Chapter Nine • Kiss It Better • Damien
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Iwake to the sound of Lillith singing in the kitchen, and it’s one of the best ways I’ve woken up in ages.
Hearing her sweet little voice trilling out lyrics I wrote just does something for me.
It’s not like I haven’t spent the night at a fan’s house before; I have.
But there are fans like Nicolette and Amy and Jessie—fans that swoon over how much they love a musician and talk about how we must be good with our hands.
And then there are fans like Lillith. Fans who have our posters hanging on their walls and our vinyls displayed. Fans that make breakfast for strangers sleeping on their couches while they sing along to our music.
I sit up and pull my shirt on before I stand up and follow her voice to the kitchen.
I could kiss it better—
I’d do it if you’d let me.
The prospects might be grim,
but you don’t have to be so lonely.
There’s a wound deep within—
can’t you just let me in to see it?
How can you ever get better
if you won’t let me sew the stitches, my love?
But you never seem to bear it,
you’re so fucking uncertain,
and all we are is conflict.
I know you’re doing your best—
it’s the thing you always tell me,
but I’m tired of begging
for something you won’t ever reveal.
Her voice is so soft and dulcet, I don’t dare make her aware of my presence as I hover in the kitchen doorway.
She looks so fucking cute. Her sweats hug the swell of her hips and her cami rides up a little bit, showing the little dips of dimples on her lower back.
Her white hair is tied in a little knot and I’m lucky to catch a glimpse of some of the tattoos on her shoulders: a garland of fine-line florals and moths and the same nightingale from the shop sign.
I lean on the doorframe and take her in.
I can’t believe how much I like her already.
Yeah, I fall for girls pretty fast, but something about Lillith is so different.
I don’t know how to describe it. I can just tell that this is the start of something that’s going to lead to either utter ruination or devotional bliss.
I’m so distracted by how into her I am that I don’t realize she’s zoned out until she panics about a smoking waffle and burns herself in the process of trying to save it.
“Ah, shit,” I say under my breath, approaching from behind. She holds her burned finger in her hand as she dances from one foot to another. Without thinking, I close the distance between us and grasp her wrist.
“Damien!” she cries as I pull her over to the sink and turn on some lukewarm water, testing it before plunging her fingers under the faucet. “You’re awake?”
“You alright?” I ask her.
“Y-yeah—” she says, her pale face pinkening.
Her gaze glues to mine, her eyes reminding me of an owl’s in their size and watchfulness.
It’s the first time I’m seeing it since I last checked on her while she slept.
She’s washed her face. Somehow her eyes look even bigger without the mascara and black winged liner extending her lash line.
And apparently she wasn’t wearing falsies last night either.
Her eyelashes are just naturally, ridiculously long.
“Any auras? I know a few people who seize when they hurt themselves,” I say.
She chuckles. “It’s me. I’m people,” she says. “But no. No aura. I have to hurt myself quite a bit more than this to trigger a seizure.”
I nod, something tight untangling in my chest. “Well, that’s good.”
She smiles up at me and her voice softens a little. “You stayed last night,” she says. “And you slept on the couch.”
“I asked you if I could. You said it was alright,” I say.
“Mnn, well even if I didn’t... It’s sweet. Not to be rude, but... you don’t seem like the kind of guy who would sleep on the couch when you can sleep in bed with a woman.”
I hold her gaze for a long moment before I say it. “If I’m going to be with you in your bed, it’s going to be because you invite me there, little bird. I have no interest in forcing myself on anyone. Least of all you.”
“Least of all me?” she says. “Why do you say that? You barely know me.” She doesn’t say it like she’s offended or put off. She seems genuinely curious as to why she might be different. And to be honest, I don’t have an answer for her.
“I don’t know. There’s something different about you. It makes me want to stay close,” I say.
Her large grey eyes flicker between mine and I hope she’ll tell me she feels it too. But just as I think she might, her expression dims and she looks at her fingertips. It’s not new for me to be the more eager party with a girl, but for some reason it stings to see her shrink away from it.
“Keep your fingers under there for a few songs and I’ll work on the waffles,” I say.
“A-alright.”
I extricate the burnt waffle from its torture and scoop another cupful of batter into the iron before closing it.
I cringe a little as excess batter bubbles out of the sides.
I put too much in. But I also hear the delightful giggle of the woman I’m hopelessly in like with, so I’d say I come out ahead.
I give her a smile as I approach, carefully taking her finger from beneath the water and examining it. “Man, you really are accident prone, aren’t you?” I ask as I place the angry, red fingertip back beneath the water.
“Wooow…” She draws out the single syllable. “You’re really pulling out your best lines this morning, I see.”
“I mean, you did take me home last night. I think I’ve already won,” I tease back.
“Technically you’re the one who took me home, so I think I’m the one who wins,” I say.
“See, joke’s on you. I win either way.” I tuck some of the hair that’s fallen out of her messy bun behind her ear. I can’t help myself. All I want to do is be in her space, touching her in any way she’ll let me. “Damn. You are gorgeous.”
She blushes and looks away. I want to kiss her again.
“Damien Devastation strikes again,” she says wistfully. “How am I ever going to recover after you get tired of me?”
There are times I really hate the Damien Devastation reputation.
Were there some convenient, quick, one-night stands?
Yes. Sure. Usually backstage in the greenroom, or at a fan’s place if I’m feeling risky.
Some visits to a few choice play parties or clubs to scratch a particular itch, explore a kink or two?
Absolutely. But for the most part, my hookups did have a baseline of chemistry and respect.
It wasn’t something I manufactured or used as a form of manipulation.
But I have to take responsibility for my part in Lillith’s assumptions. If she thinks that this is just a thing I do every time I meet a pretty girl, then I’ll have to show her how wrong she is. It doesn’t help that I fumbled with that whole line about other girls yesterday.
“You feeling blue?” I ask, without answering her question. “I woke up when you were singing “Kiss it Better”, then you seemed to go somewhere else for a while. Something bothering you?”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide and her smile slipping. Her unburned hand goes to her neck like it did last night.
“It’s a little complex to explain,” she says. “And, like—I don’t really know how cool you actually are about witchy shit, so...”
“I’m incredibly cool about witchy shit,” I promise, earning her smile’s return.
“Yeah, you sure? Like— ‘cool with Tarot cards’ cool? Or ‘believe in spirits and mediums’ cool? I know I was talking to you about hermeticism last night, but that’s a pretty different genre from what I’m talking about here.”
“Positive. All of it. Lay your weirdness on me, sweetheart. I can take it.”
She laughs before narrowing her eyes at me, considering. “Tell you what. I’ll give you weirdness proportionate to some of your own weirdness that you share with me. How about that?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. When did we start talking about my weirdness?” I love the sparkle of mischief in her eyes. Despite my evasive maneuvers, it feels a little like playing with my food. It’s thrilling.
“Listen, I’ve already had a seizure in front of you, and you stayed the night in my oddities shop.
I mean, you saw me get all weepy twice yesterday.
I have been forced into emotional vulnerability with you, and now you’re asking for more?
Come on. We need to have an energy exchange here. That’s the first rule of witchy shit.”
“Eugh… alright, fine. What quality of weird are we looking for here? Like ‘superstitions weird’? ‘Food combinations weird’? ‘Sex weird’?”
“All of the above,” she says.
“Greedy,” I accuse. “No way. You have to pick one.”
“I’m afraid it’s non-negotiable.”
“You drive a hard bargain. Lucky for you, I’m desperate to know just about everything I can about you,” I say with a wistful sigh. I check her finger again, expecting the slow rise of a blister considering how angry it’d been just moments before. I’m surprised to find it totally back to normal.
I press my thumb against the pad of her finger, testing it for tenderness. “That feel okay?” I ask her.
“I feel like you’re stalling,” she says.
I let out a sigh, tangling my fingers with hers. “Fine, fine. Such an impatient little bird you are. Which one first?”
“Easiest first. Food combination.”
“Nacho cheese Doritos and cream cheese,” I say.
“What?” she asks. “Really?”
“I’m telling you, it’s a game changer. I swore everyone ate it because it was a staple in my house. It wasn’t ‘til I started hanging with the guys that I learned it wasn’t a thing everyone did,” I say.
“Huh,” she says. “Alright. And the superstitions?”
“I have never gotten rid of any of the hair ties girls have forgotten after hanging out with me,” I say.
She sputters a laugh. “‘Hanging out with you?’ Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
“I was trying to be polite,” I say.
“You’re trying not to sound like you get around,” she says.
“Oh. My. God,” I say, giving the three words dramatic emphasis, even lowering my voice a little so she has to lean in a little closer.
“What?”
“You think I’m a slut.”
She gasps. “I didn’t say that!”