by Tempest Phan
She started to say something, but I placed a finger on her lips, before continuing, “Please, I can’t do this. I can’t talk about it. But thank you.”
Tears began to gather in her eyes, and it felt like a thousand knives in my heart. “Please don’t cry. Please understand. I don’t even know how to describe it, but it’s like I have all of these shadows inside of me, these voices that won’t stop, and I just, I just can’t talk about them. I can’t let them out into the open, into the light. I don’t know what would happen . . .”
Seconds ticked by. She finally nodded before saying, “But promise me, Dame. Promise that you won’t ever do anything stupid. I’m here. I’ll always be here for you. I won’t ever leave you behind like this.”
I smiled at her, and she smiled back through her tears as I reached out to embrace her and bring her against my heart.
I won’t ever leave you behind like this, she’d just sworn.
You will, baby girl. If I have my way.
Bella
I came home to find a vaguely familiar red Ferrari parked in my driveway. I walked in and found my father in the sitting room, deep in conversation with a certain arrogant intern with hair like the sun.
“Yes, Lynda mentioned that we are down one plate at the charity dinner,” my dad was saying. “André had to fly home to Paris to tend to a family emergency. We’ll have to find someone else to sit to Bella’s left.”
“Lynda will figure it out,” Lukas’s clear, deep tenor responded. “She always does.”
I walked around quietly, hoping to avoid detection.
“Hello Mirabella,” Lukas Fucking Stone, Viscount Ryding, said, a knowing smile on his lips. Bastard.
I sighed and rolled my eyes now that I’d been discovered. “Hi.”
My dad turned to look at me. “Come join us, Mirabella. Lukas was dropping off some documents, and I’ve invited him to stay for dinner.”
“It’s a school night, Daddy. I’m a little tired. If it’s ok with you, I’ll just go up and go straight to bed.”
Anger flashed in my dad’s eyes, but he nodded. “Ok. Go and rest up.” He turned back to his guest who looked up at me and winked, before flashing me the cockiest of smiles. I glared before bounding up the stairs to my room.
Closing the door behind me, I immediately dialed Dame’s number.
He picked up right away. “Hey baby girl,” he said, his deep, hot chocolate voice warming me straight down to my toes.
“Hi Dame. You doing ok?”
“Yes. Thanks to you.”
I vaguely heard the chime of a doorbell.
“Hang on, someone’s at the door,” he said, as I heard him shuffle off.
“Damien Mortensen?” The loud voice was slightly muffled by the distance.
“Yes.”
“I’m Officer Smith and this is Officer Jensen. May we come in for a minute?”
The police are at his house? My heart was pounding double time.
“Yes,” he repeated.
More shuffling sounds.
“Great,” The officer’s voice was gruff, but not unkind. “We understand there was a disturbance two days ago, at the Hopkinses’.”
Shit. This is about Jon.
“Of course, hang on,” I heard him say, and then, “Hey baby, I’m gonna have to call you back, ok?”
“Dame, do you need me there? I can come over,” I said, desperation in my voice. If I was there, perhaps I could make sure things stayed fair.
“It’s ok. I’ve got this. I’ll call you later, ok?” He did not wait for my answer before hanging up.
I sat there on my bed terrified for Damien. What if he were accused of something he hadn’t done? What if they didn’t listen to him? I had to be there. This was the only way to keep things fair. But clearly, he didn’t want me there.
I left my bedroom and headed back downstairs. I passed by the sitting room, where Lukas was still reclining, listening intently to my father describe some case or other.
“Have you changed your mind, Mirabella?” my father asked.
Hell, why not.
This would at least make the time pass more quickly, as I sat on pins and needles waiting to hear back from Dame.
I nodded and headed toward them. I sat in the plush white armchair to the right of where Lukas was lounging on the sofa, to the left of my father who was facing his guest. I brought my legs up and tucked them under me. It was a bit chilly.
My father smiled and got up. “I’ll let our housekeeper know,” he said. “Now you kids behave until I get back.”
Lukas took a sip of whatever it was he was drinking—whiskey?—and turned to me.
“Hello again, Mirabella Mei Grace Davenport.”
I looked at him. He was beautiful. Not nearly as beautiful as Dame—I would always be biased when it came to Damien—but Lukas’s face was quite breathtaking. All perfect symmetry and sharp angles, with skin stretched tightly across high cheekbones and a strong jaw. His straight nose had just the touch of a slope at the tip, giving his sculpted, aristocratic face a hint of boyishness. And he had strange eyes. They were wolf grey and glowed singularly against his tanned skin, his hair a dazzling kaleidoscope of shades of blond, from pale platinum all the way to golden sand and everything in between. He was striking, I realized suddenly, belatedly.
“You’re staring,” he said softly.
I blushed. “Why do you do that?”
He actually looked surprised. “Do what, love?”
“Look at me like you’re laughing at me.” As I said that, I thought I saw a small dot in his left nostril, indicating that maybe he’d taken out a nose ring. It must really be my imagination.
He blinked rapidly. He took another sip before reaching over to place his glass on the coffee table in front of him. As he did so, the fabric of his expensive button down stretched over his chest, his shoulder, his arm, delineating hard, lean cords of solid muscle. The movement also revealed that the swath of skin above his wrist was dripping with ink.
My turn to blink rapidly, to swallow hard.
He turned his intense, hypnotic gaze back to me. “Mirabella, laughing at you is the last thing on my mind when I look at you,” he said finally.
“And we’re back to that,” I sighed, throwing my arms up in exasperation.
“No, not at all. When I look at you, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to know you better, Mirabella. I’d like us to be friends. Very much so.”
His words held a certain yearning to them, and I found them so very odd. So very perturbing. And yet, and yet . . . I glanced toward the kitchen, but my dad was nowhere to be found.
“You’re a strange man, Lukas.”
Damien
My mom was asleep in front of the TV, her crime drama still playing, soundless, the fleece throw I’d tucked over her last night now pooling down her lap. It had been a month since the cops had shown up at my house, and nothing had happened since. I could only hope it would stay that way, because I didn’t know how I would manage otherwise. I was one disaster away from drowning.
And today was the day of the Davenport Valentine’s Day charity shindig. I was going.
Why?
Because I was a fucking glutton for punishment, that’s why.
Well, that and the fact that Bella, like me, absolutely hated that kind of shit, and she’d be the center of attention at this one. I’d said yes without hesitation when she’d asked. I’d even rented a damn tux for the occasion.
I brought the tray to my mom. I’d made her chicken noodle soup, the only thing she could usually stomach after most attacks.
“Mama,” I called out quietly. She only groaned in response. “Mama, you have to eat and take your meds.”
She opened her eyes. Disorientation glazed her stare. She blinked a few times. Disappointment settled like a pound of bricks over her nearly wild gaze and over my own heart when she realized it was only me. She turned her face away and said, “No. Leave me alone.”
; I didn’t fight her. Whenever she’d fall deep down the rabbit hole of her mind, I couldn’t get through. I placed the tray on the coffee table. Perhaps she would need it later.
I was eight when I’d learned that fighting her over this was pointless, as it usually ended with me cleaning up the mess as she plunged deeper into herself.
I was twelve when I’d understood that she had become my full responsibility, as my dad had shirked his, walking out and never once glancing back.
And I was fourteen when, finally, I’d stopped trying, in a bid to hang on to my own sanity, or what was left of it.
I headed to the bathroom to get ready for Bella’s thing. I would skip the eyeliner tonight. I would never fit in, but I didn’t want to embarrass her any more than necessary. I looked at all of the metal glinting on my face, my ear, and began to pull each piece out, one by one. Eyebrow, lips, helix. All out. My hand paused at the ring on my left nostril. Maybe not all. I left it in and hung on to this last piece of me.
I drove to the luxurious Crescendo Hotel and pulled up in front of a valet in red livery who eyed me skeptically. Clearly, he wasn’t used to seeing beat-up Chevys. I got out and handed him my keys, returning his smirk with one of my own.
Someday . . .
I walked into the hotel, a little disconcerted by all the gild and luxe, and headed to the front desk.
“The Davenport & Ellis charity dinner?” The woman smiled at me and gave me directions to one of their grand ballrooms.
A man was sitting at a table at the door. He gestured for me to stop. “Good evening.”
“I’m here for the charity dinner,” I cleared my throat. I was clearly out of place, in spite of the care I’d taken.
He looked me up and down. “Name?”
“Damien Mortensen.”
He frowned, looking through his list. “Hmmm. I don’t see a Damien Mortensen.”
“Bella Davenport, maybe?” I added.
He laughed. “You’re telling me you’re here with Miss Davenport. Nice try, man.”
I took a deep breath. I turned around just as Michael Davenport appeared down the hallway, a young, tall blond man at his side. I saw the minute Davenport recognized me. His eyes narrowed; his lips tightened into a straight line.
“What’s going on, Alex?” his voice boomed out. The man at his side looked at me, inscrutable, before running a hand through his gilded hair.
“I can’t find his name on the list. He says he’s with your daughter, sir.”
Bella’s dad was close now, and he turned to pin me with an icy glare, made colder by the glacier color of his eyes.
“I don’t think so, Alex.” His tone was clipped and arctic, and he held me down in his stare.
At that moment, the french doors opened, and she stepped out, a vision in a body-hugging white silk cheongsam covered in pale pink cherry blossoms, her hair drawn back in a low chignon anchored by a matching flower. My heart dropped to my stomach, a too-familiar chill gliding down my spine.
She smiled at me with lips painted red, before turning to Alex. “He is with me, Alex.”
“Mirabella.” Davenport’s voice held more than a hint of warning.
She turned to him and met him head on. “I’m sorry, Daddy, but he is with me,” she repeated, a touch less confidently, before taking a deep breath and saying more firmly, “He’s already purchased his plate.”
Her dad’s face clouded over before he quickly hid it away. “We’ll talk about this later.” Without looking at me, he stepped back into the ballroom.
During this whole exchange, the blond man was staring at Bella. Finally, he spared a quick glance at me before turning his attention back to her. His eyes caressed her as if she were his, and it fucking irritated me.
“Hello, Mirabella,” he said softly.
She gave him a tight smile. “Hello, Lukas. I hope you enjoy your evening.”
And then she turned to me, leaned in to hug me before taking my hand and leading me inside, leaving Lukas staring after her.
***
Bella
Damien was sitting to my left, and unfortunately, Lukas was to my right. Why was he here? Interns were typically not invited to my father’s reputational extravaganzas. I scanned the room for Mark Stone but came up empty, which probably made sense since this was a Davenport & Ellis affair.
Lukas let out a long, slow breath. I did my best to ignore him, focusing on my best friend instead.
Dame was gorgeous in his black tux. He’d combed and smoothed his hair back, his painfully beautiful face in plain view. I realized with a pang that he’d forgone the liner, that he’d removed nearly all of his piercings.
I reached out to touch his brow. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said softly.
He took my hand in his, lacing his fingers through mine, the chipping black polish in full view. “I’m trying to fit in for you . . .”
“You don’t ever have to do that. I love you as you are, Dame.”
Lukas cleared his throat next to me. I ignored him.
“Cherry blossoms?” he murmured, reaching out to touch the flower pinned in my hair.
I nodded. “In honor of my mother. In China, it’s a symbol of strength and beauty. I figured I’d armor up today.”
“Strength and beauty. I can’t think of a better way to describe you, baby girl.”
He smiled at me, then, although I could feel the tension reverberating from him. His hand was clammy, his eyes hard. And yet he was lounging back in his chair with a hint of arrogance, like he knew he didn’t fit in but didn’t give two fucks.
He licked the spot where his spider bites should have been.
I suddenly felt awful for him. I’d only casually asked, but he had accepted in earnest. Because he was doing this for me. Because he always was doing things just for me. When he didn’t really have to. It was probably torture for him. It was a five-course meal, and he was barely touching his food.
And I knew our table was the subject of many curious, some pointed, stares.
“Mirabella?”
I turned to Lukas, not letting go of Damien’s hand. “Yes?”
“You look lovely tonight, love,” he said softly.
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and finally said, “Thank you, Lukas. I like your silver bow tie, too.”
He just kept looking at me with his direct, open stare, his eyes, which matched his bow tie, gleaming strangely. I must have blushed and turned away.
I heard some commotion, belatedly realizing that the hired band had stopped playing. I looked up to see my father go up on stage. He started with some joke or other, thanked our guests for their generous donations, and finally said, “You’ll forgive me this next indulgence, but I think you’ll agree when I say that Mirabella Mei Grace Davenport is incredibly talented—she is her father’s daughter, after all.” He paused as the room erupted into laughter. “Please join me in welcoming my beautiful daughter Mira as she regales us with Liszt’s La Campanella.”
The room broke into applause as I stood up and waved, looking at Damien’s beaming face before rushing onstage. I walked over to my dad, who was smiling and pointing his arm at me, in a grand voilà! gesture. I reached over to hug him but he only gave me a clap on the shoulder. I took the mic from his hand and said, “Thank you, everyone. I apologize in advance for butchering this classic,” and winked as I walked over to the grand piano. The crowd laughed and clapped.
I sat down and began to play, the notes easily flying off my fingers onto the keys. I glanced over at my table and saw Damien, who looked at me with such pride on his face that my heart soared. He’d always be there for me. Of this I was certain. As I hit the last note, Damien stood up and clapped. He was the only one on his feet, drawing undue attention to himself, and my father’s face clouded over.
It suddenly made me angry, so angry that he couldn’t see his worth. There was no one like my Damien out there, and he was deserving of at least as much respect as any of these over-privileged snobs
. Before I could even think about the repercussions, I walked over to grab the acoustic guitar that the hired band had left onstage, and headed over to the mic.
“Thanks for sticking with me through that, folks,” I said to the audience. “And now, let’s try something a bit more modern. This song was written by one of the greatest musicians I know.” I turned pointedly to Damien, cocking my head as I smiled at him. He winked back at me.
“It’s called She’s So Lovely . . .”
Someone said loudly, “Indeed, she is!”
“And She’ll Kick Your Ass.” I finished, to a smattering of gasps and uneasy laughter. I supposed this particular crowd was not ready for my blue language.
I grabbed a chair and sat, cradling the acoustic guitar. I began to play Damien’s poetic, mournful song, so antithetical to its title, looking at him the entire time. I knew I could not do it justice. I was no Damien. But as I played the last heartbreaking chord, holding my guitar—like it was him—I closed my eyes, feeling the emotions course through me.
There was such beauty in his writing, in the way he could make me feel his pain, his loneliness, with just a few notes, with just a few rhymes. When I reopened them, our eyes locked again. There was such pride on his face, such adoration. Such . . . love? This boy filled me in a way no one ever had.
He winked at me. The crowd, up until then completely silent, broke into stunned applause. However much they might want it to be otherwise, they weren’t immune to his talent, to his magic, either.
Bella
We were relaxing at what had become our usual spot, a secluded, beautiful part of the lake. We were well into March, now, and my father still hadn’t made good on any of his threats. But I knew, could feel deep in my bones that it was only a matter of time before it was high noon and we’d face off. And I would lose. Against my father, I always did.
