Chapter 14: DAMON - A Very Good Bad Idea

It’s only temporary. That’s what I tell myself. What I think.

Every night, before I climb under that blanket, sink my face into Jade’s hair, and inhale the sweet cinnamon of her skin, that’s what runs through my mind.

I’ll kick her out of the parlor in the morning, or find myself a new bed. Then it’s back to the mission. Back to the game plan.

And every fucking morning, I don’t follow through.

It’s like goddamn Groundhog Day around here.

But I know why.

Because I don’t want things to change.

I like feeling her against me, hearing her breathe. I know her smell and her sounds and her sweet little gasps that seep through her pouty lips that make my cock so hard, I could hammer nails.

I even like the anticipation. The fatal attraction. The unrequited wanting and filthy fantasies that occupy my thoughts from morning ’til night. I don’t want to make a move I’ll regret, so I don’t move at all.

Two days after Ian and Piper’s last supply drop, it’s early enough in the evening that there’s still light outside, but clouds are gathering and a nasty-looking front hovers out over the water. Jade’s in the parlor, in front of the fireplace, keeping it stoked like an expert Pilgrim and wrestling with a tangled heap of yellow yarn. It’s a new hobby she says she’s working on, trying to use her time here to better herself.

It would be easier if I didn’t know that.

Sometimes she draws, and it pisses me off that I know that too. She tries to hide it, shuffles her sketch pad away when I walk in the room, like I’ve caught her doing something naughty. But sometimes, she doesn’t pick up that I’m there, and during those times—I watch her. The way her pretty hands grip the pencil, moving with confident swiftness over the pad, her blond hair caressing her face, her brow furrowed and mouth pursed in a pink bow of concentration. I’ve never seen her drawings, but I’ve thought about them.

We’ve kept the sheets up in the parlor doorways to keep the heat more efficient, to prevent the boiler from working overtime. Those are the logical reasons. But there are others that sneak into my mind. Like the way the coverings make the room feel secluded. We could say things, do lots of things, and they would remain our dirty little secret.

“I’m going to run,” I tell Jade from the doorway.

She glances toward the window. “A storm’s coming in.”

“Yeah, I know. I like the rain.”

“O-kay. Have fun catching pneumonia, jackass.”

Things may be different between us, but they’re not that different.

I start with sprints, trying to work off the excess energy coursing through me. Then I jog around the restored stone perimeter. The clouds roll in, turning the sky a bruised purple, then gray, like an eclipse. The wind picks up and lightning flashes over my head. When the sky breaks open and the downpour arrives, my clothes are soaked through in seconds and the ground turns into a muddy marsh. As I round the front corner, I decide to call it quits—no need to risk twisting an ankle again.

I tilt my head up to the black sky, letting the rain wash away the sweat on my brow. Then I stand at the gate, bathed in the light that comes from the windows—the only light in sight. A particularly strong gust blows past me, as a crack of thunder rents the sky. A thick bolt of lightning strikes over the ocean, illuminating the rageful, roaring waves.

I watch for a few minutes, entranced by the swirling violence. But then the light streaming from the house flickers and flashes. Once, twice—before going completely dark.

It’s a miracle we haven’t lost power before, but at least we’re ready this time. I walk up the porch and into the house, and another burst of wind yanks the door from my grip, slamming it closed behind me. I stand for a second, dripping on the tile floor.

It’s silent. Muted. The air around me is as still as death. It’s eerie.

All these weeks, I had a second sense for where Jade was. I could feel her, probably with the eighty-percent part of our brain we don’t use.

But at this moment, I don’t feel Jade at all.

I pull my sweatshirt over my head and drop it in a sopping heap on the floor. I use the sheet to wipe off my arms and torso and look into the parlor. The fire casts the room in an orange glow and her yarn is there, near the fireplace, but she’s nowhere to be found.

My first thought is that she might’ve actually left. Called it quits, cut her losses. My stomach sinks and my chest feels . . . hollow. Then I hear movement on the second floor, the pitter-patter of little paws. I move back to the foyer as Cujo comes tearing down the first flight of stairs, gravity almost sending him ass over end.

He stands on the landing, looking at me and barking.

“Yap, yap, yap!”

Jade would never leave the dog behind.

“Yap, yap, yap, yap!”

The hairs on the back of my neck rise to attention when Cujo hops up a few steps to the second level, then turns back around and down the landing. He repeats the action a second time, his barking growing higher-pitched and hyper.

I grab a candle off the side table, lighting it with the fire.

“Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!”

I follow the little shit up the steps, but warn him, “If this is some kind of trick, you’ll be a rug in the morning.”

I head down the second-floor hallway through the heavy silence. Maybe there was an accident. Maybe Jade got shocked when the power flickered, blacked out, and is lying in a pool of blood with a gash in her skull.

Jesus.

At the end of the hall is the door to the third-floor stairs that lead to the attic—and it’s open. At the top of the narrower, steeper stairs is the closed attic door. I never told her to stop coming up here, but I should have. Holding the candle, I climb the stairs and pull on the doorknob. It’s stuck tight—jammed. Cujo sticks his nose at the base of the door and snorts incessantly. The flame sways as I set the candle on the floor, and press my ear to the door.

There’s a sound from inside—a scraping, rasping sound. And I know in my bones that something went wrong. That Jade is in the attic, and she doesn’t want to be.

I step back and kick the door down, splintering the wood and shattering the hinges. The force of it blows out the candle, wrapping me in almost total darkness.

When my eyes adjust, I make out her form in the rear corner. Jade’s curled in on herself, in a ball, her hands covering her ears, her gasping breaths coming so quick and harsh her whole body shudders.

I bend one knee and scoop her into my arms, cradling her.

Then I carry her out, down the stairs and into the parlor.

Into the light.

She doesn’t seem to notice the orange glow around us as I sink down in front of the fireplace with her in my lap. Her face is soaked with tears, and her lungs are still working overtime—making that horrible, hoarse, narrow-throated sound.

“Do you have asthma?” I ask because she hasn’t told me she doesn’t.

She hears me, shaking her head.

“Allergies? Do you need an EpiPen?”

Another desperate shake. Then she wheezes, “I’m dying.”

“No you’re not.”

But she nods, arguing. “I’m going to die, Damon.”

“No, you’re fucking not,” I bark back.

I pull her against me, rubbing her back and rocking. And it starts to make sense, starts to feel . . . familiar. I’ve seen this before. I’ve felt it before.

“I’m here, Jade. I’ve got you. It’s okay, I’m here.”

I hold her closer, whispering now. “You’re breathing too fast. You have to slow it down. I need you to breathe with me.”

I show her how—inhaling deep and slow, then smoothly exhaling the same way.

Her head thrashes, a drowning victim fighting to be rescued.

“Yes! Come on, Jade, you can do this.” I press her head against my chest, holding her steady. “Breathe with me. Do it with me, come on.”

I repeat the action. And then again.

She tries, she really tries—her gasps stuttering and labored, her whole body shaking with the effort. After a few minutes, her breathing is smoother, but then the sobs come, and she clings to my shoulders, her face in my neck, crying her whole heart out. A bit later, Jade’s tears are reduced to sporadic hiccups and sniffles. She lifts her head, her eyes swollen and her lips puffy, and wipes the dampness from my bare shoulder. “My ass is wet.”

I chuckle. “Sorry. Got soaked in the rain, didn’t have time to change my sweats.”

She shrugs. “It’s okay.”

I set her gently on the rug, throw a log on the fire, and grab two heavy-bottomed glasses from Clara’s bar cart. I pull a bottle of whiskey out of my bag in the corner—thank you, Ian—and twist it open, pouring both glasses halfway full.

I sit down next to Jade and press the glass into her hand. “Drink.”

She sniffs a final time. “Has anyone ever told you you’re really bossy? Do you have to say everything like it’s an order?”

“It is an order.”

She scrunches her nose. “I don’t like whiskey.”

“I don’t care,” I tell her. “The wine Piper brought you isn’t going to get it done and I don’t have any benzos on me, so drink up, buttercup.”

Jade’s eyes dart to mine, like she’s surprised I’m aware that anti-anxiety meds exist.

“Take a sip,” I tell her, softer.

Finally, she brings the glass to her lips, swallowing a mouthful.

And we’re quiet for a few moments. I take a swig of my own drink, the liquid spreading a pleasant burn through my chest and down my limbs.

“Was it the dark?” I ask.

Her eyes drop to the glass in her hand, resting in her lap. “It was being trapped in the dark.”

She licks at her lips, choosing her words. “My brother used to lock me in the basement. I would pound on the door, beg him to let me out but . . . he wouldn’t.”

I glance at her clenched hands, where the sharp nail of her pointer finger digs at the cuticle of her thumb, over and over again—drawing blood.

“It started as an accident. We were playing hide-and-seek or something and the door got stuck. When he opened it and saw how freaked out I was . . . it became a regular thing. When my father was away or working late, he would come get me. Drag me there, leave me for hours, sometimes all night. He said if I ever told anyone, the next time he would dig a hole in the yard and put me there instead.”

“Which brother?”

My tone is carefully calm, but my reaction to her words is anything but. My hands are clenched in tight fists and every muscle in my body is strung taut and hard. Craving . . . vengeance and violence. All that’s missing is the face of the person I want to tear limb from limb and beat to death with his own fucking arm.

“Beckett.”

Her answer is so thin and quiet, it’s almost inaudible.

But I nod. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Jade stares into the fire, her eyes downcast and her face shamed. And it really rubs me the wrong way.

“I used to have panic attacks when I was a kid,” I say. “When I first went to Saint Andrew’s.”

“Used to?”

“Yeah. They stopped eventually.”

“How . . . how did you stop them?”

“I would . . . talk myself out of it. Remind myself it wasn’t real, that I wasn’t dying even though I felt like I was.” I squint across the room, remembering. “And I . . . pulled back, I guess. Kept myself buried, so nothing ever felt like too much. Too close, too raw. I made myself colder, and then . . . numb.”

I turn my head her way. “Numb is better.”

Jade looks back at me, her voice going sharp. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m gonna shatter. Like I’m some sad, pathetic, rich girl. I don’t want your pity, Damon. Ever.”

And I laugh, because it’s genuinely funny. “Sweetheart, pity is something you will never get from me.”

Her gaze bores into mine, judging. After a beat, she nods, accepting that I’m not placating her.

“Panic attacks suck,” I tell her. “So I’m not pitying you, I’m being . . . human. For tonight. We can go back to hating each other tomorrow.”

Jade takes another sip of whiskey. “Okay.”

And I nod softly. “Okay.”

* * *

By the time I crack open the second bottle of whiskey, we’ve traded our damp clothes for dry ones and the power is back on.

“Holy shit, did Clara do anything besides listen to records?” Jade asks.

We’re playing Clara’s records on her record player, going through her entire collection of vinyls—and it’s gigantic.

“Watch Friends, apparently,” I answer.

Jade snorts out a laugh. “Never took her for a needle-head, though.”

“A needle-head?” I smile.

“Yeah, you know—like a crackhead but for records. A vinylphile.”

“My Adorable One” by Joe Simon is playing at the moment, with a couple other seven-inch singles cued up above it.

“Can I ask you something?” Jade says.

I take a drink. “Do I have a choice?”

“Nope.”

“Then ask away.”

There’s a pause that feels like hesitance, but I guess the liquor has made her bold. “What’s the deal with you and my father? Our company? You’ve been gunning for us, coming at us so hard it feels like . . . a vendetta.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You really don’t know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I did.”

“Fair enough.” I reach for the bottle and refill my glass. I’m gonna need it. “My dad used to work for Buchanan Industries.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little. Construction. He was a solid worker. Dependable, skilled. He knew his shit.”

Jade’s eyes widen and her mouth goes slack.

“When I was nine, there was an accident on the site. A collapse. The crane operator was new and the load wasn’t properly secured. And . . . he died.”

My words come out softly, but my insides are raging. Because I remember the sound of my mother’s screams when they told her, the empty husk of his truck in the driveway before we sold it, the smell of the funeral parlor.

To this day, the scent of lilies makes me want to puke.

“When we filed for workman’s comp and his death benefits—they were denied. They said the company wasn’t responsible. Money was tight, but my mom found a lawyer who would take on the case for a flat fee. He met with the Buchanan Industries lawyers, and they told him they were gonna drag it out for years.”

Jade gasps. It’s quick and low, but I hear it.

I don’t look at her. I’m afraid of what I might say if I do. I keep my eyes trained on the flames and push through. “We lost the house, ended up living out of my mom’s car for a while. She tried to keep things as normal as possible. Sent me to school. We showered at the YMCA.” I harshly swallow another mouthful of whiskey. “And then, a couple weeks later, she found . . . lumps. In her neck . . . a few places. She was so scared of what it could mean, of leaving me alone. But without insurance she, ah . . . she was gone about six months later.”

My throat is tight and clogged when I hear myself say, “She was good, you know? Warm. Kind. Everything a mom is supposed to be.”

I don’t talk about my mother. I barely let myself think about her. But it seems right to tell Jade. I want her to know who my mother was.

“I’m sorry, Damon.”

Jade’s whispered words are filled with so much heartbreak, I know they’re real.

“I’m sorry they were taken from you that way.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

And more whiskey goes down, down, down.

“So that’s why you’re all Inigo Montoya with my dad,” Jade says.

“Yep.” I pop my “P” bitterly. “That’s why.”

She swirls the liquid in her glass. “For what it’s worth, it wouldn’t have been personal for my father. Not targeted, or even purposeful. To him it just would’ve been . . . business.”

I pin her with my eyes. “It’s personal to me.”

Jade holds my gaze, nodding. “I know.”

My voice goes hard, lethal with intention and determination. “By the time I’m done with him, it’ll be personal for him too. He’ll know who they were. That he’s lost everything that matters to him because of me. Because of them.”

We’re talking about her dad, but she doesn’t even try to argue or defend him. It’s like she understands. Maybe she understands better than anyone.

“That’s . . . reasonable. I get it, I do.”

The record changes to a more contemporary song. “The Night We Met” by Lord Huron.

We listen to it for a few bars, then Jade asks, “Do you remember them?”

“What?”

“Your parents—do you remember them? What they looked like?”

“Sure. I was nine. Of course I remember them.”

She nods and her expression takes on a faraway look. “You’re lucky. I can’t remember my mother. I know she was blond like me—and she smelled like lavender. But there are no photos. They took them down, wiped her all away . . . after.”

“After what?” I ask.

Jade’s eyes drift up to my face and her tone goes flat. “She killed herself. When I was six. Bailey was three. He probably doesn’t have any memory of her at all.”

Jade takes a long drink from her glass, draining it. Then she says, “She did it in her closet, with a belt across the beam. So when I try and picture what she looked like, that’s all I can see. Her feet, blue and swollen, just . . . hanging there.”

It takes a lot to horrify me. But this does. “Christ, Jade.”

“I used to play in her closet,” she goes on. “Try on her shoes, put on her lipstick. She would get so mad. She must’ve known it would be me, that I would be the one to find her. What do you think a six-year-old could’ve done . . . to make someone hate them that much? That they would do that to them?”

The answer bursts out of me. “Nothing.”

She glances at me, with two swells of tears brimming in her eyes. “You really think so?”

I lean in closer, nearer, so there’s no space for misunderstanding. “I know. You were a kid. You didn’t do anything. You couldn’t have.”

Her smile is so small. Sad. It spreads across her beautiful mouth as a tear falls from her eye onto her porcelain cheek. “I asked my dad once. Why? Why she did what she did.”

My stomach rolls at the thought of a son of a bitch like Buchanan answering a question like that. “What did he say?”

She blinks, and another silent tear falls. “He looked at me and said, ‘Your mother is dead because she was weak. Too weak to live in this world.’” She lifts her hand, pointing at ghosts. “And then he told me, ‘You have nothing from her. You are my daughter. Only mine. You will not be weak.’”

She swallows, rubbing her lips together. “I couldn’t tell if it was the kindest thing he ever said to me, or the cruelest.” Her breath hitches and her voice goes thin. “I still can’t.”

She rubs at her cheeks, holding it together, just barely. Then she looks me in the eyes. “That’s kind of fucked up, right?”

“Yeah, Jade.” I rush out the words, wanting to reassure her. If only I could. “It’s really fucked up.”

She nods. “I thought so.”

Then she settles, blowing out a breath. She reaches for the bottle and pours herself another glass. “I guess we both have our stuff, huh?”

And I feel so stupid. Juvenile. For all the ways I imagined her life. Perfect. Easy. Smooth sailing, an ivory tower, a golden brick road laid out beneath her feet that she didn’t lift a finger to build. But I’ve been wrong this whole time.

Jade’s lifted a lot.

“I guess we do.”