Damien, Forever (An Art of Sinners Novel)

by Tempest Phan

  I continued looking out the window, ignoring them. What did she look like, now? Sound like? The same. People didn’t change in a year. I wondered if she still made that small sound in her throat right before she fell apart. Wondered if she made it for him, too. For the life of me, I couldn’t recall if she’d made that sound in his arms that ruinous night we’d both touched her. I couldn’t recall because, sometimes, the only way to find the fucking will to go on was through sheer denial.

  My heart constricted, and I felt a tightness in my loin that had nothing to do with the dark-haired, petite models in my bed, ones I’d picked out of the many who tried daily to get under my sheets simply because there was something about them, however furtive, that reminded me of her. But they couldn’t be her. No one ever could.

  I suddenly saw her in my mind’s eye, images that I tried to suppress daily but that came back in the dark of night to haunt my dreams. Her hazel eyes, perfect ivory cream skin, soft, so soft to my touch. Her silken dark hair falling over her naked shoulders and breasts, those small but perfect breasts that fit in my hands. I’d fucked a lot of women, and none felt as perfect against me, around me, as her. The flush on her cheeks every time I made her come, her half-closed eyes burning through my core. The way her long, slim legs would wrap themselves around my waist, trapping me deep inside her.

  But it wasn’t just the sex, or how she looked.

  I remembered her heart. I missed it like I knew I’d miss my hands. Perhaps more.

  And I missed her soft giggles. Missed hearing about her adventures at the soup kitchen, community pantry, or whatever new charitable endeavor she’d undertaken. Missed how she’d cry whenever she heard a sad song, even if it wasn’t a particularly sad one.

  “Damien . . . Hot stuff. I loved it when you spoke in Italian to me, by the way.” Ling giggled, a high-pitched, fake, irritating sound. “I didn’t know you spoke other languages!”

  The nonsensical rambling managed to bring my mind back to reality.

  “Hmmm?” I said, impatience making my voice sound harsh even to me.

  “Bella. You called me beautiful. I think that’s Italian, right?”

  I clenched my fists. I hadn’t realized I’d said her name when I came. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It was her I saw whenever I fucked anyone.

  “Daaaammmien,” the brunette whined.

  I rubbed my temple.

  “All right, I’m done here. You can both leave now.”

  They pouted and made some nasal, whiny sound. It was disgusting. I glanced down at the trash can and the used condoms. In spite of everything, no matter how drunk, how high, how lonely, I’d still managed to keep myself safe every time.

  I looked at them, and they must have seen the darkness in my gaze because they quickly jumped up, dressed haphazardly, and teetered out.

  Soul-crushing emptiness.

  I opened my DMs and began a reply.

  ***

  “Shit, look at that. I’d totally tap that.” I glanced over at Syn, and arched a brow. His hair was down, as he usually left the long Simon Cruz-like mohawk and bombast for the stage. Instead, the long, pale blond layered hair lay calmly down, more or less hiding the shaved sides and multiple tattoos on his skull, although the red of his plum blossoms still peeked through.

  Crash let out a low whistle, even though he rarely objectified the women who threw themselves at us. His dark hair was toned down as well, flat to one side in a deep side part that showed the red and black dragon tattooed across the right side of his skull.

  “Fuck, yeah.” Luce grinned. He, on the other hand, had gone full-on rockstar, his blue-black hair gelled up in a visual kei style, his black eyeliner smudged across his eyes.

  Everyone in the lobby was staring at us. I’d grown up the subject of stares because of how I looked, of who I was. But ever since My Tell-Tale Heart, the stares had taken on a new meaning. They were looking not because I should be invisible, but because they didn’t want to be. They wanted in. That part I’d never fully get used to. Some recognized us, but most were just vaguely aware that we must be some sort of minor celebrities. Whether our stage looks were toned down or not, people couldn’t ignore us. With attention like that, pussy was never in short supply these days, and the women were all stunning. It could almost make a man blasé about the whole thing. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever heard this type of excitement from the boys.

  I turned to what had so captured their imagination, somehow knowing it was her. And then I felt my heart catch in my throat.

  Bella. Recognition must have flashed across my face as I vaguely heard someone—Syn, maybe—say, “Ah, it’s her, boys. She’s off limits.” She’d been off limits to me, too.

  For years.

  Her hair looked different, no longer dark and long. Instead, it was cut into a layered blonde bob that fell in a mess around her face. Blondes had never been my thing, but when it came to her, it didn’t matter. She would always be my thing.

  She turned her huge hazel eyes to me, apprehension in them, those gorgeous almond eyes bigger than I’d ever remembered them, lashes long and thick. Her lips were painted on in a scarlet color. She was wearing an oversized sweater that fell off one shoulder, revealing that Saint’s cherry blossom tattoos had expanded and spread across her shoulder, collarbone, upper back, and perhaps more. Those delicate cherry blossoms were so in tune with the ones covering my neck and upper arm that it was like some sort of ironic His and Hers set.

  She strode across the lobby, the sound of her stilettos echoing against the tiled floor. She was still all limbs, her endless, slender legs encased in a pair of matte, likely faux-leather leggings that looked painted on.

  “Dame,” she called out, her voice clear and strong. She stepped closer and, without fail, my body came alive like it always did around her, every single sense heightened. She bit down on her lower right lip, making me wish I were doing the same to her. I could feel her inner strength and beauty enveloping me. I could feel her soul almost like my own, although hers was clear and sparkling and kind. And it called to mine once again, because they’d known each other, because they would always know each other, through space and time. It took every last shred of my self-control to not erase that last gap between us and drag her against me.

  Because in spite of that, in spite of it all, she’d never been mine. Worse, now, she was Lukas’s, but I couldn’t let my mind go there.

  “Dame,” she repeated.

  I smiled at her, although I don’t know if it looked like a sneer.

  Bella

  I wrapped my arms around myself, looking all around me, feeling oddly out of place. My oversized sweater slipped down my shoulder, and I pulled it back up as I took in the crowd of screaming fans pushing up against the barricade behind me. I was one of the lucky ones, right next to the stage, on this side of the barricade with all of the VIPs, photographers, and security guards. Suddenly, the stage grew darker, and the first few strains of Elvis’s Always on My Mind started to play as everyone in the venue hushed. Dark shadows walked across the stage, and the crowd went wild. Elvis faded out, quickly replaced by the deafening rip of guitars blasting through the speakers. Drums rolled in, joined by the thumping of a bass as the band let loose, just as the stage lit up. The crowd roared its approval as Dame threw himself into the lyrics, coaxing his black Gibson into an aggressive riff.

  He was gorgeous on that stage, a glorious rock god in skinny leather pants, his eternal black high-top Vans, and a black sleeveless hoodie with the armholes cut so wide that I could see right through to his ripped side and pecs. Every single inch of his exposed skin was covered in grey and black tattoos, the play of stage lights on his sweat making them glisten. He put a foot up on one of the amps, leaning into his guitar as he tore into the chorus.

  I was blown away like I was when we were seventeen, in my entertainment room, when I imagined a day like this one where he’d command an entire venue. His charisma was dripping off him in an incendiary flood
that set the crowd on fire. And just like that, my boy of dark murmurs was no more, replaced by a man who was strong and loud and enthralling as he launched into a series of guttural screams and deep vocals.

  The rest of the band was just as mesmerizing. The drummer, Lucien I think his name was, feverishly drumming out a fast-paced beat, his blue-black hair styled like a manga character’s, long spikes in every direction.

  Dame, Crash, and Syn jumped up in unison, and as his feet touched the ground, Dame slid on his knees to the edge of the stage, finding my gaze among the thousands in the venue before leaning back and playing his guitar almost like he was fucking it.

  Hold it like a lover, and he will sing for you.

  It was insanely hot and yet heartbreaking, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. My breath caught at the lyrics:

  She was the girl next door

  My girl next door

  With raven hair

  And skin so fair

  Couldn’t have her in my bed

  So kept her in my heart instead . . .

  I recognized the lyrics I’d texted him, all those years ago. Lyrics that he’d pulled and twisted and made all his own.

  Song after song they played, with the crowd raucously joining in.

  One in particular broke my heart. It was a screaming ballad, the one I’d seen online about falling cherry blossoms. The dark growling full of despair, at odds with the softer, deeper clean vocals. And then, at the end of the set, the lights dimmed again.

  “Thank you, Seattle. We love you too . . . It’s good to be home . . .”

  He paused as the crowd roared its approval.

  “This one, this one . . .” He laughed as the crowd drowned him out, with a voice throwing out, “I want your baby, Damien!”

  He laughed again, “Ha well, thanks. Now, this one is a song I wrote when I was just a kid. I wrote it to mend a broken heart. And I set it to a melody that saved me during one of my darkest nights. Didn’t quite work out between her and me, but hey, such is life. Seattle, this is For You.”

  The lights faded, and he started to strum that guitar, playing that song from long ago, the song he’d written for me. I felt my heart constrict in my chest. Perhaps it was no longer for me, but still it shattered my heart.

  The notes washed over me, and the words from his earlier intro . . . A melody that saved me during one of my darkest nights . . . and suddenly, the memories came rushing back.

  It was the song I’d made up and hummed to him while he laid broken in my arms. He’d remembered it. He had been listening, after all. When I had thought him lost in his dark, torn apart in my arms . . . He had been listening all along.

  The tears blurred my vision.

  And as I, faceless in the crowd of thousands, watched him, those tears began to roll down my face.

  When your tears start to fall

  I’ll fucking catch them all …

  I loved him so.

  It was likely my imagination, but he turned ever so slightly my way as he sang those words I knew by heart. Near the end, however, he added lines I hadn’t heard before:

  You’re beautiful, and I want you

  But in this world

  I can’t have you

  Cannot have you

  I’ll never have you . . .

  ’Cause you’re not for me.

  But I’ll always be

  Only for you.

  Baby, only for you.

  All his songs—every single one of them—had been about me. About us. Did I dare hope he still loved me?

  ***

  Damien

  In spite of how strung out I was—because I couldn’t fucking function without my daily orgy of coke and whiskey anymore—I could still make her out in the front, sectioned off from the rest of the pit. Her beige hair was gleaming under the spotlight. It was easy to spot her. At first, she’d stood still, just staring at the stage, arms wrapped defensively around herself. But as the night went on, she’d become less inhibited, had taken off the sweater and tied it around her waist until she’d been wearing nothing but the form-fitting black cami and leather leggings. She’d danced along with the music, jumping up and down, her arms in the air, shaking her head from side to side, swaying her hips. It took me back to that afternoon when she’d danced at her house, on that stage, while I played for her. We’d been so young then, and I had been crazy for her. Still was. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her.

  It was likely my imagination—how could it not be, in a crowd of thousands—but I felt like our eyes locked and never let go. I found myself lost in her, the thrill of thirty-five hundred fans screaming along with me replaced by the thrill of performing just for her. Her only. It had always been about her. All of it, all of this. The blood pumping in my ears and bleeding out of every pore as I poured my heart out to her. “My girl next door . . .” and “In this world, I can’t have you.” Every song, every verse, every chord, every note. It all came from her. It all came for her.

  ***

  Bella

  The stage lit up for the encore as the band returned to the screams of their adoring fans.

  “Thank you, Seattle! You guys not ready to go home yet, yeah?”

  The noise that arose from the audience was deafening. I had to laugh in spite of myself.

  “All right. Enough with all that maudlin shit, yeah? You guys ready to rock one last time tonight?” He laughed his loud, gorgeous, dark velvet laugh, making me tingle to my toes, as his words were greeted by more screeching. A red bra sailed by his head. He caught it with one hand.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. You sure you’re not going to miss this?” The crowd screamed in response. He tossed the undergarment across the stage at his bass player who tied it loosely to his strap. Dame laughed again. “Red lace looks good on you, Crash.” His bandmate grinned at him and flipped him the bird.

  Still laughing, Dame shook his head and turned back to the audience. “So, this next one isn’t from My Tell-Tale Heart’s original . . . repertoire, shall we say. You all know by now that before your boy came along, this band was known as Hellraiser . . .” He paused while he was drowned out by more screams.

  “Yeah, yeah. You like that, sweetie?” he said, winking at someone in front. “So Hellraiser. Yeah, they played some real shit music.” He glanced over to Syn who let out a riff on his red Gibson. “Some real shit. And this next one, this next one Synister Maur here . . .” More screams. “My man Maur wrote in honor of his girlfriend at the time. That girl was something else . . . But me? All that thumping bass and screamo just makes me think of a gorgeous girl on a spinning stage in a dark club . . . Here we go!” And he spun, swinging his free arm around, as his bandmates launched into the song. “This is Fuck it Up, Seattle. We love you!”

  The spinning stage from when we were nineteen. He’d remembered that, too. He’d remembered everything.

  At the close of the song, they came to the edge of the stage to bow and thank their fans. The drummer threw his sticks into the crowd. Dame and Mohawk Guy did the same with their picks. And then they all disappeared.

  Later, I headed backstage and was met by a swarm of fans, many scantily clad women, some young guys, all with VIP passes around their necks. Most had their hair dyed jet black, many had drawn onto their faces Dame’s tear tattoo, all so they could resemble their idol.

  The boys were sitting at a table at the very back of the room, signing away tees, posters, anything that was handed to them. I wouldn’t be able to make my way through.

  Suddenly, his soft, dark voice rang out. “Mirabella. Come here.” Our eyes met. His were glassy, eyeliner smudged and smeared, blending out over his tattooed tear. Even in the low-lit room I could see the faint trace of the scar on his cheek, that scar from long ago when he’d nearly killed a boy for daring to hurt me.

  I felt a hand gently touch my arm and looked up to see a security guard grab my forearm as he led me through the crowd, which parted to make way for us.

  “Come sit by us,�
�� Dame said, gesturing for me to come around the table. I complied, a little disconcerted, feeling completely out of place as I looked up to see the band’s fans—mostly the women—glare at me, clearly envious of the special treatment I was receiving. What an odd feeling this was. A few days ago, I hadn’t even heard of My Tell-Tale Heart, and now, here I was, making my way to my childhood best friend as his groupies looked on.

  There were no empty chairs, so I just stood there, feeling a little exposed, until Damien’s arm came round and gently tugged me onto his lap.

  “You can sit with me,” he whispered.

  With? I’d call that on . . .

  I sat there, feeling vaguely uncomfortable being the center of attention, but he bent down and gently kissed my exposed shoulder, his stubble scraping the sensitive skin, before turning back to his fans.

  A gorgeous blonde purred at him, “Damien, is sitting on your lap part of the VIP treatment?”

  I looked at her uncharitably. I couldn’t help that my eyes were shooting daggers. He goes for brunettes, I wanted to tell her. Not blondes. Never blondes. And then I realized that I was now blonde, too. So instead, I piped up, “Nope. His lap isn’t for sale.”

  He leaned over to look at me, an eyebrow arched, and then broke out into laugher. The rich sound wrapped itself around the crowded room. He turned back to the fan. “It’s taken, baby,” as he winked and signed her tee with a flourish.

  Baby.

  I know he meant nothing by it, but hearing him use one of his pet names for me on another girl stung more than I’d cared to admit. I felt his warm breath on me. The vague sharp tang of alcohol was clinging to him, mingling with his usual sandalwood and smoke. It was intoxicating, and I suddenly felt in very dangerous territory. This was not my Damien—no, not mine, never mine—Damien but not Damien. This man was now foreign to me, with an edge that both lured me in and screamed for me to run.