4. Sutton
FOUR
Sutton
A unt Poppy was marrying Lucifer’s-had-to-be-adopted-because-there’s-no-way-they-shared-DNA father.
If it wasn’t for their mirrored plush mouths, the shock of dark hair, and their similar builds, I would have demanded a paternity test—no offense to the late Mrs. Eckhart or anything.
Truthfully, I was happy for my Aunt Poppy.
She’d married my uncle Garrett fresh out of high school—there wasn’t much else to do in Rockchapel after graduation—but was a widow before her twenty-fourth birthday. My uncle had gone on a fishing excursion with friends, and his boat had capsized. They never found him.
Being the only living relative left and settled in Boston with my mom, when it came time to settle the estate—my grandparent’s farmhouse—my dad told Aunt Poppy it was her home, and she was welcome to stay there as long as she wanted.
Aunt Poppy accepted. Who would have thought a few years later, I’d be living with her, too? She took on the burden of raising a child she didn’t share blood with.
My aunt had done everything in her power to give me as normal of a childhood as possible. Because of her, I never felt like anything was missing. I had a guardian who was prepared to play the role of mother, father, and friend for the rest of my life.
She was a woman who lived within her means, making ends meet by slinging produce she grew at the farmers’ market on the weekend and working the circulation desk at the small library in town during the week. We clipped coupons, never wasted food, and always squeezed the last dab of toothpaste out of the tube.
Grant was always in the background of my memories. He changed the oil in Aunt Poppy’s ’99 Subaru Forester for her, always cleared the driveway for us in the winter, and was the first to get hands deep in the dirt with her come harvest season when I was conveniently MIA, spending time with boys I shouldn’t in a pathetic attempt to get the attention of the one I wanted most.
“You chose wrong. But I never did.”
No, I’d chosen right. He just hadn’t noticed until it was too late. Until I was too deeply entrenched in Peter’s world to escape because the words “it’s over” didn’t mean anything to his friend the way they should have.
By the time Peter discovered my motivation to end the relationship wasn’t because he’d hit me… it was too late. So, yes. I wished when Peter had asked Damien to choose between the knife held to my throat or the heated branding iron in Damien’s hand that his father had forged himself, that Damien had chosen my death instead.
I wished he’d listened to me when I screamed, “Let me die!” so I didn’t have to live with the memory of that night any more than I had to carry the responsibility of the role I’d played, too.
I’d only gone out with Peter to get Damien’s attention.
By the time I realized I’d had it all along—I sunk lower in the overfilled tub, the water sloshing over the rim—there was no going back.
The Founding Sons of Rockchapel didn’t like being told ‘no.’ They’d gotten away with it. They branded me like cattle because if they couldn’t have me, no one could.
Not even me.
My life was meaningless to them. I was a commodity. Something to possess, own, to barter with, like some kind of tool. But I could have died with my memories that night. I could have died as I remembered myself, with Damien’s taste still on my lips.
I nudged the faucet's nozzle with my toe, water dribbling from the spout. It wasn’t fair Damien still looked good. That his hairline hadn’t shown evidence of recession, the slate of his abdomen remained flat and not round from years of overindulgence, and he hadn’t spontaneously grown a puss-filled abscess-like growth that consumed half of his face.
No. He had to look better than ever. Gorgeous with that squared-off jaw, freshly shaven, long, clever nose, and unblemished complexion.
I wasn’t good enough for him. If I ever was.
He should have let me eat that fucking salad.
There wasn’t a hospital in Rockchapel, and I’d deliberately left my EpiPen back in Bangor. By the time an ambulance arrived from the next town… it was selfish to ruin Aunt Poppy’s day.
She’d been so excited at dinner, and I’d made a show of nodding and smiling when she talked about the small ceremony she and Grant wanted. “We’re building a wedding arch, and we’ll exchange vows out back.” She’d gathered my hands in hers again. “ You’ll be my witness, won’t you, Sut?”
Damien: 1
Sutton: 0
They were aiming for next summer when the land was alive—the irony was not lost on me. I’d go through the motions. That’s what I did best now. The reformed social butterfly who’d had invites to all the best parties in this shithole was an ugly recluse now.
I lived a solitary life in Bangor, Maine, in a small, single-story bungalow built in the sixties that was a little over fifteen hundred square feet and backed onto the woods. I had a customer service job that allowed me to work from home—I had a face for telephone, what could I say—and I spent my Sundays reading romance novels, self-inserting myself and him in all of them.
But I missed my old life. Those fleeting few weeks where I’d been his in secret. When I took full advantage of my knowledge of which floorboards in his house creaked, desperate to crawl into bed with him, to feel him come alive inside of me. I’d been addicted to him, craved him even when I had him, and missed him when he was right beside me.
I’d loved him. I’d loved him before I even understood that word, and now I bore the reminder of what that love had cost me, too.
The house below was noiseless, Aunt Poppy and Grant having gone to bed sometime after ten o’clock.
I didn’t have the slightest idea where Damien was.
Burying himself in someone, maybe. The thought made my chest hurt.
The attic guestroom I was staying in was quaintly decorated with furniture built by a woodworker whose initials I found on the corner of the headboard—AR—and had a pretty floral bedspread that smelled a lot like Damien.
I slid deeper in the tub, letting the sudsy warm water lave over my achy body, the car ride leaving me a little stiff. I ran the soapy washcloth in my hand up the inside of my thighs, a rogue urge running loose, shooting electricity to my core.
No. I clenched my thighs together, but it did nothing to slow the pulse forming between my legs. I glanced at the bathtub spout, my inner muscles contracting around nothing.
What if…?
That’s how I did it back in Bangor. Masturbating was almost ritualistic when your insecurities were always out to get you, you hated yourself, and you were too afraid to let anyone in because people could and would hurt you. You became well acquainted with your body from a place of desperation to satiate the carnal need because the need to fuck didn’t spontaneously go away when your new boyfriend branded you with your ex-boyfriend’s family crest.
Fuck it.
Releasing the washcloth, I slid forward, careful to not make too much noise against the porcelain. Turning the knob, I spread my legs, situating myself beneath the slow, steady stream of water, increasing it until I found the right pressure.
The tight sigh slid through my teeth. With my elbows perched on either side of me, I slid both hands between my legs, parting the folds of my lower lips, the water stimulating my clit, my hips rocking forward, pursuing the pressure and bliss.
My hips mined at the base of the tub, growing urgent, my left middle finger sliding over my slippery pussy, dipping inside of me. Pleasure nipped at my heels, my breaths turning charged and frenzied, the orgasm cresting over me as that betraying name freed itself from my lips in a breathy gasp.
“Damien.”
I hated that it was his face I always chased, his body I craved.
My mouth popped open, a series of muted, electric whimpers freeing as I climbed down from my high. I cleared the fog from my head with sweeping blinks, reaching a hand for the faucet. In my peripheral, a long shadow loomed, the hair on the nape of my neck standing upright. The water turned turbulent with my frantic motion; molten dark eyes stared back at me.
“Don’t stop on my account.”
Just my fucking luck. I threw a hand over my soapy breasts, my eyes wide and cheeks ablaze. “Get. Out.”
“After calling my name like that?” Damien leaned against the door jamb—I’d left the door open to keep the bathroom from getting too hot and stuffy—looking all too pleased. “I don’t think so.”
“Damien,” I gritted.
“Mm,” he hummed. “I liked it better when you moaned it.” I searched the floor for something to throw at him, grabbing a hold of the floor towel. Hiking it over my head, I flung it his way, watching it land abysmally at his feet.
“Don’t tell me that’s all the fight you’ve got inside of you, Sut.” He tsked, shaking his head. “Not when you just got yourself all nice and relaxed for me.”
My nostrils flared, and I forced myself to look beyond him into the dimly lit, attic guest room. “I will scream.”
That wasn’t the threat it should have been. Not for the likes of him. “Make my day.”
Standing upright, I reached for the towel I had hanging, but just as my grasp closed around it, he tore it out of my hold, his eyes working over me.
He rubbed the corners of his mouth, the motion making my stomach flip. “Just as pretty as I remembered.”
Liar . I drew in a stiff inhale, the scream gathering in my lungs because fuck him. He stalked across the room, slapping a hand to my mouth, his opposite arm banding around my waist, holding my wet body to his. “I’ll give you a real reason to scream. Why ruin all the fun so soon?”
My teeth closed around the fleshy curve of his palm, biting down as hard as I could. His pained hiss slid between his clenched teeth, the sound morphing into a groan from somewhere deep in his chest. “There’s that fire I love, Sut.”
Shoving against him, he let me go, careening backward with a playful laugh that did something to me it shouldn’t. “Get out.” My voice quivered. Fuck .
Damien leaned against the bathroom counter, thickly veined and heavily tattooed forearms proudly on display, palms braced. I squinted in the darkness, regretting my choice to bathe in the dark—what did he have tattooed on him?
A lock of his ebony hair fell over his forehead in such a devastatingly debonaire way, and I resented how my body responded to him.
How he sucked up all the air in the room.
How hard he made it to breathe.
To exist.
“Please.”
“You’re beautiful when you beg, Sutton,” he husked, the words sending need careening urgently between my legs.
I bristled, blowing out a loud breath.
Fine. If he wasn’t going to leave, I would. I stepped out of the tub, nearly eating shit under my slippery soles, ignoring the heat of his predatory appraisal as I wrapped myself in another towel and stalked by him.
Damien pursued lazily, hands in the pockets of his grey sweatpants.
I pointed to the stairs. “Go.”
“I don’t think you really want me to.” His throat worked around a feminine moan, his best attempt at mocking me freeing, “‘Damien’”
My cheeks burned, my limbs buzzing. This wasn’t happening. Storming to where I’d laid my clothes out, I froze, finding them gone.
I spun in place, searching for my suitcase.
That was gone, too.
Son of a bitch. Baring my teeth at him, my shoulders vaulted to my ears. “Where the hell are my clothes?”
“Like I said,”—he closed the distance at a slow, painstaking pace—“you have a pretty body.”
But not much else, right? My body. Not my mind or my broken heart. Just my body. It reminded me of a time when I’d left the house to go to the grocery store and overheard a man talking about me on the phone.
“Rocking bod, but half her face is fucked.”
I was still a good person. My life still held meaning, didn’t it? Or was this really all I was?
My vision blurred.
What the hell was the matter with me? I’d spent days fortifying myself, gearing up for this exact psychological warfare I knew he’d subject me to the moment I was in his presence, so why was I cracking now?
“I’ve never asked you for anything before. Just give me my clothes and leave me alone.”
“That’s not true.” Damien sniffed, pursing his lips. “You’ve asked me for plenty of things, Sutton. I think it’s about time you held up your end of the deal.”
My nose crinkled, steeling the tears burning in the bridge. “What?”
“‘Make me yours,’” he echoed, circling me. “I did, and how did you thank me?” His journey ended when we were toe-to-toe. “By leaving me.”
Aghast, my mouth opened and closed. “ That’s what you’re pissed off about?”
“Excuse me for being a little peeved my girlfriend ran off without letting me know first. My fucking bad, baby.”
He’d made that present tense. Why had he made that present tense? I flicked a finger between us. “We’re not together.”
“Semantics.” He hooked a hand around my chin, forcing my eyes up to his. He was looking at me too intensely, and the bumpy three-inch mutilation stung in response.
Clapping his hand away, I squared my shoulders. “It doesn’t get any less ugly, no matter how long you stare at it.”
His eyes narrowed. “There isn’t a single part of you I think is ugly.”
“You should have killed me.”
“Because you’re so full of life now, right?”
“Go away.” I was a broken record, and he’d had enough.
“You left me!” he snarled. “You left me, and now you’re here, and I’m collecting on what I’m owed.”
“I owe you nothing .”
He stepped into me, and I treaded back. “That’s where you’re wrong, Sut. You owe me everything. Your life. That sweet space between your legs, and”—the bed hit the back of my legs, my equilibrium tilting. Damien’s arm hooked around my waist, catching me. “Your heart, because we both know I sure as shit waited long enough for it the first time.”
“Not interested.”
His chest rose and fell rapidly, his eyes working over my face, absorbing the traitorous words I hadn’t meant to free.
“Why not?” he asked softly.
Ugh. I slammed my hands against him, but this time, he didn’t move, didn’t mislead me into believing I had any kind of physical power over him.
“A life where you don’t exist?” His features collapsed, frustration sewing in his constricting jaw. “That is death.” He was quiet for what felt like forever. All the while, my teeth chattered in my mouth. “I loved you and would have loved you no matter what you looked like.”
He cupped my right cheek, tracing over the scarred tissue, his fingers traipsing, memorizing the pattern the way I had. “You left me once.” Damien tipped my head back, my mouth turning gummy as a rattle set off inside of me. “But you’re not leaving me again.”