Damien, Forever (An Art of Sinners Novel)

by Tempest Phan

  “No, I’m just so weepy. But I can’t help it. Music, especially yours, touches me. Makes me feel all these beautiful, sad things deep down, and I can’t help myself.” She looked at me, new tears streaming down her gorgeous face.

  She leaned against me and I wrapped her in my arms, breathing her in. That’s what I love about you. This, and everything else.

  “You’re so talented, my Damien James. I know you’ll make it big someday. Don’t forget me when you do, ok?” she whispered against me.

  “You kidding,” I murmured. “I’ll come right back around for you.”

  She pulled back and smiled, the tears still shimmering from her lush lashes. “So talented,” she said again.

  “I can teach you.”

  She cocked her head. “Really? I know nothing about guitars.”

  I shifted. “Well, you know everything about piano and music theory. Not a big leap,” I responded. “Here. Open your arms.” She did as I instructed, and I gently placed the instrument against her. “Hold it like so.” I motioned, sitting up so that I could help her. I was wrapped around her, could smell the delicate scent of blossoms from her hair, could feel her soft back pressed to my chest, could feel her warmth seep into my skin and burrow its way inside my flesh. I breathed through the tightness in my chest.

  “Here’s all you need to know about guitars. It’s the same as with any instrument, really.” I gently placed her fingers on the B minor chord and helped her strum. “This chord to me is the saddest in the world. And when you strum the G afterwards, followed by the D, and then the A there …” I murmured as I continued holding her against me while I guided her hands. “When you play them all, in any order, you’ve got yourself the most melancholic progression in the universe. Bam. Emo 101.”

  She dropped her hands and guffawed, looking up to stare into my eyes. “You’re so full of shit, Damien James Mortensen!”

  I joined her laughter. “Second secret. This is the big one.” I placed her fingers on the guitar and strummed for good measure. “Second secret,” I whispered as she held her breath for just a split second. “Hold your guitar as if it were a lover, and she—he—will sing forever, just for you.”

  It was my broken truth.

  Bella

  I waved goodbye, watching him drive away in the night as I stepped into the entryway, my fingers still singing from playing his guitar today, my heart full from having spent most of the day with him.

  “You’re home. Finally.” My dad stepped out of his study. He did not sound pleased. It was barely nine.

  “Yes, Daddy?”

  “What the hell are you wearing.” His eyes dark with anger, he added, “You look obscene.” He looked me up and down, made me feel like less than nothing. I glanced at my skinny black jeans, pulled on the collar of my oversized sweater to cover up my bare left shoulder. And yes, my jeans were ripped all across my thighs, as a result showing a fair amount of skin. But there was nothing obscene about the outfit at all. Cute, yes. But obscene? No.

  “But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. Jon stopped by this afternoon looking for you.” My dad stepped into the foyer, his face stern. “Told me you broke up with him.”

  Now I was annoyed. What business was it of my dad’s? Why would Jon come running to him to tattle? Should have dumped his ass earlier, I thought sullenly.

  “Jon’s a good boy,” my dad continued. “He comes from a good family.”

  “I fail to see the correlation, Daddy.” Wow. Where did that sass come from? I walked past my dad and opened up the large walk-in coat closet to hang my purse, catching my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. How could he call me obscene? And how could he notice what I wore, and not that ugly purple welt that all the concealer in the world wasn’t going to hide? I turned back to him.

  “What was that? Don’t use that tone with me, Mirabella. What I’d like to understand is why you would break things off with him. Is it just so you can spend time with that boy? Is that boy why you dress like a cheap . . .”

  He didn’t finish his sentence, but he’d aimed, fired, and hit his target all the same.

  I paled. His words cut, millions of shallow cuts over the years that bled me slowly. I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to cry, and looked my dad straight in the eye. I chose to ignore his comment about my appearance, but couldn’t let him denigrate Dame. The courage I’d not had previously came rushing to the fore.

  “Your beloved Jon is an asshole, unlike ‘that boy’ who’s done nothing but stand up for me.” I pointed to my face. He didn’t even respond. He’d never see what he didn’t want to see. I shook my head. “And as I’ve said before, ‘that boy’ has a name. It’s Damien. Damien Mortensen, Daddy. And . . .” My voice trailed off as I took in the change in my father. His face was flushed red, and I’d never seen such anger in his pale eyes before. For someone who prided himself on being in full control of his emotions, always, and who’d always looked at me with nothing more than cold disregard, I was taken aback.

  “Don’t you ever dare talk to me like that again, you understand? Not as long as you’re under my roof. And you’ll stop seeing that boy now.”

  “But you don’t understand,” I yelled. “I’m not seeing Damien. We’re just friends!” I was still facing him, my fists clenched, challenging, refusing to look away, daring him to.

  My dad took in a deep breath, and his voice was cold and measured again when he said, “If I catch you with that boy, there will be hell to pay. I promise you. There will be hell. Now go to your room.”

  I walked around him, ran up to my room, and slammed the door. I hated him. I hated him so much. Why couldn’t he see? Why couldn’t he be happy for me that I finally had someone who cared for me, understood me? Until Damien’s return, I hadn’t realized how empty my life had been, how cold. It had taken his coming back into it for me to realize how starved for affection I was. And it wasn’t just the hugs that warmed me to my deepest core. It was his very presence, the way he understood me, without my having to even utter a thing. In fact, it was the way we both spoke to each other, volumes and volumes of silence that quietly said so much about what we meant to the other. And when we did speak, his understanding, how his words would brighten and soothe, the way he would always make me laugh. Damien filled every single inch of my heart, down to the deepest, deepest broken crevice, and I just hadn’t realized how much I’d needed that, needed him.

  DAMIEN:

  I’m home, Bella baby.

  I took a deep, ragged breath, and slowly let it out.

  ME:

  Goodnight, kisses and bites, MDJ.

  Bella

  Following his threat, my dad had left for the weekend. San Francisco? Portland? I no longer knew. I no longer cared. All that mattered was that Damien and I had the place to ourselves. Yes, we were sneaking around. Yes, Michael Davenport probably knew, and while he had yet to fully step in, we were hurtling headfirst into a catastrophic moment of reckoning. It was only a matter of time before the hammer would come down, hard and disastrous.

  And I knew I’d never be able to make him see. It was useless to even try.

  But for now, I had an ally. Lynda, my father’s P.A., knew. Lynda who loved me, too, because she’d loved my mom, because she’d been her best friend first, before she ever became my father’s assistant. Lynda who could see that my father was being ridiculous, trying to forbid me from seeing a boy who made me happy just because he lived on the wrong side of our shiny town. She could tell me stories about this disconnect, and had.

  Oh, you should have seen your mom and dad, Bella. Nothing could keep them apart.

  And what Dame and I were doing? Not even anywhere near what my dad had done with my mom. The hypocrisy was mind blowing. We weren’t dating. We were just friends. And so, when she was around, and my father was not, she created a safe space for Damien and me.

  I shook my head, emotionally exhausted by it all, knowing it would soon be worse, much worse. But instead of cog
itating on these worries, I focused instead on the moment at hand, carpe fucking diem and all. Dame and I had just returned from my shift at the soup kitchen. He’d been accompanying me whenever he wasn’t working at the local Mexican restaurant where he’d scored a part-time gig. Whenever he was able to make it with me, he delighted the middle-aged organizers, who not only loved all of the extra help, but what they’d referred to as his boyish charm as well. I loved that they could see past appearances, too.

  Here we were, tired but ready to start our weekend. We went downstairs to the entertainment room, a large space my dad had remodeled years ago to include a large screen, stage, and theater-like sitting. I couldn’t remember ever having watched a movie here. Dame walked toward the stage. I followed him, my hands gently touching the red velvet seats, feeling the plush red carpeting against my bare feet.

  He placed his guitar on the stage before hopping lightly onto it. He turned back to me and extended his hand, gently helping me up. I watched as he quickly swung the strap on and cradled his instrument, lightly strumming it.

  “You’re right. The acoustics in here are amazing,” he said. “Ok, ready?” He winked at me. “This one’s called The World Breaks My Heart (But You’re Worth It).”

  I smiled. He placed his foot on the step to better hold the instrument.

  “Introducing my Damien James!” I yelled out, sweeping an arm toward him.

  He launched into an intense riff, his foot tapping to the rhythm. And as the first note bounced off the walls, something changed in him. My boy of whispers gave way to a man whose very presence and charisma seemed to overwhelm the stage. His energy thrummed through the large room, blazing through everything in its path, including me. I caught fire. He consumed me. I turned to ashes.

  My Damien James.

  I laughed and started to shake my head along with the beat. He smiled at me, and then started making exaggerated faces, his gorgeous lips twisting into a sneer worthy of Billy Idol, teasing more laughter out of me. I started to dance, throwing my arms up and spinning in front, around him, as he followed my every move, turning to face me each time I twirled away.

  I felt every velvet note he coaxed out of his guitar, each riff more intense as the song went on. I kept dancing, sometimes closing my eyes as his music lodged itself deep inside my heart, each aching sound from his guitar ripping through my veins, making me bleed for him. I felt each emotion he was drawing out, each note, each one splintering my soul. He’d stopped making faces, watching me intently as he continued to stroke his guitar.

  Like a lover.

  Something changed in his eyes that I couldn’t place, and he quickly squeezed them shut, continuing to play with each fiber of his being.

  Finally, he hit the last chord, the sound coming out plaintively before dying to a close. He opened his azure eyes.

  “That was amazing, Dame,” I said breathlessly. He was so incredibly talented, my Damien.

  He smiled and said softly, “Yeah . . .” He reached out and gently wiped a bead of sweat that was trickling down my temple.

  I shivered at his touch.

  He winced visibly and quickly pulled his hand away.

  ***

  Damien

  I was wide awake in her bed, painfully aware of her proximity. She’d fallen asleep against me, after we’d gone back to her room, talking for hours about everything and nothing. And then just lying there for a couple more, the pitter patter of the rain dripping against the windows, whispering through the trees, our very own gentle lullaby.

  She breathed softly, a delicate, airy sound, almost as if she could hear my thoughts through the haze of her dreams. She snuggled closer to me. It had become almost a routine, this sleeping at her place each time her father was traveling, to the point where I even kept a change of clothes here.

  At first, I’d felt terrible putting her in this position with her dad. But I made peace with it by telling myself that, as long as I kept it platonic, it would be ok. He didn’t want me near his daughter because he was afraid she’d end up with a loser. I rubbed my temple. I could understand that.

  I’d simply make sure that it wasn’t with a loser that she’d end up, ultimately.

  So no, no dating,

  But a friend? I couldn’t think of anything she needed more right now. I glanced down at her sleeping form again.

  I quickly found out that she was quite the opposite of me when it came to sleep. While I found it usually elusive, and dark and terrifying, she always managed to fall asleep as soon as her head hit her pillow. And she always looked content while dreaming. Sometimes, I wished I could close my eyes and fall right into her dreams, experience with her what made her smile like that. And it was such a luxury to be near her, to watch over her as she slept, to wake up next to her, be greeted by her adorable face when her eyes fluttered open in the morning, when she bestowed upon me a smile that lit up my heart. That lit up every hidden corner of my soul.

  In fact, whenever we slept together, I somehow managed to have a less fretful sleep. I couldn’t call it deep, or restful, or peaceful. I could hardly even remember what I dreamt of. But at least, the nightmares didn’t seem to follow me here, when she was nearby.

  She’s my best friend.

  I pulled the covers up and around her. I wanted to take her small body in my arms . . . and do all the dirty things that I couldn’t stop thinking about doing with her. But my self-control won out. She trusted me. Trusted me near her. Trusted me in her bed. I’d cut off my own hands rather than ever give her reason to distrust me.

  Yes, completely platonic.

  I thought back to how she looked on that stage, as she danced to my music. She’d been wearing her cute Hello Kitty bottoms and an old MCR shirt, her hair in a halfdown bun, strands falling out with each vigorous shake of her head. And in that moment, she’d been everything to me. She would always be.

  But yes. We’re just friends.

  Bella

  Damien had gone home early Saturday morning to check on his mom and work the lunch rush at the restaurant. He stopped by later that evening to pick me up, so we could grab a bite to eat.

  “Hey baby,” he said. His eyes were dark. He looked exhausted.

  “Hi, Dame.”

  He pulled me into a tight bear hug. “Let’s go?”

  I nodded.

  He then said, “Ok if we make a quick stop by my house? I rushed out and forgot my wallet.”

  “Of course, no worries. You ok?”

  He simply nodded, and I smiled at him. He tried to smile back but there was a thread of tension running through his lips.

  He drove to his house and parked.

  “Stay here—I’ll be right back.”

  He ran in. I waited for what seemed like a few minutes when a woman’s high pitch yelling and the sound of things breaking echoed through the night.

  Without thinking, I rushed out of the car and into his house.

  A thin woman in a dressing gown—a much older, frailer version of the woman I remembered—was yelling at Damien, hurling insult after insult at him. At her feet were the mangled remains of what looked to be an acoustic guitar. My heart sank. His dad’s guitar, surely.

  Damien’s face was ashen, his fists clenched at his side while he stared stone-faced at the instrument on the ground. Then he looked up and saw me.

  “Bella . . .”

  His mom stopped her shouting to drag her eyes to me.

  “Bella, please leave. It’s not safe for you to be here,” he said.

  “Bella? Well, well, well.” She turned back to Damien. “So that’s your little slut? The reason why you’re never around to help out like you should? You good-for-nothing piece of shit.” She gave the guitar a good kick.

  “Damien, come with me. Let’s go.”

  “No balls even with your little tramp. You let her run your life too? I wish to God I had gotten rid of you as soon as I knew I was pregnant. You ruined my life. You ruined everything. It’s all your fault. It should have been
you.”

  “Stop it,” I screamed at her, incensed to hear her belittle him in that way, incensed at the vile words she was spewing at Damien, hating the way they coated the air and dripped onto his skin, making something behind his eyes crumble in spite of his stoic, emotionless face. “Don’t you dare speak to him that way, you bitch.”

  She looked speechless for a moment, and I took that opportunity to run over and grab the broken guitar and Damien’s hand.

  “Let’s go, Dame,” I repeated softly.

  He nodded and we walked briskly out.

  “That’s right, coward. Just run away. Run away like your piece-of-shit dad.”

  I shut the door against her continued obscenities.

  We ran to his car. Once inside, I cradled his most precious possession in my arms and looked over at him. I was terrified at how emotionless his face still looked.

  “Dame . . .”

  “Let’s just go.” His voice was hoarse.

  He drove to Pine Lake, silence weighing heavily inside the car.

  Finally, he said, “I’m sorry you had to see that. I could tell she hadn’t taken her meds for a few days—”

  I turned to him. “You kidding me? I am the one who’s so sorry you have to put up with that, Dame. So very sorry.” I reached over to touch his cheek gently. He flinched.

  Finally, he pulled up to our spot and turned off the engine. He closed his eyes before leaning his head back against the headrest, sighing audibly.

  I looked down at his guitar. The strings were broken, the body had a crack through it. But it wasn’t broken beyond repair.

  “We’ll get this fixed, Dame. It will look like new, like nothing ever happened to it.”

  He finally looked at me, and I understood why he had been avoiding my gaze the whole time. He hadn’t been as stoic as I thought. A look at me and the storm behind his eyes gave out, and suddenly, I saw the devastation on his face, in his eyes, in his voice, in the way his shoulders slumped over in defeat.