My feet shuffle to a stop when I make it to the dining room. Out of all the possible seating configurations that exist for a rectangular table, for some reason there’s two chairs across from one. Mom sits at the single chair, while Damien eyes me from one of the paired chairs with a closeted smirk.
I know moving the chair would look weird, so I leave it where it is and slide next to him.
“Well, cheers,” Mom says brightly as she raises her glass of ruby-colored wine. “It’s so nice to have company for a change.”
I lift my glass of water an inch from the table, clinking against the bottom of her crystal stem and turning my arm slightly to toast with Damien. He lets his glass careen with mine, sloshing water from my glass and onto my waiting plate below.
“Whoops,” he murmurs, but I know I’m the only one that can hear the insincerity in his voice. “Sorry about that, Wind.”
I ignore him, reaching into a napkin covered basket of rolls and plopping one onto the white china in front of me. Damien does the same, and I hide my annoyance at the way he copies my every move.
“The butter,” Mom declares suddenly, getting up from where she’s sitting and heading towards the kitchen. “I knew I forgot something.”
My every nerve fills with dread as I watch her leave the room, and even though I know it’ll only be for a second, I know it’s long enough.
Without fail, Damien’s palm shifts onto the top of my thigh, fingertips twisting around the hem of my skirt to lift the stiff pleats away from my skin. I reach down and give a twist of my own, fingernails spiraling against the back of his hand in a vicious pinch.
“Ow, fuck,” he hisses, pulling his hand away and sinking his teeth into the roll in his other hand just as my mother re-enters the room.
“Everything okay?” she asks, setting the ceramic butter dish down on the table between us as she sits down again.
“Guess it’s been a while since I’ve had an actual hot meal,” Damien replies with a sheepish grin.
“Sounds like you bit off more than you could chew,” I note.
“Doubt it,” he murmurs back at me, straightening in his chair. “Seriously, though, Mrs. Jacobs, this dinner is something else. Your spread is amazing.”
Oh, fucking vomit.
“Please, you know you can call me Helen,” Mom says with a coy laugh. “But thank you so much. Help yourself to whatever you want.”
“I will,” he responds jubilantly, an answer meant to elicit differing responses from Mom and I. It’s all hidden in the subtext, one of which my mother is gleefully oblivious.
We eat in silence for a few seconds more, and sitting this close, I can’t help but notice just how much Damien actually does seem to be enjoying his meal. For a minute, I feel sorry for him, getting sent away, languishing in a place of lukewarm meals and who knows what else. If it was anything like the movies, military school probably sucked ass.
But the moment passes just as quickly as it arrives as my senses come rushing back to me.
It may have been shit timing on his parents’ part, but I’m starting to believe they sent him away for a reason.
Damien is dangerous.
Not just that. I’m starting to think he’s evil. On second thought, that’s probably exactly what he wants.
But I know the Snake Eyes are only going to amplify every ruthless quality he has, and if they weren’t enough, this city will do the rest.
“Well, Damien,” my mother says as though on cue, her voice piquing with interest. “What’s it been like being back in Diablo Beach?”
“Stimulating,” he replies in a jovial tone that makes my mom chuckle. Meanwhile, my tensing hand threatens to send my fork straight through my plate. “Don’t get me wrong, military school has its moments.”
“Well, it certainly looks like it did you some good,” Mom notes, clearing her throat right after she realizes what she’s said.
But it’s not like I haven’t noticed the muscles that lace down his arms, and his chest, and his back, the broad lines of his shoulders, the way even his fingers and hands look strong, are strong when they’re gripping into me with a threatening hold.
Fuck. How is it possible someone gets locked in a virtual dungeon and still comes out looking this good?
“And you two?” Damien says, his eyes raising to my face. “It looks like the years have been good to you, too.”
I feel my cheeks instantly flush, and the last bite I’ve just taken doesn’t go down easy. Damien has an intrinsic way of being charming, and to an untrained eye like my mom’s, that’s exactly what this is to her. I can tell by her easy laugh, and the way she tilts her head. To her, Damien’s words are a compliment.
To me, once again, it’s all about subtext, and I know I’m not just being paranoid. When Damien talks about the years being good to me, I know he doesn’t believe they were years I actually deserved to have.
And the worst part is, he just might be right.
“Things have been hard, since Mark…” my mother’s voice trails off, and I raise my head to look at her.
It’s the first time I’ve heard her say my dad’s name in what seems like forever, and it’s nearly shocking the affect it has on me.
At one point in time, I had been a daddy’s girl, through and through.
My father was a private investigator in this city, and we had always been worried some vengeful entity would come seeking him out for revenge. Turns out that vengeful entity was cancer. The yearlong battle had been hard, harder than anything I could have imagined. In the end, none of us won, especially not my dad.
The memories, paired with the emotions from having Damien around again, are nearly too much to bear. I reach for my water with shaky hands, ones I know he notices.
Nearly three years later, Mom is starting to date again. Mainly someone named George, a guy she met at work, but she’s dodgy as hell about the subject, almost like she doesn’t want me to be mad at her.
She clears her throat again, and I know she’s uncomfortable. After all, our family isn’t the only one who has lost a member. “Well, life goes on. I don’t know if she told you, but Windy made the honor roll again this past semester.”
“No, she didn’t mention it,” Damien murmurs, holding my gaze with hazel eyes I can’t look away from. “But you know Windy. She’s not exactly forthcoming about all the things she’s done.”
“One of these days, she’ll stop being so modest,” Mom agrees with a nod.
I swipe my fork across my plate, refusing to look at either of them. I need to get out of here, away from this table, as soon as humanly possible. My last bite of mashed potatoes goes down like jagged pebbles.
“Thanks for dinner,” I murmur, getting up from my place at the table and taking my plate to the kitchen.
“That was fast,” I hear Mom say.
“There’s a big test tomorrow,” I declare. “And I mean big. So I’m gonna try and get one last study session in.”
Mom smiles, a mildly perplexed grin. “Well, okay.”
“I’ll help clean up,” Damien offers, cocking an eyebrow in my direction. “Hope you ace that test.”
“Thank you,” I mutter before hurrying out of the dining room and heading upstairs.
I dart into my room, shutting my door behind me but stopping just short of closing it all the way. There’s still a part of me that wants to keep tabs on Damien, still a part of me that’s curious about him, just the way I’ve always been.
Old habits die hard.
I set a random text book on my lap, perched on the edge of my bed as I listen to their easy conversation, their interspersed laughter, and the eventually clink of dishes in the sink and water running.
Damien really is helping my mom clean up, which is actually kind of nice.
But I need to get out of my own head. Surely, the bar isn’t that low, and of course he’s going to be on his best behavior when it comes to her.
It�
��s me he’s shown me I need to worry about.
My feet hit the carpet below me with a padded thud as I get up and go over to my chest of drawers, jaw clenching as I relive the moment Damien found my vibrator just before dinner. I may think of myself as completely sex positive, but that had been so fucking embarrassing I could hardly stand it.
I slide open the drawer just below the one he rifled through, hands sliding gingerly between folded stacks of shirts and tank tops until I find it, the small pocketknife I keep hidden away like contraband. On second thought, I’m nearly glad he found my vibrator, and not the knife, because this sharp little thing is bound to be a lot more useful.
Going back over to my bed, I lift my pillow and place the knife underneath.
Even if it’s only the shallowest bit of peace of mind, I’ll take it. I need every ounce of confidence I can get, because the quicker I can convince myself I won’t be fucked with, the better the chance I have of convincing Damien. Otherwise, he’s set the precedent that he’ll walk all over me.
But I won’t be tread on easily.
4
Slamming echoes against the wall behind my head, the one I share with Windy, who's being every bit her namesake this morning.
I roll over onto my back, hiding a grin behind the sheet still draped over my body. I know it's going to be mere seconds before she busts in here, and right on schedule, she tips open the cracked door to the guest room and appears.
My eyelids flutter closed.
"Don't pretend to sleep," Windy tells me bitterly as she steps into the room.
"Huh? Oh, Windy, it's you," I murmur back sarcastically as I stretch my arms overhead and watch her circle like a wayward tornado around the room.
"Where are they?" she calls back to me, but the guest room is sparse, and she runs out of places to look almost as soon as she starts.
"Where's what?" I ask.
She narrows her eyes at me. "You know what I'm talking about. You snuck into my room last night?"
"You were sleeping so peacefully," I say with a smirk. "It was almost like you were asking for it."
"So where are they then?" she counters, crossing her arms across her chest.
I glance behind her. "Mmm, did you try that drawer at the very bottom?"
Windy glares at me, but she's desperate enough to try, albeit not the way I want her to. She won't give me the satisfaction of bending over, her knees flying up instead as she squats all the way down to check the drawer I told her to try.
She slams it shut nearly as quick as she opens it, raising to her feet again and glowering at me with a newfound fury.
"Worth a shot," I tell her with a shrug.
A growl escapes her frustrated lips as she propels herself forward suddenly, her knees scuttling across the top of the bed I'm lying in until she's nearly on top of me.
If I were wearing a shirt, she'd definitely be grabbing the collar right now to pull me forward for the incoming shit storm of empty threats she's about to rain down on me, but since I'm not, all she can do is press her hands against my bare chest and try not to blush.
"You stole my entire underwear drawer?"
"I mean, almost," I reply. "I did leave your little…" My lips sputter together in a mock-vibration that makes her turn an even deeper shade of red than before. The flush looks good on her and it leaves me hungry for more. My hand flutters up, palm shifting up the back of her leg towards the hem of her skirt. "Ooh, does this mean you're completely bare under here?"
"Stop it," she tells me, but she doesn't move, and my fingertips pick up the shiver that runs through her body. "What are you, a child?"
I lean up, flipping her onto her back underneath me before she can stifle the surprised yelp that escapes her lips. "Quite the fucking opposite, actually," I say, glaring down at her. "And it's time you start remembering I'm someone you definitely don't want to piss off." I let my body sink against hers as I stare into her eyes. "Never forget, I'm out to destroy you, and when all is said and done, you're gonna long for the days when I was still playing childish fucking pranks on you."
Windy's heart flutters in her chest like a hummingbird's wings, and it nearly drowns out the sound of her mother's footsteps heading down the hall towards this very room.
I lift myself away from her and the bed, wrapping the sheet around my body and getting to my feet a second before Windy's mom appears in the doorway. She eyes us curiously, her daughter lying in my bed, me standing half naked at its edge, the undoubtedly caught expressions harbored on our faces.
"Mom," Windy utters.
I know she could use this chance to tell her mother everything. She has a captive audience to betray everything I've done to her so far, and everything I've told her I'll do.
But she won't.
I can tell almost as soon as her gaze meets mine, a split second before she begins to speak again.
"Did you know there's a divot in this mattress?" Windy says, glancing back up at her mom.
"Really?" Mrs. Jacobs says, her face twisting with interest.
She believes her, trusts that her daughter is such a harmless good girl that nothing could ever transpire from this situation but exactly what she claims.
"I tried to tell her it was no big deal, but she insisted on feeling it herself," I add for good measure.
"I mean, I guess we never noticed it because it's the guest room," Windy agrees, shifting down to get to her feet beside me.
Windy's mother nods. "Well, I'm sorry, Damien—"
"No apologies necessary. Compared to the academy, this is a five-star hotel." I offer her a reassuring smile, one she eats up like a sugar-filled spoon. I have to make sure she keeps thinking of me as just some pathetic vagabond with nowhere else to go. "I thought while I'm staying here, I could help out by driving Windy to school. Since we're going to the same place and all."
"I have to get going but of course, Damien, that would be great," Mrs. Jacobs says enthusiastically, not catching the icy stare her daughter shoots in my direction as she heads down the hall. "Windy, isn't that great? Just the other day you were saying how much you hate the bus."
"It's great, Mom," Windy calls after her, trying to leave before I stop her with my arm.
A laugh sputters from my lips. "The bus?" I mutter. "Who's childish now?"
"The city bus," Windy responds as though that makes it better. "And it's still you."
I smirk. “Do you even have your license yet?”
“My mom said to wait until I was eighteen, that way I would have fewer restrictions,” Windy murmurs in reply, and I can tell she’s embarrassed about it.
“You always do what mommy tells you?” I ask, unable to resist barbing her about it. “Besides, wasn’t your birthday a couple of months ago now?”
“I just haven’t got around to it yet, okay?” She peers at me out of the corner of her eye, mostly because I won’t let her go, my hand still twisted around the arm of her black uniform blazer, and partly because I can tell she’s curious. “How did you know it was my birthday, anyway?”
“How do you think?” I reply, my voice brimming with a vitriol that surprises even me. Still, it’s annoying she would be surprised that I know things about her. She had made her presence nearly an everyday occurrence, not just in Jessa’s life, but in mine, too. “Who do you think had to drive Jessa to that vintage store near the wharf to get you all those weird postcards and black and white pictures of dead people for that birthday collage she made you before…”
My voice trails off, and even if I wanted to keep talking, I know my throat won’t let me. It feels like it’s closing in on itself until I can hardly breathe, and I force a swallow just to see if I can.
“You still have it?” I ask suddenly, voice coming out low, stifled by the heavy memories of my sister wielding her trusty glue stick in our dining room as she pillaged ancient pieces of paper for her homemade labor of love, a giant posterboard collage for Windy’s birthday. They h
ad always been into weird, obscure Victorian shit, obsessed with the romanticism and the mystique.
“Of course I still have it,” Windy utters. “Maybe you would have noticed it if you weren’t so busy rifling through my own personal property.”
“Yeah, well, you are my own personal property now, so what’s yours is mine,” I say, staring down my nose at her until she shrinks away. I push her against the wall closest to us, relishing the way she tries to disguise her fear under a façade of indifference. “Don’t forget exactly what details I know about you, Windy, because you’re not the only one hanging onto old shit of my sister’s. I can still destroy you with one flip of a page in her journal.”
Little does she know I’m not actually in possession of the journal anymore, another casualty of being sent away to a school where personal possessions didn’t exist. I’m working on getting it back, if only my father will let me through the front door of the house where I left it.
Still, the threat is enough to break her apathetic expression, and she says her next words from between gritted teeth. “When are you going to stop holding that over my head—”
“Never,” I tell her, slamming my palm against the wall above her head. She jumps when I do, staring up at me with wide eyes as she waits for my next move. I know I have to reign my anger in, that I’m capable of doing just that. I never once lashed out at any of the two-bit drill instructors back at St. Sebastian, but then again, I had never had personal fucking beef with any of them the way I do Windy. She’s what stokes the fire ebbing inside me, and when she tries to fight back, it’s like dousing it with gasoline.
But there’s something about Windy that brings out another side of me, and the longer I look at her, the stronger that feeling gets. I convince myself it’s because she’s familiar, and with so much of what used to be familiar to me now gone, I’m instinctively latching onto whatever, and whoever, is left.
My hand trails down to her face to twist a wayward strand of hair between my fingertips. It’s the same shade of soft brown it’s always been, but this lone tendril is the only one still hanging on to the natural wave of her hair, one that undulates around the curve of my fingers like a lazy river. I realize that’s another thing that’s been different about her, the fact that she straightens the serendipitous patterns that used to exist in her hair into uniformly straight lines now.
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