by May Archer
Cain opened his mouth - to thank him or demand why the fuck he’d eaten a squirrel, he wasn’t sure which, but Damon had already moved back to his spot at the far counter, leaning his weight on his arms again. Cain wisely closed his mouth again and doctored his coffee exactly the way he liked it. Perfect.
“I screwed up last night and went off half-cocked,” Damon continued. “Wasn’t thinking.” He shook his head like he was annoyed at his own foolishness, and Cain frowned. He brought his coffee over to the counter Damon had claimed, and leaned his forearms against it too.
“Yeah, you weren’t making much sense.” He looked into Damon’s eyes, which were so close he could pick out the threads of brown and gold among the green. They looked like shattered sea glass, the green cracked open so the amber-yellow could shine through. He could watch them forever. He remembered the way Damon’s eyes had looked just before he’d leaned in and laid his lips on Cain’s…
No. That was not real. He quickly turned away.
“So does this mean you’re gonna think of a different way to get info on… him?” Cain couldn’t bring himself to say my dad. Frankly, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d really thought of the man that way, even before finding out about his ties to the Seavers’ deaths.
Damon eyed him speculatively and didn’t answer. “Want some eggs? Or toast?”
“Uh. No?” Cain cocked his head to one side. “Does this mean you are still going with your stupid plan? Because, honestly Damon…”
Damon leaned forward and grabbed Cain’s coffee mug off the counter, holding Cain’s eyes as he took a sip. He shuddered as he swallowed. “That’s more like melted coffee ice cream than actual coffee.”
Cain would not be sidetracked by this insult to his coffee. “It’s still massively stupid. Think of Cort. Think of…”
Damon held up a silencing hand. “Cain,” he said, uncharacteristic hesitation in his deep growl. “I think what we lost sight of last night was that you and I are on very different sides when it comes to this topic. Maybe you feel responsibility to your family, to your dad, and you don’t want to come forward about what Jack told us. So let's skip the discussion about what my plans might be. That way, you won’t feel like you have to warn him.”
Shock hit Cain like a blow to the solar plexus. “You think… you think I would tell him?”
Eyes on the counter, Damon licked his lips. “I think you’d probably feel like you should.”
Cain shook his head as laughter bubbled out of the hole Damon had punched in him. “You really don’t know shit about me, do you?”
“I know enough.” Damon’s voice was soft, and Cain got the impression that the man was trying to be gentle, and just going about it completely wrong.
Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid misguided gentleness. He’d already made up his mind about Cain, and he didn’t care to hear the truth. The crushing loneliness Cain had felt the night before came flooding back.
“You know, what, Damon? My last name? The fact that I won’t bring hearsay about my dad to the authorities?”
“That you’re lying to cover shit up.” Damon ran both hands through his long hair. “Look. Don’t take it personally, because it’s not personal. It’s just that you and I have different agendas. You’re a good kid. I can’t really be mad at you when I know you’re being loyal to your family.”
His voice said that he’d tried to be mad and couldn’t sustain it, which maybe Cain should have taken as a compliment, but he couldn’t, because... Kid. Jesus.
“My agenda is keeping my father from hurting anyone else! Do you know why he hasn’t come for you, Damon?” Cain asked softly. “Why the authorities aren’t banging down your door?”
He dared a look into those hazel eyes, and found Damon watching him steadily. “It’s because I haven’t told him you’re alive. I kept that secret.”
“You want a medal?”
“I want some respect. I’m not your enemy.”
“You’re not on my side, either, kid.”
“Jesus Fucking Christ. I’m not a kid!” Cain grabbed the spoon off the counter and flung it into the sink with a loud clang, then immediately looked up at Damon, horrified. “Sorry,” he whispered, his gut clenching. You fuck-up. Way to show you’re not a child. He felt hot tears stinging the back of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper. That was a very inappropriate display. I… You know what? I should go.”
He turned to hurry out of the kitchen before he got a lecture, but Damon grabbed him by the wrist and propelled him back in.
“Inappropriate?” Damon seemed rattled, and he blinked at Cain in shock.
Cain’s heart beat in triple-time. He didn’t really believe Damon would hurt him, though even with Damon’s injury, Cain was no match for his size and breadth. He simply couldn’t handle Damon’s anger right now, even if he had a right to it.
“You lost your temper,” Damon said, his hand still firm on Cain’s wrist.
“Yes, I know,” Cain couldn’t meet Damon’s eyes. “I acted without thinking. I don’t think I damaged anything, but if I did, I’ll pay for it.”
Damon goggled at him. “Who gives a shit, kid?” He grabbed the spoon from the sink and held it out to Cain. “Throw it again.”
What? “No. No, I’m good.” Was Damon trying to humiliate him?
“It was a freakin’ satisfying sound. Throw it,” Damon encouraged, but Cain shook his head wildly and Damon shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
He threw the spoon into the sink with a resounding clatter loud enough to make Cain wince.
“You good? That terrifying display injure you in any way?” Damon asked, heavy irony lacing his words. His thumb stroked the inside of Cain’s wrist where he held it, and Cain wondered if he could feel his frantically scrambling pulse.
“N-no.”
“No. Right. Me neither.” He picked up the spoon again - an ordinary metal spoon, but just the sight of it now made Cain nauseous. “Throw it, kiddo.”
“W-what for?” Cain demanded, looking down at the floor. God, just end this. Kill me now.
“Because it was nothing but a noise. It’s not the end of the fucking world.” Damon’s hand left Cain’s wrist and wrapped around his waist instead, like Cain was a toddler and Damon was helping him pitch.
Fucking embarrassing. And even so, there was a pleasant warmth where Damon held him. A connection. An acceptance. An instinctive feeling of safety, where there shouldn’t be any.
“I’m aware that it’s a noise. And I made it because I lost my temper,” Cain said impatiently. “Which I won’t do again, alright? Now please, let me go.”
“Why?”
“Because I asked you to, and I should probably get home. I need to find my phone. I texted my mom that I was sick last night, and she probably…”
“No.” Damon squeezed Cain’s hip. “Why won’t you do it again?”
“Lose my temper?” Cain nearly shouted, well aware of the irony he had going on there. “Because it doesn’t fucking feel good!”
“Yeah it does!” Damon’s face was nearly in Cain’s now, looming over him. “Especially when you’re not hurting anyone else. Just let it go.”
“No.”
“Do it.”
“No!”
“Kid.”
“Fine! Fucking fine.” Cain grabbed the spoon from Damon’s hand and hurled it at the sink. “Are you happy now?” He grabbed it and hurled it again, and again, and again, until he was breathing hard and shaking.
“I’m sorry,” Damon said. He rubbed his thumbs under Cain’s eyes, and Cain was mortified to realize there was wetness there. He’d been crying and hadn’t even realized.
Super mature and adult behavior. No wonder he doesn’t trust you.
“Sorry for what?” Cain whispered, closing his eyes.
“Because I was being selfish. This isn’t only about me, and I… I keep forgetting that.”
Cain’s eyes flew open. Damon was so close, so close. “I wanted to help y
ou,” he admitted. “I had this idea. Stupid idea, probably. But I wanted to help you. I’m not… not on your side, Damon. There are things I just can’t do.”
God, what was it about this guy that had him spilling his guts all over the floor? Why did he give a shit what Damon Fitzpatrick thought of him? Guilt was part of it, but… He looked into Damon’s eyes and knew for a fact it wasn’t the only, or even the largest, part.
“Yeah. Alright.” The gruff words were spoken into his hair as Damon gathered him into a hug. “Can’t very well call you a kid and then be pissed off because you made an adult decision I don’t happen to agree with.” He sighed and rubbed his hand along Cain’s arm, tracing the tattoos there with his fingertips.
Cain didn’t protest, even when the gentle touch tickled. He was exhausted, as though he hadn’t slept at all. One half-cup of coffee and a trip on the emotional roller coaster that was Damon Fitzpatrick, and he was completely wrung out.
“I was looking at these while you slept,” Damon said. “I didn’t realize you had tattoos. I didn’t know you were the type.”
“I didn’t realize there were rules I was supposed to stick to.” He sighed. “Okay, no, that’s a lie. I definitely know there are rules I have to stick to. My father is great for rules. But I went through a rebellious phase a few months back.”
“That so?” Damon was too close, his breath hot on Cain's neck in a way that made his pulse beat frantically. It made Cain think about other rebellious, ill-advised things he could be doing, and he wondered if the shift of Damon’s body, the hitch of his breathing, meant his thoughts were running in the same direction. “I kinda like the idea of you breaking the rules.”
Cain’s cheek buzzed with the vibrations from Damon’s chest - pleasant little chills that soothed and excited at the same time, just like in his dream. His mind helpfully conjured up the kiss from last night, the bone-melting heat and all-encompassing security of Damon’s lips on his. He wanted more, even though hooking up with Damon would only complicate the Gordian-knot complexity of Cain’s life.
Should he kiss Damon? Did Damon want him to?
Damon’s gentle fingers continued their motions, but otherwise he didn’t make a move, so Cain kept talking just so he could put off the inevitable moment when he’d have to step away.
“I was drinking a lot. I mean, not like I was an alcoholic, except… maybe I was? Am? I don’t know how it works, exactly. I started out drinking on the weekends, just to unwind from school. And then Thursday and Friday became the weekend, too. And I wasn’t having enough to unwind, I was having enough to… you know, forget where I was and who I’d been with and what I’d been doing.”
Damon’s chest froze and his arms squeezed Cain at the waist and arm. “Did something bad happen?”
Cain shook his head slightly. “Not like I was attacked or anything like that. It could have happened,” he admitted. “I was lucky. But I did some really stupid shit. Hooking up with people who didn’t know enough to keep their mouths shut. Getting caught on a cell-phone camera with a bunch of people skinny-dipping.”
“Other than the hookups, that sounds pretty typical.”
“Yeah, not when you’re the only son of a senator. He made it all go away, because…”
“Because that’s his M.O., and he needs to keep up appearances,” Damon concluded.
“Yeah. Pretty much. One night, he was discussing my future - telling me how I needed to step up, get some ambition, grow some balls.” Cain sighed. “I was pissed, so I went and got this done.” He held up his arm, the scroll of the words and the outlined flames dancing over his skin. “My roommate has a friend who’s a tattoo artist. I described to him exactly what I wanted, and he did it for me.”
“It’s gorgeous, but it looks half-done.” Damon’s fingers danced over his skin again, and Cain felt like the flames inked on his skin had become real.
“Yeah. Yeah, I got it all outlined that night. Took fucking forever. And I had originally been even more ambitious, but fortunately Quinn - the tattoo guy - knew how much I could probably handle. He told me to come back later for the color.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Good question.” Cain shrugged. “Jace – he was my roommate. He teased me relentlessly for being scared of the pain, but that wasn’t it.”
“You didn’t wanna get caught,” Damon said, his voice carefully neutral.
Cain appreciated the diplomacy, but it wasn’t necessary. He recognized his own weakness better than anyone.
“Yeah. By the time I got this, my parents had already threatened things I… couldn’t afford to lose,” he said simply. Like Jesse’s future. Like his own. “So I backed off. Story of my life, right?” A sudden thought occurred to him. “I do the right thing, but only to a point. Always straddling a line.”
Never losing, never really winning. Probably explained why he was shit at making connections with other people.
He gave a huff of laughter and took a step away from Damon. He felt the loss of heat immediately.
“Anyway,” he said, rubbing his suddenly-damp hands on his pants. “Thanks for the, um, coffee. And letting me crash.” He stepped around Damon into the living room and headed for his shirt.
“You’re leaving?” Damon raised an eyebrow.
“Probably. Yeah. I…” He put his hands into the sleeves and started buttoning the shirt in record time. “I mean, you’ve got stuff to do, and I…”
“I thought you had a plan.” Damn that raspy, wrecked voice. It made Cain’s fucking knees go weak, and his fingers tremble on the buttons. “I’d like to hear it.”
Damon stalked closer, leaning heavily on one leg, and Cain lifted his eyes helplessly. “I don’t want to… I don’t want you to…” He groaned in frustration as his words seemed to pile on top of one another, clogging his brain. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Damon stepped closer again, crowding Cain against the wall much the way he had the night before, except this time those hazel green eyes were completely lucid and focused on him. “You’re right. I don’t. And you don’t owe me anything either. Okay?”
The words were important, freeing.
“Yeah, okay.”
Damon’s gaze drifted down, focused on Cain’s mouth, and Cain wet his lips nervously. He felt like he was standing on a precipice, unable to decide whether to risk the jump. Did Damon want him to kiss him? Their mouths were just inches apart, and Cain wanted very badly to find out what Damon tasted like in the light of day. Once again, the moment was ripe with possibility.
Then Damon pushed himself upright, clearing his throat. Cain shut his eyes tightly as the chance he hadn’t taken spun off into the land of might-have-been.
Once again, he’d played it safe and lost.
“So, let’s hear this plan,” Damon said, taking a seat on the sofa again. “I’m all ears.”
Chapter 4
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“It isn’t,” Cain insisted. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. It’s a perfectly good idea. My father is too much of a control freak to have let Jack off the leash completely. He’s organized. He’s meticulous. He’s got records of every appliance he’s ever purchased, every oil change he’s ever gotten. He has something to cover himself in case Jack ever wanted to confess, I can almost guarantee it.”
Damon leaned back on the sofa, with his bad leg propped on the coffee table, and watched the man pacing back and forth in front of him. Cain Shaw, baby-faced and model-perfect, dressed in wrinkled suit pants and a half-buttoned dress shirt, dark hair sticking up like he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket, and blue eyes flashing as he unveiled his plan.
It actually wasn’t half-bad, as plans went. Probably, he admitted to himself, better than the half-baked scheme he’d come up with the night before. But that didn’t mean it was good or advisable. Damon risking his own life was one thing, but Cain’s idea would stick his neck out there too. Sure, the senator was Cain’s father, but Dam
on wouldn’t put it past that asshole to get vengeance against his son, one way or another.
And then there was the nagging question of just how much Damon could trust this kid.
Kid. Cain hated the nickname, so Damon was trying not to use it, but in his mind he clung to it like a drowning man to a lifeboat, because if he didn’t put that distance between them, it would be far too easy to think of all the things that made him want to pull Cain close. The man was a metric-ton of gorgeous packed into a one-hundred-fifty-pound frame. That huge tattoo on his arm was intricate and intriguing, a thing Cain had done solely for himself. And their one misguided kiss the previous night had brought something to life in Damon that had been dormant for nearly forever.
Hell, yes, he remembered that kiss. It was probably a dick move to let Cain think he’d forgotten but again, it was safer that way than letting either of them think it could happen again.
Cain didn’t just do it for him in a physical way - those eyes, that quirky mouth, the slight frame that just begged to be held down and fucked hard (and yeah, he’d thought a lot about that while he watched the man sleep this morning). It was something about the guy’s mind, too. The way he always said the unexpected. The way his demons called to Damon.
That was a very inappropriate display.
He’d thrown a spoon into the sink, for Christ’s sake. He hadn’t killed anyone, hadn’t crashed a plane into a mountain, hadn’t hurt a soul, but the stark terror on his face, like he was expecting Damon to hit him or curse him out over a fucking piece of silverware, made Damon’s heart clench hard with the need to protect him.
Ironic, since these days Damon couldn’t even manage to protect himself.
“And you’re convinced this magical unicorn of evidence, this file that names all the names and dates and bank account numbers, is a physical thing? Not something he has on a cloud somewhere that Bas Seaver could hack?”