at the door.”
“Okay.” She hangs up.
Inside the bar is dark, but enough light creeps in from the streetlamps to catch silver-white hair when Marrin pops up behind the bar. She walks to the front and I can tell she’s been crying. Those whiskey eyes I love so much are red and puffy and mascara has left murky trails down her cheeks.
She sets the alarm then unlocks the door.
Her eyes are frantic, wild, darting back and forth as she steps outside. I fight the urge to pull her into my arms. I hold back only because I can tell she’s trying to hide that she’s on edge.
Something’s spooked her, and I worry that if I touch her, she’ll shut me out.
She fumbles with the key, hands shaking so badly.
“Let me,” I offer. I take the keys and lock the door.
Finally she faces me, and I’m gutted by the look in her eyes. She reminds me of a fawn caught in a clearing—terrified, alone, powerless. And that’s the look that has me deciding to touch her because of all the times she’s been utterly bare and prone before me, she has never once looked powerless. Not. Once.
The alpha male in me erupts like a demon from hell, ready to slaughter whomever did this to her, ready to do whatever it takes to fix this, to ease her.
It’s an effort to keep him contained.
“Hey,” I cup her face. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Emotion bubbles in her eyes and I swear I can see the wall she’s trying and failing to erect between us. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to tell me what happened, but I want to know you’re okay. Did someone hurt you?” I’m stroking her face, her hair, her arms.
She sags a bit, seeming to ease, and shakes her head.
I wrap a protective arm around her. “Do you want me to take you to your car—”
“No,” she yells, eyes wide. “Let’s go to your place.”
I ignore the odd phrasing and lead her to the Jeep. I’ve seen this kind of behavior before. Like she’s expecting someone to jump out at her. I see it sometimes in the people I meet at work. People who’ve been mugged or attacked. I probably acted like this once, too.
I help her into the vehicle and lock the door before shutting it. I jog around to the driver’s side, scanning every inch of the dark street. I see nothing. I unlock the door and jump in. For her benefit, I hit the automatic lock button twice, wordlessly letting her know we’re safe. Then I blast the heat and lace my fingers in hers.
Fuck. She’s shaking.
I kiss the back of her hand. “You’re safe, baby. I’m here.”
A strangled noise leaves her throat. “Can we take the long way?”
“Of course.”
We drive through the neighboring town, making a big circle before heading toward our complex. Mar glances in the side mirrors and looks behind us every now and then. It’s obvious she’s checking to see if we’re being followed. I wish she’d tell me what the hell happened.
I decide to try and get her mind off things. “Have you had dinner?”
“No.”
“How come you’re working on Thanksgiving?”
She’s silent for a moment. “I hate Thanksgiving.”
“That makes two of us. I spent the evening running interference between my mom and brother. Nadia brought her new boyfriend—or manfriend—I’m really not sure it’s appropriate to call him a boy anymore. And calling him her lover makes it feel gross.”
The shadow of a smile touches her lips. “Nadia is your mother?”
“Yeah. I refer to her by her first name.”
“Why?”
“I like to think it reminds her of her place in our relationship. Just because you birth a human doesn’t make you a mother. Mother is a title you earn and Nadia hasn’t done that.” An image of my mom standing on the porch after I got into my Jeep flashes through my mind. I push it away. “Why do you hate Thanksgiving?”
She’s silent so long I’m pretty sure she’s not going to answer. “My mother was arrested on Thanksgiving.”
I kiss the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been hard.”
She stares out the window. “Thank you. For coming to get me.”
She says it as if she’d thought I might not.
I stop at a red light and squeeze her hand. “Look at me.” She does. She looks tired. Lost. “I will always come for you, okay? We could be in the middle of a huge fight and I’d come if you needed me.”
She nods.
When we get to our complex, I open her door and lead her to our floor. At the landing, she picks around for her key.
If she thinks I’m just going to drop her off at her door and leave, she’s got another thing coming. I steer her toward my apartment. “Let me make you dinner.”
“Can I stay with you?”
For a second, I’m so shocked I forget how to close my mouth. She’s never stayed the night. The urge to ask her what the hell happened tonight surfaces so hard, the words almost leave my mouth.
Something bad happened. Something that scared her enough to make her not want to be alone.
That oily feeling slides into my stomach again and the words Jayce said at Vicky’s birthday come back to me, “She moves a lot… Vicky asked me to help move her into a new apartment in the middle of the night.”
The puzzle that is Marrin Braxton is coming together.
“Of course, baby. Anything you want.”
“I’ll just grab a few things,” she says.
We enter her apartment and she doesn’t turn on any lights. I wait by the door while she slips inside her bedroom. A few minutes later she’s gathered everything she needs in a small bag.
When we get to my apartment, I do everything I can to make her comfortable. I close the blinds, turn on all the lights and insist we both put on our pajamas. I wrap her in a blanket and put her on the couch. Then I move to the kitchen to make her dinner. She’s not hungry but I make her a grilled cheese with a side of steamed veggies anyway. By the time we go to bed, she’s eaten half the sandwich and most of the veggies.
She slips into bed first, putting her back to me. I have to fight the urge to pull her into my arms when I climb in. It’s a big bed. We don’t have to touch if we don’t want to.
I lay on my back in the dark, staring at the ceiling. “Goodnight.”
“Night.”
I close my eyes, painfully aware how close yet how far apart we are.
The sheets rustle as she rolls over.
Fabric slides.
Now I’m the deer in the clearing. Waiting, anticipating.
Warm fingertips find my bicep and slide down to my wrist. I flip my palm and let her lace her fingers in mine. I’m so still I’m not even sure I’m breathing.
But she is. Because I can hear it. Soft and easy and calm.
“Marrin,” I say, so low it’s barely audible.
“Yeah?”
“I really want to put my arms around you.”
“Okay,” she says like she’s relieved.
I turn on my side and pull her to me. We settle together, her back to my chest, and it’s the most natural thin
g in the world. I press my lips to her temple, her cheek. Her warmth and scent seep into me, and I fall asleep with her safe and sound and in my arms.
She’s mine. I’ll never let her go.
Someone's knocking on my door.
Correction, someone’s pounding on my door.
I slip out of bed careful not to wake Marrin. I throw on a pair of pants and check my phone before slipping it into my pocket.
It’s three in the morning.
I throw on a hoodie to hide myself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned studying martial arts and teaching self-defense over the years, it’s that being underestimated by an opponent is a gift. Whoever the hell is at my door does not need to be tipped off that I’m more than capable of defending Marrin and myself.
Before I slip out of my room, I grab a baton from inside the nightstand. I don’t sling it out, just conceal it at my wrist. I lock the bedroom from the inside then leave.
The pounding stops momentarily, voices sound in the hallway.
Adrenaline stirs in my blood.
I put on a pair of sneakers and scan the living room, taking a mental picture of where everything is. I’ve no intention of opening the door and inviting in a threat, but it’s good to be prepared.
The pounding begins again and I look through the peephole. A gorgeous blonde with ice-blue eyes and an intense look on her face is standing at my door, cellphone to her ear. I recognize her immediately as Alice Braxton, Marrin’s cousin. She hasn’t bartended at the Arcade in a while, but she’s beautiful in a way that’s hard to forget.
I unlock the deadbolt but leave the chain in place. And I’m glad I do because as soon as I open the door, I see she’s not alone. Her big, scary husband, who I recognize from the Arcade, is standing to the side, purposefully outside the range of the peephole.
He’s holding a pair of bolt cutters, too.
Jesus Christ, who are these people?
“Where’s Marrin?” Alice demands, hanging up her phone.
“Who are you?”
“I’m her cousin, you’re Damian Wane and this is your apartment. Marrin texted me the address hours ago to let me know this is where she’d be.”
“Who’s the big guy?” I jerk my chin at her husband.