Then I called Damon.
“Hey,” he said.
My voice caught in my throat and for a second I wasn’t sure what to say, because I didn’t call guys. Had I ever really? When I wanted to go out with someone, I exchanged numbers and then sent a text message. It was a safe way to put myself out there because rejection was always possible, but it went both ways; it kept me from being absolutely and completely available to someone else also.
And yet here we were.
“Damon,” I said, still not ready with whatever I wanted to say.
“I can’t, Andrea.”
“What?”
“I can’t have sex right now. It’s two in the afternoon. And someone’s probably in the pantry. You think it’s too early for snack time, but the pantry’s never empty at this hour.”
Damn it. I was at the round table, sharing it with a few other people, and my giggle made two out of three look at me. “Because that’s where the magic happens? The pantry?”
“I personally haven’t, but I’m sure someone else has. Because it smells like coffee in there.”
“Coffee isn’t exactly a sexy smell for other people, you know.”
“It’s not? They’re lying.”
“I know why it has that effect on you, though.”
“Do you?”
I did, and it wasn’t something I was going to say now that two out of three people sharing this table with me were probably listening. Damon’s mealtimes were freakishly long, but he always ended them with coffee. Now I probably couldn’t be considered an expert on this guy yet, but so far the average time spent between his last cup of non-breakfast coffee and us having sex was always less than an hour. Coffee meant he had digested, exhausted all topics of conversation, and was ready to go do something else. Admitting that the smell of it made him horny was a peek into that handsome head.
“Do you have your own office? I can’t imagine you saying this with other people around.”
“Yes, I do. I have glass walls and a window and a door. But we can’t do it here, because windows. And glass walls. But why did you call, really?”
“Oh. Right. I thought...do you want to hang out?”
“You know you can drop by my place whenever you want. Or I can pick you up.”
“No, I mean—let’s hang out with other people? Your friends?”
“My friends.”
“Yeah.”
“I think I’m seeing them next week. There’s a musical, one of our friends is an investor or producer or something. She’s asking us to buy tickets. You want in on that?”
“Yes, sure. That’s…” That was too far into the future for this impulse. But it would have to do, for now, and maybe give me more time to prepare for actually interacting with Geraldine and her friends on her turf.
“Well, if you wanted to hang out,” Damon added. “I know you probably have something with family on Sunday, but can you go with me somewhere? I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
“Oh. Okay. Just us?”
“You and me.”
“It has to be Sunday?”
“Yeah, can’t move it. I’ll go by myself, if you can’t go with me.”
Sunday was not date day. Sunday was lunch with family, hang out in pajamas day, groan about Monday day.
“I’m there,” I told him.
Chapter 10
On Sunday, Damon asked me to think about fear, anger, and pain.
Fear wasn’t my thing. I had never been afraid of anything so much that it paralyzed me. But anger, and pain. How painful had my life been, until now?
Not so much. I have cool parents. I wasn’t a good student, so their constant disappointment during report card season could have been a hangup that followed me all my life, but it didn’t. I knew I was worth more than the grade that that teacher who didn’t like me gave me.
I did much better at work, writing funny and snarky copy for ads, but that didn’t prevent some drama, expected when people who considered themselves creative all had to work together. I learned to make friends because it was so easy to lose them, when you were the kind of person who didn’t mind being a little different. Picked up some people skills, learned which battles to fight, and what to wear every time to send the right message. Along the way I may have annoyed a boss or two¸ rubbed some client the wrong way, made a frenemy out of someone in another department. I’d been called names, for choosing to date the way I did. Probably the worst blow-up was from Julie herself, who said the right guy wouldn’t wait around for me while I made everyone else line up and kissed them first.
None of those hurt me in any way that counted, though.
“I don’t have anything else,” I told Damon.
“Come on. There has to be something.”
“There’s only one thing.”
His hand was on my shoulder and he squeezed, not playfully. A serious squeeze. “It can’t be Thad.”
“I can’t help it; it’s the most recent one.” And the only one that knocked me down, of all the punches.
Damon’s head was bent, so it was close to mine. He was trying to talk louder, so I’d hear it past the ear protection. “It can’t be Thad, Andrea. This is real power you have right here. I don’t want to scare you, because channeling real anger into this can...mess you up. I know this. Don’t think about Thad.”
“You said pain…” I spoke louder too, so he’d hear me despite the muffs.
“Shit you can’t think of anything else? How can you not be afraid of anything?”
“You said think about my anger.”
“It’s usually because anger makes you fear something less...but I shouldn't have said that then. You have to be a little afraid of this, Andrea. Aren’t you?”
“I’m not.”
“Think about the many things that could go wrong right now.”
I thought of the worst logical thing, and shrugged. “It doesn’t scare me.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I can handle it. I thought you wanted me to do this?”
“I didn’t realize you’d have a heart of stone. Be careful, Andrea.”
“Step back, Damon.”
He did.
I breathed, paused, put my finger on the trigger, and pulled.
The Glock was light enough in my hand but it was the force of the bullet that I was prepping myself for. The energy of it ripped through me, but I didn’t lose control. It was a moment that was quick and also stretched, because it felt like my heart had stopped, my senses dulled.
Five meters away, there was a bullet hole in the target’s sternum.
I missed the heart, but not by much.
“Holy shit,” I said, looking at the damage I’d done.
***
Sunday, Damon took me shooting.
At the wedding he mentioned it, that he was a competitive shooter. I was impressed, without really thinking about what that meant. It was like he said he was captain of the neighborhood football league (true) or that he liked his coffee with one sugar (also true). They were facts about him and could have remained flat descriptions on a list. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Could kill things with precision if he wanted to.
I wasn’t sure why he brought me to the shooting range. He hadn’t explained yet why he specifically planned to shoot on a Sunday, but being who I am, I went ahead and tried it. Wore the goggles and ear muffs. Looked at the gun selection and asked the on-site instructor to choose one for me. Held several actual guns in my hand, at the instructor’s request, to find out what “felt right” to me. Knowing they could all put a hole in someone’s chest sort of distracted me, and I honestly couldn’t be bothered to think about what was comfortable or light enough. Then I watched the instructor do a demo, hitting a person-shaped target at five meters. Watched Damon do the same, but double-tapping that target’s head at five, then ten meters.
Yeah, I wasn’t afraid. Maybe a little inconvenienced—the ear protection was tight against my head, and then I began thinking of the oth
er sweaty ears that may have used it. Wearing them didn’t completely silence the noise from the other person, aside from us, who had decided to practice on a Sunday. Each shot was a pop from somewhere near, still loud, and without the muffs might have damaged my hearing.
Not afraid though.
“Fifty rounds,” was what I was given, meaning fifty bullets, minus the one that the instructor had used to demo the entire cycle of loading and shooting to me. My dad was into cars, not guns, so this was the first time I’d come close enough to all of this. It felt real, and loud, and serious.
Damon told me that if I needed to defend myself, the way to do it was to aim for the heart or the head. Kill shots. He said this probably when he was being all macho, before I admitted that this was not making me nervous or scared.
I was looking at the outline of a man. No face, no name.
Don’t think about Thad.
Finger back on the trigger, and pull. I was ready for the force of it this time, and the bullet pierced the empty space between Nameless Guy’s shoulder and head.
Huh. I let him live. Maybe he was Thad.
It took me a little under fifteen minutes to go through fifty bullets. After a while it felt easy, nothing to it. I lost track of the rounds and may have killed Nameless Guy a few times, or at least would have made him bleed uncomfortably. Damon asked if I wanted another set and I said I didn’t, so I just watched him go through another fifty rounds. As I rubbed my arm, a little tired from being held up so long, I thought of how normal this all looked on him. How effortless. Were some people hunters, naturally? Did they see something and then go on attack mode, and get it? Kill it?
He fired his last round and told me we were done.
***
“Dogs.”
“Of course not.”
“Big dogs. Nasty ones.”
“Yeah, but that’s more disgust, really. If they’re drooling.”
Damon was driving but he spared a half second to give me the side eye. “You can’t be afraid of nothing.”
“I’m sure there’s something, I just haven’t met it yet.”
“Earthquakes.”
“Not really.”
“The dark.”
“Of course not. I have a lot of fun in the dark.”
He paused. “I actually know that.”
“Why is this a big deal for you?”
“I have a hard time believing you fear nothing.”
We were driving further north than I usually travel, living in the metro. I didn’t know where we were going, because he didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask. As far as I was concerned it was “Damon’s Errands Day,” except they weren’t the usual errands normal people had.
“You?” I said, shifting this all back to him. “You held a gun and shot that target’s head like it was nothing. You fired a hundred bullets out there this morning.”
“That’s not fearing nothing. That’s just...putting a hundred bullets into something.”
“Oh, don’t go humble on me now. You’re good at this. You compete and you’re good enough to win. You’re...a weapon.”
So I was doing that stream-of-consciousness, realizing that certain things about Damon made sense now that I saw him in his element. The focus, the determination, the ability to keep his mind on one track. Essential when someone took up a dangerous sport as his hobby. But also because it was his personality anyway? He would gravitate toward something that not only asked for focus but demanded it, and a sloppy turn could cost lives.
“I’m also scared of lots of shit,” he said. “Why do you think someone would pick up a gun and learn to use it?”
“Because it’s...it’s satisfying,” I replied. “It’s a complicated little machine that does a simple thing. You can aim for something and actually hit it. And then move your arm slightly and hit something else.”
“It can fucking kill you if you aren’t careful.”
“It’s supposed to. And I don’t think that’s about being scared, Damon.”
We had entered a private subdivision and pulled over in front of a large house. Damon killed the engine and shook his head. He was looking at me like he was trying to read a sign right above my head, a sign in a different language. I’d had my share of people trying—and failing—to figure me out, and was used to this. Damon would just have to join the club.
He finally let out his breath, but said nothing, then unlocked the car doors.
Chapter 11
Damon was rich.
This wasn’t something I often thought about, but certain things about Damon started to fall into place as soon as I got my first look at Damon’s grandmother’s house.
It was beautiful and old. Something like it would creep out most people, but it had just enough character, decaying wood and capiz windows and all, that endeared it to me even more. Its facade was dark green, though it looked like it had been painted over whatever the original color was.
We were greeted at the gate by a guy who was probably a decade older than him, but called him “sir.” That was what shook me out of myself and made me pay attention, and think about what I knew of Damon so far. A fancy apartment he owned, and didn’t rent. No real attachment to family, which meant no financial obligations to anyone else. Habit of traveling during holidays.
I wonder how he felt, spending Sunday in my house that time? Sitting at a table sharing a meal with someone’s mom, dad, sister, brother-in-law? Not that he was scared off, though, since he was still around, and here I was, standing in the house that he grew up in.
There was barely any furniture left, but for huge, heavy, wooden pieces that probably cost a lot of money. It was almost noon, and the guy who greeted us (Damon introduced him as Pete) started cranking open the huge, old windows, exposing the inside of the house to the sunlight that poured in around the old metal grills.
It reminded me of old things.
Cold things, things that needed warming up.
Damon and Pete were by the huge, circular dining table. Real estate tax assessment, I heard. Damon looked it over and nodded, then handed Pete an envelope of money, after checking the amount inside.
“Is the bedroom okay now?” Damon asked. “Did the extermination work?”
“So far,” Pete said. “You should go up and see.”
Then we were going up the creaky, narrow staircase, heading up to a second floor. Brown doors lined the hallway that curved around the stairs. We went into one room, and Damon inspected repair work done on the ceiling, then he asked Pete to leave us for a bit. I walked to the window and looked down into the garden, behind the house. Not so badly maintained, for an empty place.
“This was your bedroom?” I asked. It was bare, but for an emergency lamp on the floor next to the door. It didn’t seem large enough to be a master bedroom.
Damon smiled, and he was himself again, younger somehow. All this “sir” and taxes and extermination business seemed so adult. “It was. I only moved out when she died.”
And yet all traces of him had been scrubbed away now. Exterminated.
He made it to the window too, and I couldn’t help it, I linked arms with him and pulled him close. We both smelled faintly of gunpowder, and now old wood, and it was all so disorienting, but he was familiar to me.
“So, tell me what this day is about,” I said.
“It’s her birthday,” Damon said. “My grandma. I do this every year.”
“Shoot and visit the house?”
He walked into my hug like he was expecting it. “She taught me how to shoot. Well, before she got me a professional instructor. But she’s why I even picked it up.”
“Wow, badass grandma.”
“They competed and were good at it. Her and my grandpa. They owned a gun each and she figured I’d need to learn responsible use and storage so I don’t end up hurting myself or anyone else.”
“There are guns in this house right now?”
“Not anymore.”
“Oh. She left you this house
then?”
“She left me everything. Not all of it I can use.”
“Do you pay taxes and inspect the house every year on her birthday?”
Damon nodded. “And I shoot.”
My hand had been sort of touching his shirt; now I grabbed a handful of it and used it to pull his body down so I could kiss him. Kiss Damon, because I felt like he needed it.
Had I ever been in a position to give someone what he needed, instead of taking only what was mine?
It didn’t matter; this kind of felt like both.
***
Thad’s text: So how was your weekend?
My phone was right there, flat on the couch, between me and Damon. We were back at my place, sitting there in the living room, waiting for the coffee and ensaymada my parents insisted Damon have before leaving.
He could move his head and see my phone, see the message, see that it was from Thad. Or I could say something.
Should I say something?
Damon was leafing through one of Dad’s car magazines. I picked up my phone.
Me: Weekend’s awesome.
I paused.
Me: Go anywhere new?
Thad and I used to talk about places we’d visited. He liked to travel, and so did I, just that we never got the chance to do it together so much. But during that sham of a friendship, we told each other of our respective trips, because the other wasn’t there.
“Huh,” Damon said, now looking at his own phone. “Geraldine just texted.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t go ahead and be mad about that now, or ever.
“She’s asking about the musical. She’s getting tickets for the group. You wanted to go and hang out, right?”
“Yes. Tell her plus one then.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“I’m sure we’re going to enjoy making her uncomfortable.”
He smiled, shaking his head as he texted her back. “You really are enjoying this? Geraldine can be intimidating for some people.”
“I can handle her.” Then I began to wonder why he would think that. “Why, has she scared off any of your dates before?”
What You Wanted Page 6
