Damien, Forever (An Art of Sinners Novel)

by Tempest Phan

  I reached for his hands across the table and grabbed them in mine. I continued holding them. “You breathed life back into me. This may sound corny, but before you came along, I hadn’t realized how empty my life, my soul were. I spent my whole life missing you, Damien, without even knowing it.”

  He unwrapped one of his hands from mine and reached out, his inked fingers gently touching my cheek, those tattooed fingers dripping roses and thorns, his nails bleeding black. “I adore you.”

  “I adore you,” I repeated. Neither one of us was ready to admit to more, least of all me, remembering the words on that rainy day, in his car, as he’d tamped down any hope I might have held for us.

  It was a quiet night, surprisingly enough. There weren’t many patrons in the restaurant, and a small group of waitresses stood in the back, staring at our table. Or more likely, at Dame.

  Who could blame them? He was breathtaking, so beyond beautiful, and his naturally distressed clothing, the dark, smudged liner ringing his blue eyes, the long strands of black hair falling haphazardly over his eyes, it all only managed to enhance his air of I-don’t-give-a-fuck and danger, which of course just made him that much more tantalizing.

  One of the waitresses came by for our orders, and she couldn’t take her eyes off him. I found it somewhat amusing, and perhaps a touch irritating, particularly as he seemed completely oblivious to it. He must be so used to being stared at. Dinner flew by uneventfully, capped by the waitresses bringing over a slice of white mousse cake with birthday sparklers on it—and gummy bears.

  “Gummies.” Damien smiled and shook his head, reaching out to touch my hand on the table. He looked slightly embarrassed by all of the attention, as I joined the waitresses and maître d’ into a rousing rendition of the birthday song.

  “Thank you, baby doll,” he mouthed to me before leaning over and blowing out his sparklers.

  After dinner we walked outside. It was a chilly December night, and I’d gone back to our room to grab my puffy coat to put on over my sweatshirt. He was only in his hoody, as always. The boy never was cold.

  He held my arm as I gingerly stepped onto the stones that led to the bottom of the falls. The roar of the water as it fell before us was nearly deafening. The view was magnificent, the waters ripping down, lanterns overhead and along the stream creating a warm soft glow around us.

  Dame led me to large, flat rocks at the bottom, near the rushing stream. We sat down, surrounded by this ethereal scenery. He wrapped an arm around me and breathed deeply in, his eyes looking up at the fall.

  “Isn’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” I asked softly, my nose ensconced against his warm chest.

  He smiled as he looked down at me. “Almost.” And he continued to smile, his eyes soft and bright.

  I beamed back before asking, “What did you wish for when you blew out your candles?” I laughed before adding, “Never mind. Don’t tell me or it won’t come true!”

  He grinned his lopsided grin, reaching out to bop my nose, before looking back at the waters. The moon was just a sliver tonight, scintillating over the cascading waters.

  “Eighteen,” he finally whispered. “I wonder what she would have been like, at eighteen.”

  I moved my head from his chest, looked up at him, before reaching up to touch his cheek.

  “Just like she was then. Happy and kind,” I responded. “Happy birthday, Emily.”

  He tried to smile, but I knew his heart was heavy from missing his twin sister.

  Emily had been his shadow in the short time I’d known her. He’d only been born ten minutes earlier, but he’d definitely played the part of older brother. I remembered a small, shy girl who’d always hide behind her much stronger sibling. And he, in turn, had doted on her. Her death had been destructive on so many levels. Especially for him.

  He continued to look up at the sky.

  “Baby doll, do you ever wonder what’s out there? Is this all there fucking is?”

  I knew how important my answer would be, and so I didn’t respond right away. I took a full minute to make sure the words that came out of my mouth were the right ones, although who knew if there was such a thing as the right words when the pain was so deep and cutting. “No, Dame. It isn’t all there is. It can’t be all there is. Love, especially the love she had for you, a love like that has to persist, somehow, somewhere. That’s what I believe in my heart of hearts.”

  He let out a slow breath, making me realize he’d been holding it all along. He turned to gently kiss my temple, before staring at the moonlit waters again. We stayed like this, basking in our silence, before he responded, much, much later.

  “You.” He breathed deeply.

  “Hmmm?” I asked.

  “Baby doll,” he continued softly while my heart began to thrum inside my chest. “I wished for you. You. You and me like this, forever.”

  I tried to smile, but it felt bittersweet.

  “Always, Dame. Always. As long as you don’t forget me when you hit the big time and you’re surrounded by all your groupies,” I teased him, wanting to soothe his heart, to lead him away from all of his somber thoughts.

  He laughed, before sighing and holding me closer. “Yeah, someday. Someday, I’ll make it. I’ll get out of here, sweetie. You’ll come with?” He smiled.

  “Yes, yes I will. And I’ll start a nonprofit, and we can help all of these poor kids with the power of your music. And we’ll live happily ever after, best friends forever.”

  He laughed. “You’ve got it all planned out, don’t you?”

  “What do you think?”

  He laughed again, but his tone was solemn when he asked, “Your nonprofit, you’ll name it after your mom?”

  I nodded. He understood my devastating loss, too. Yes, I’d honor the kind and gentle Mei Ying Davenport, my beloved mother, with my work.

  We sat there in silence again. Time passed while he held me against him. Suddenly, I sneezed. He rubbed a hand up and down my back to warm me up. “You’re going to catch a cold out here. We should probably go back in.”

  I nodded. “It’s also time for your surprise, anyways.”

  He winked at me as he pulled me to my feet, his great big hands so warm against my freezing ones.

  When we were finally back in our room, I cried out, “And now, the pièce de résistance, Dame!” I headed to the dressing room and came back out, a huge red-bow-wrapped present in my arms. “All right! This is it!”

  He laughed at my palpable excitement. “I’d say you’re as, if not more, excited about all of this as I am.”

  I looked at him, my eyes bright with all that I felt for him but couldn’t yet say aloud, to him or to myself. “I love making those I love happy.”

  He walked over to wrap me in his arms. “I know. That’s why there is no one else like you.”

  I breathed him in deeply before pushing away. “Now open it!”

  He smiled and turned to the gift. He began to unwrap it, and as a black guitar case was unveiled, he sucked in a breath.

  I laughed at his reaction to a case. I could only imagine what would happen once he actually found what was in it.

  He looked over to me, his eyes bright with emotions I wanted to call my own. “Bella, Bella baby?”

  I smiled. “I may or may not have given you just an empty case, Dame,” I said as he opened it.

  In front of him was a vintage Gibson Les Paul, the smooth, ebony body gleaming in the light.

  Not his father’s acoustic guitar. Not yet.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” he nearly shouted before turning around to drag me in his arms again. “You shouldn’t have!”

  “I wanted to, Damien. There is no one out there I want to make happy more. Do you like it?”

  He didn’t answer, just hugged me harder, before whispering, “I adore you.”

  I looked up into his eyes, now a bright, clear blue, and thought, I could die happy.

  I disentangled myself from his arms and said sof
tly, “Take her out. See how she feels in your arms, in your hands.”

  He looked at me, emotions raging inside his eyes, before turning back to the guitar. He ran his hands longingly along the smooth frame before taking it—her—gently from the case.

  “1957,” he whispered.

  I shrugged. I didn’t quite know the significance, only that the antique instruments dealer had told me that it was one of the most coveted guitars, while still “reasonably” priced. He’d then asked for over five figures for it, which I had paid, thanks to my dad’s credit card and a little help from Lynda to keep it from him.

  His hands trembling, he plucked at the strings, and I could feel him holding his breath. He closed his eyes tightly and then reopened them.

  “It was probably a sacrilege, but I had them engrave something for you on the back,” I said.

  He looked up, his face bright with emotions we didn’t dare put a name to. He flipped the guitar over, and there, in small letters across the bottom, To My Damien James, Forever. Your Bella. And at the very top, carved in a child’s handwriting, Emily.

  He ran his trembling fingers along the crooked, childish letters.

  “Oh, baby. Baby girl, how. How?”

  “You gave me a drawing for my seventh birthday. She signed it, too.”

  “You kept it?” His voice was cracking.

  “I kept everything you ever gave me, my Damien James.”

  He set the guitar back down and grabbed me in his arms. He pressed his forehead to mine and whispered, “There is nothing I could ever do to repay you. This is everything. I adore you. I can’t put into words just how much you mean to me, and how much every single thing you do, you say, touches me. And it isn’t about a guitar, although I have no words for that either. It is about your friendship, how you’ve let me in. Thank you. Thank you for being you.”

  I felt a teardrop roll down my cheek, and I couldn’t tell if it was his or mine.

  He deserved the world, this boy. That no one had ever even tried to give it to him, or at least make him see that he deserved it all, tore at my heart.

  Your Bella. I wasn’t truly his, but in my heart, perhaps I was. Perhaps I always had been. I pulled back and lost myself in his ocean eyes.

  “Happy birthday.”

  We spent the rest of the night watching a movie. I’d snuggled against him in my fleece Hello Kitty pj’s, always cold. It was an old Will Ferrell Christmas movie, and we were laughing our asses off. Finally, we fell asleep, just like that, with me curved right against my best friend’s side. I hoped he felt loved, for once in his life.

  Damien

  I awoke in the middle of the night, panting, sweating. Not from a nightmare, this time, although it might as well have been, given how fucking unsettled I now was.

  Take her out. See how she feels in your arms, in your hands.

  Words she’d murmured about a guitar, but that in my feverish mind might as well have been about her.

  In my dreams, I had vividly made love to my best friend, to this girl whom I wanted to see as only a sister. The details had been excruciatingly real. I’d kissed my way down her small, perfect body, taken her petite breasts into my mouth, swirled my tongue over her dusty pink nipples, made her moan my name over and over, before settling between her thighs and making her scream while I ate her out. And, while she was still recovering from the orgasm I’d given her, I had entered her slowly, gently. In my dreams, I’d been her first, perhaps her last. She felt right and warm against me, and I awoke with a throbbing dick, realizing with a sickness in the pit of my stomach that I’d been holding her tight against my aching cock in my sleep.

  She was still sleeping, thank God, and I needed some relief. I gently disentangled her from my arms and silently got out of bed to make my way to the bathroom. A shower to make this insanity go away. As I jacked off under the water, I asked myself when exactly my feelings had turned sexual for her. And I laughed. When had they not been? She was gorgeous, and kind. I was a hot-blooded teen with hormones running rampant. I couldn’t necessarily control that, but I could control what I did with these emotions and feelings. I could also control what would happen next. I’d already fallen for her. That ship had already fucking sailed. But I could make sure to not act on it. I knew that letting this gentle, bright girl into my heart would irrevocably change everything for her. She deserved so much better than a boy from the wrong side of the tracks. She deserved caviar and champagne and luxurious getaways. Not a run-down shack and nights filled with nightmares and demons.

  I turned off the shower and dried myself, putting on my pj bottoms before heading back to bed. She was still sleeping, looking so angelic. In my absence, she’d curled in onto herself, clearly cold, as she always seemed to be. I stood over her, watching, watching. Her father had carelessly accused her of dressing like a whore. My anger at his thoughtlessness rose up again. How could he say something so obviously wrong and hurt her? Could he not see her for what she was? A kind, brilliant girl with a heart so big and so full, it was dripping with love for anyone lucky enough to be in her orbit.

  I let out a long breath and gently got back into bed. She felt my presence, and, still sleeping, snuggled up against me. I pulled her into my arms, heard her let out a small sigh. Unable to help myself, I leaned down to place the ghost of a kiss on her shoulder.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  ***

  Bella

  I had been having erotic dreams of Damien. I’d dreamt he’d been kissing me everywhere, and the very thought of it again made me . . . so warm. I’d woken up with an unfulfilled need that I didn’t quite understand, except that I needed something, needed him, only to find the bed empty. I heard the shower running for what seemed like ages. He must have had another nightmare—I’d experienced those with him a couple of times. My heart bled for him, at how restful sleep tended to elude him most of the time.

  He’d padded his way back in, shirtless. I’d pretended to be asleep to avoid explaining the rush of emotions that were likely coloring my cheeks red as I half imagined, half saw his naked chest in the pale moonlight. I didn’t quite understand my feelings for Damien just yet, except that I loved him more than I’d ever loved anyone, and that with him, I felt more loved than I’d ever been in my life, faded memories of my gentle mother aside.

  I sunk in against him, felt his strong arms around me, pulling me in. Nothing felt as right as being in his warm embrace. I couldn’t stop thinking about his naked chest, about the red-hot hard planes of muscles burning against my cheek. And then I felt him place a gossamer kiss on my bare shoulder and couldn’t explain the flood of feelings that centered in the pit of my stomach, making my heart swell and beat dangerously fast against my ribs. I’d need to figure out—and soon—what was happening to my heart. Those were my last thoughts before I fell back into a deep sleep, this time dreamless.

  Bella

  My dad and I ate our Christmas dinner in silence—as always. It was so very sad, really. We only had each other left, and we were as cold as strangers.

  He pushed away his dessert, a slice from an ice cream bûche de Noël concoction, before saying, “This is the last Christmas with you living at home, Mirabella.”

  I looked up, the light tinkling sound of the bells from my elf hat breaking the silence. My silly attempts at seasonal cheer in this cavernous mausoleum.

  I continued to stare at my dad, not quite sure where this was going.

  “I really can’t believe how quickly these last few years have gone by.” He paused for a second. “You look so much like your mom. She would be so . . .” He cleared his throat, as seldom seen emotions crossed his face. “She would be so proud of you.” He cleared his throat again, clasped the bridge of his nose, and tossed back a shot of whiskey. He got up and walked toward me, before placing a small, wrapped box next to my glass. “At any rate, Merry Christmas, Mira,” he said and walked out to his study.

  I sat there for a few minutes, unsettled by my father’s
rare display of emotions. Finally, I grabbed the small box and opened it up. Inside, nestled against folds of velvet, was a set of BMW keys. A car. He’d gotten me a car for Christmas.

  I let out a small scream and ran to him in his study, finding him sitting in his chair, looking out to the five acres or so of well-manicured lawns and hedges making up our “backyard.”

  “Daddy! Thank you so much,” I said as I hugged and kissed him on the cheek, the bells ringing merrily on top of my head. He hesitantly hugged me back, at near arm’s length.

  “It may not seem like it, Mira. But you are loved.”

  That’s as close to saying I love you as he’d ever gotten. I recognized how hard showing emotions was for someone like him. I could respect that, even if I was his complete opposite. And of course, I knew he loved me, in his own austere, quiet, and distant way.

  “I love you too, Daddy,” I responded, and watched the emotions flash across his eyes a second time that night before he waved me away.

  “Now, go. I have a case to prepare.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to drive around.” I held my breath, waiting for his interrogation.

  He looked at me intently, and I thought he might have seen through me, but nodded anyways. His mind was indeed elsewhere, lately. I had to wonder if it had anything to do with Stone Law. I shook my head. He’d never open up. It was pointless to even try. I ran to the door and parked right there in front of the house was a white BMW i9. My dad never did things halfway, and he wasn’t about to start now.

  I rushed back inside, gave him another hug before grabbing my sweater, purse, and phone. I ran to my new car. I sat on the soft, cream-colored seats and realized that my father had likely had the default leather downgraded to woven fabric. He did know me, after all. As I took in that new car smell, there was only one other person with whom I wanted to share my joy. I texted him to let him know I was on my way.