by Ashley Logan
Regarding me for a long while, he smiles. “There’s nothing else for it. You’re going to have to tell her and just take it from there. And maybe ask her what her name is, dumbass.” Shaking his head, he nudges me with his elbow on his way back to the living room.
Sucking in air to puff up my chest, I turn back to Alexa’s room to wait for her. Looking at the bed, still rumpled from our activity, I sit at her desk, looking at her math books. It’s high school stuff, and from her working out, it looks as if she’s struggling to understand it. On the bright side, her name is written on the front cover. Alexa Carrington. It has a musical ring to it, much like the feeling she inspires within me.
“Damon?”
She almost sounds surprised, but when I look up, she appears to have just a hint of a smile. “I thought maybe you’d be gone,” she says, opening a drawer and pulling out a pair of blue and white striped pajama bottoms. Slipping them on under her robe, she drops it off her shoulders and reaches into the drawer again for a white tank top. Pulling it on, she turns back to me. I can’t help but notice the slightly darker shade behind the fabric where her nipples are, and she doesn’t fail to see my interest. I can’t take my eyes off her as she releases the messy pile of hair on her head and re-ties it into a tail.
Giving me a strange look, she moves to the bed and checks her phone. Frowning at it, her eyes lock on mine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ALEXA
My eyes begin to prickle with heat and I fight the tears that threaten to escape. Taking a deep breath, I look back at my phone, wondering why he felt the need to wait around if he was only going to reject me anyway.
“You didn’t want to put your number in?” I ask, despite the lump in my throat.
“I do want to,” he says, standing up. “I’ll tell you it right now, if you like, but I think you might want to wait until I make a confession.”
Tensing at his tone, a chill runs down my spine and I stare at him, swallowing hard. “What kind of confession, Damon?”
Lowering himself back into my chair, his eyes plead with me. “Please don’t be angry. I tried to tell you. I just kept losing my mind when you touched me. I should have been stronger, but I wasn’t and I’m sorry.”
“What kind of confession?” I ask again, through gritted teeth this time as the tears come back and blur my vision.
“Please don’t cry, Alexa,” he whispers, looking as if he might cry himself.
“What is it?” I manage to grind out.
“I told you I was a bit broken?” he says, shying away from my harsh glare.
Remembering a collection of scars on his chest and a few that streaked towards his neck, I nod. “I saw some scars. They didn’t bother me.”
“I have some scars you didn’t see, that I’m petrified will bother you Alexa,” he says quickly, his voice tight. Searching him, I wish I could see through his clothes.
“On your back?”
He shakes his head and sniffs quietly as he turns his head away again. Very slowly, he pulls his hands from his front pockets. At least, he would have pulled them out; if he had them.
Uttering a small squeak, I sink to my knees. Refusing to look at me, Damon has closed his eyes and turned his head right away, as if it pains him to gaze upon the empty space at the end of his arms. His chin shakes a little, but he soon clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and strained.
“I wasn’t able to add my number to your phone, and I wasn’t sure you’d want it once you knew. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you are the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me, and I just wanted to feel... normal, I guess. I’m sorry,” he says, standing up and shoving his no-hands back into his pockets. “I hope you can forgive me,” he whispers, still not looking at me as he rushes out the door.
Hearing several voices ranging from surprise to objection coming from the living room, I know he’s leaving. The thought makes my chest tight and I try to breathe properly as I pull myself off the floor. Staggering out to the living room, I’m met in the kitchen by Bruno coming towards me.
“You okay, Lex?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of me.
I look up at him and nod, then shake my head. My head is spinning and I grab onto the counter to steady myself as I gulp down air. “Where is he?”
“He left.”
“No,” I shake my head. “He can’t be far.” Rushing past Bruno, I run downstairs, hoping to catch him.
I needn’t have worried. Sitting on the last step, and hugging his knees, is Damon.
Slowing to take each step carefully, I come to sit next to him.
“I can’t open the door,” he says sadly as he stares at the floor. “Not without my hooks, and I left my bag upstairs.” Laughing a little to himself, he shakes his head. “And I thought it was hard to go up there the first time.” Looking at me he winces and looks to the floor again. “I guess there are worse things, right?” Standing up, he slowly trudges back upstairs.
Following, I watch him scoop up his shoulder bag and sling it over his head. Flipping it open, he rummages inside and pulls out two prosthetic hook hands linked together by a few straps. Silently, he takes the bag off, puts his stumps into each of the hook cups and lifts the harness over his head.
Visibly paling, he takes a deep breath and reaches for his bag again. Using his hooks, he pulls out a small pill container, flips open the lid and takes it to his mouth. Lowering it, he clicks the lid shut and tosses it into the bag again as he pulls it back over his head.
“Nice to meet you all,” he says stiffly, as if he’s in terrible pain. “I’ll see you later, Bruno.” Glancing at me, he smiles sadly and nods. “Goodbye Alexa.”
Turning, he begins walking back downstairs. Following him, I wait on the bottom step as he angles his hooks to open the round doorknob.
“Did Sam know you had no hands?” I ask, as he loses his grip and has to start again.
Sighing, he drops the knob and turns back to me, his eyes unfocused. Sweat has started to bead on his forehead and he still looks very pale.
“Who’s Sam?”
“Are you alright?” I ask, reaching out a hand to steady him. He watches it come toward him and although the look on his face is panic, he leans his face into it and sighs with what sounds like relief.
“Am now,” he says, sandwiching my hand between his cheek and his shoulder. Pulling my hand back in shock, I watch the tortured look return to his face.
“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head and attacking the doorknob again. “I know that was weird. I have to start driving,” he says, his breathing becoming more rapid. “I’ll feel better then. The hooks burn. I usually put them on at the last minute, but I can’t open the fucking door,” he says, thumping it with his forearm, before shrugging out of his harness and pulling each hook from his arms using the crooks of his elbows.
Sinking to the floor, he sets them alongside him as he gasps for breath. Leaning his head against the wall, he looks up at me as the color starts to return to his cheeks.
“I wish you weren’t watching me,” he says sadly. “I already know I’m pathetic.” Wincing, he tucks his stumps into his armpits.
Sitting next to him, I stop looking at him. “What do you mean when you say the hooks burn?”
“Nothing. It’s stupid.”
“It didn’t look like nothing.”
Sighing, he looks up at the doorknob. “Who’s Sam?”
“My friend. The one by your gym, with the short black hair. The one who you let take money from your wallet sometimes.”
“Friend?”
I nod. “Does she know you have no hands?”
He shrugs. “Probably. I usually see her before or after the gym, so I wouldn’t be wearing my gloves.” Looking at his lap, he turns to me. “I didn’t even think about that when I met you. The gloves,” he clarifies. “I liked the way you smiled at me, and then you said I could kiss you and everything else went out of my head. It wasn’t until a
fterward that I figured out you had no idea.”
Looking down again he sighs. “Do you think you could just open the door for me please? If it takes me as long as it already has with those damn hooks, I’m going to throw up in your stairwell.”
“Tell me why they burn.”
“I don’t know why they burn,” he says, following my eyes to his hooks.
“Why don’t you just get new ones?”
“The problem isn’t with the hooks,” he says with a sigh. “It’s me. Ever since my hands blew up, they’ve been causing me grief. You’d think that if something was gone, it wouldn’t bother you anymore right?”
Thinking a moment, I shrug. “I don’t know. Things have happened to me that still bother me very much even though the danger is gone.”
Rolling his head to the side, he studies me carefully. Eventually, he acknowledges what I’ve said with a nod and a solemn expression. “I’m sorry that you understand.”
“Me too. So...? Your hands exploded?”
Smiling a little, he lifts one shoulder in half a shrug. “I sort of caught something that turned out to be a fireball. I can’t really talk about it.”
“Too hard?”
Damon shakes his head. “I signed a non-disclosure agreement before it happened. It was meant to be safe. It wasn’t. I should’ve checked the calcs myself. On the bright side, the people responsible lost the lawsuit, so I never have to worry about money for the rest of my life.”
Blinking at him, I look at his blunted wrists. “I bet you’d rather have hands.”
Laughing a little, he nods. “But I don’t. Only phantom ones that pain me constantly, and play tricks on my brain. I’m sorry I messed this up, Alexa.”
“Who messed anything up?” I ask, turning to face him more. “If I’d known, I probably wouldn’t have made you keep them in your pockets. It’s hands I can’t deal with.”
Doing a double take, Damon sits up straighter. “Wh- what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I had a good time tonight, and that I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I can get your number from your jacket. I just didn’t put it in my phone earlier, because I didn’t want to call it in a moment of weakness when I was trying not to see you ever again. Asking you to do it was my way of checking if you were scared off by my rules without asking you directly.”
Damon’s face begins to brighten, but his brows draw down a bit. “Why didn’t you want to see me again?”
“I guess because you seemed kind of perfect, and I’m just perfectly messed up,” I say quietly, looking back up the stairwell.
“So now that you know I’m not perfect, you feel more comfortable?” he asks, smiling a little.
“You might still be perfect. My friend Sam thinks you are. Though I only just found out why she was laughing at me when I didn’t get why she’d think so,” I say with a shy laugh as I nod at his stumps. “Do you want to come back upstairs and talk?”
“I’d like that very much Alexa.”
Every time he says my name, I get the same tingle down my spine. “You can call me Lexi or Lex, if you want. Everyone else does.”
His mouth hitches to one side in a sweet half-smile. “I might stick with Alexa, if that’s okay?” he says, watching me. “I like the way it feels.”
Nodding, I stand up and wait for him. Taking his hooks between his stumps, he puts them in his bag before joining me. Slowly, we walk back upstairs together.
“Getting a good workout on those stairs Shermansky?” Bruno jokes as we arrive back in the living room.
“Not as effective as a night with your mom,” Damon replies before cringing. “Sorry,” he says to me. “We do that sometimes.”
Laughing at him, I shake my head and move into the kitchen. “You want a drink?”
“Sure.”
“Hot or cold?”
“Um, medium?” he asks, pulling a strange face. I raise an eyebrow at him.
“Holding hot drinks makes my hands sticky,” he explains.
I stare at him a moment, trying to make sense of that. “And medium ones?”
“Medium ones just feel like medium should. Same goes for cold,” he says slowly. “I know it’s weird.”
“A bit,” I say, nodding as I fill the kettle. “Tea, coffee, hot chocolate, or other?”
“What are you having?”
Viewing the selection of teas, I pull out the rhubarb and raspberry, and hold it up for him to see.
“Make it two,” he says, trying to hide a smile.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just have that one at home.”
“Liar.”
Frowning, he calls out in a loud voice, “Bruno? What’s my favorite tea?”
“Why?” Bruno calls back. “Are you going demented, or is Lexi touching you so you can’t think straight?”
“Would you just say it!” Damon yells back, his cheeks blushing a little.
“I don’t know. The one on the shelf by your kettle. That red shit only girls drink, with the berries on the box.”
“Thank you Bruno,” Damon says, turning back to me with a grin.
“Fine. You didn’t lie,” I concede, pouring boiled water over the teabags, making sure I only half-fill Damon’s. “It’s your favorite?”
He nods, still smiling.
“Mine too. Peppermint is okay as well, but the rest taste a bit like grass clippings.”
Laughing softly, he nods his head in agreement.
“What medication did you take earlier?” I ask, curious.
“Just some Tylenol. It doesn’t help much, but it takes the edge off. I’m on something regular too that gives better overall pain coverage, but doesn’t take it all away. Apparently it’s more effective than regular anti-inflammatory drugs because it works at a neurological level. Considering that my pain is due to messed up nerve damage, it makes good sense. I’m sorry. I’m rambling again,” he says as his cheeks become a bit rosier. “I’m really glad you’re not completely grossed out by me.”
“Why would I be grossed out?” I ask, topping up his tea with cold water and handing it to him. I add a little to my own too, so I don’t burn my tongue.
“Some people are,” he says with a shrug as his eyes drop to the floor. “Thank you for the tea. It’s just right,” he says, holding it between his stumps.
“You’re welcome. You want to go to my room? Or we have a second, more quiet living room.”
“Your room is fine with me,” he says, raising his cup carefully to his mouth and watching me over the top of it. “I could help you study.”
“Oh really?” I say dismissively as I walk towards my room. “I’m not studying any more anatomy tonight.”
Chuckling as he follows me, Damon clears his throat. “I meant I could help you with your math.”
Stopping in my doorway, I turn slowly. “I thought we could maybe just find out a few actual details about each other. I still can’t do a relationship.”
Looking a little wounded, Damon quickly blanks his expression. “That’s fine. I just thought you might need some help and I happen to be a good tutor.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m serious,” he says, pushing the door closed behind us and taking the seat at my desk as I sit on my bed. “Math is one of my strengths and I happen to be a qualified teacher. I’m not working as such currently though - I’m doing post-grad study to specialize.”
Staring at him, I raise my cup to my lips, only to lower it again. Then, changing my mind about what I was going to say, I bring it back to my lips and take a sip.
“What?” he asks, intrigued by my silence.
Shaking my head, I take another sip of tea. “Specialize in what?”
“I want to work with kids that have special needs. Physical, intellectual, whatever. I just want to help kids see that they can do whatever they want despite life’s challenges or what others might think of them.”
“Sounds like something near to you that you can be passionate about.”
“It is. What about you, Alexa Carrington? You like dance?”
“I love dance,” I correct him.
“And you teach kids at Madame Jermaine’s snooty school of dance,” he says with a smile.
“Are you smiling because I’m also a stripper?”
“Maybe. You did freak out when you thought those snobby parents would judge you for kissing a guy in the street. Though they wouldn’t have had any idea that you’d only just met me.” His eyebrows quirk inward. “Do you do that often?”
“What? Kiss guys I don’t know?” Smiling, I shrug one shoulder. “Not often, no.”
Damon’s eyebrows draw down in earnest, making me giggle. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. I think you are the best kisser I have ever locked lips with. You use just the right amount of pressure and tongue. You have a very good pressure to tongue ratio.”
“Thanks. I’ve calculated it precise to twelve decimal places,” he says with a grin. “So we are doing math?”
Returning his smile, I shake my head. “Twelve decimal places is probably beyond my scope. I’m trying to get my HSE, but my math scores are letting me down.”
“I noticed it was high school stuff,” he says, flipping through my text book. “That’s why I asked if you worked downstairs. I was afraid you might be under eighteen,” he says, surprising me by turning directly to the page I had been working on.
“I was actually really glad when you said you were a stripper, because I was having all of these R18 thoughts that would have been terrible if you’d turned out to be younger.”
I squash down the urge to laugh. “I’m twenty-two.” Blowing across the top of my tea, I take another sip. “You?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“How old were you when you lost your hands?”
“Your age.”
“And the scars...” I ask, raising my hand to my own chest, “They’re from catching the same fireball?”
“Yeah,” he answers absentmindedly, tilting his head to the side to view the books on the shelves above my desk. “You’ve read all these?”
