Chapter Thirty-Seven • Tour • Damien
?
“So, who’s to say that this big bad guy won’t try to get to me while I’m separated from you?
” I ask Lillith as I scoop her hand up in mine and weave our fingers together.
The water trickles out from between our hands, strangely loud in the quiet bathroom.
With her back resting against my chest, I can’t see her expression, but I can tell that she’s thinking about it, because she stares at my hand for a long time.
She inhales and finally tilts her head to look up at me.
“One of the things I’ve learned about being cursed is that the worst way to handle it is to live like you are,” she says.
“Damien, the guys aren’t going to let you wreck this for them.
And I’m not going to let you wreck your dream for me.
Maybe it is possible that this... thing comes after you.
But I have to hope that if we keep living life like we’re not knee deep in shit, we’ll eventually stop being knee-deep in shit. ”
“Isn’t that a big risk?”
“Of course—just like getting together with you was a big risk. Just like leaving the house was when I wasn’t sure that I was protected,” she says.
“I would never forgive myself if you lost the band you built from the ground up because of me. And I think, if you really look at it, and you’re really honest with yourself, you would eventually come to resent me once this blows over. ”
It’s my turn to look away from her. I stare at her delicate fingers tangled with mine and wonder if she’s right about that. Maybe she is.
“I have really strong intuition,” she says. “And I know you guys are going to explode. Likely soon. Think about what it’s going to feel like when you’re watching Portent winning Grammies and going on world tours and hosting SNL.”
I huff a laugh. “Oren would rather die,” I say.
“Well, I think you guys would kill it,” she says with a shrug.
I lean down to kiss the curve of her shoulder, then the slope of her neck. “I don’t want to go,” I say for what must be the fifteenth time.
“I know,” she says, tilting her head to grant me access to the spot behind her ear. I smile against the skin there before pressing a lingering kiss against it. “I don’t want you to go either. Not really. But I want you to achieve everything you dreamed of. Everything I know you to be capable of.”
I sigh, leaning back in the tub again. “I’ll go,” I say.
She sits up, turning sideways so that she can look at me with those big, pewter eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” I say before gently grasping her chin. “But I’m calling you. Like—all the fucking time.”
She laughs, her eyes crinkling with the first warm smile I’ve seen in a few days. “I’m going to give you the best phone-handjob you’ve ever seen.”
“With magic? Just make sure I’m not rehearsing with the guys, okay?”
She reaches forward to unplug the tub. I offer her my hand and she places hers in it, using my strength as support as she lifts herself to her feet and steps carefully out of the tub. We towel off and even though I’m doing my best not to stare at her throat, I wind up doing it anyway.
She must notice, because she pulls her towel-dried hair forward and holds it over her neck.
“Did Aemon come up with anything for the uh... What did he call it?”
“Ichor,” she says with a sigh. “And no. Not yet.”
“What happens if it’s left alone for too long?”
“We’re not really sure.” She nibbles on her lower lip. “Presumably, nothing good. Aemon’s going to visit Wren,” she says with a bit of an irritated edge. “So, hopefully they’re talking about it. Doing some reading.”
“What else would they be doing?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she says, turning and exiting the bathroom. I snort a laugh as I follow her into the kitchen, where she takes a hunk of red meat out of her fridge, along with a bottle of red wine, a slab of bacon, carrots, onion, garlic, a pound of butter and a package of mushrooms.
“I know you’re not planning on cooking bacon naked,” I say. “What are you making?”
“Boeuf Bourguignon, because it will take five-ever and use all of my mental faculties and keep me from spiraling into a fit of sorrow and anxiety,” she says. “And I guess you’re right. I shouldn’t fry up bacon while naked.”
She grabs a corkscrew and the bottle of wine, I take both away from her before instructing, “I got this, you go get dressed.”
“So, you get to do things while naked? What is this puritanical double standard?” She pouts half-heartedly.
I shake my head. “Go. I promise to get my share of the patriarchy when you come back.”
She leaves and I open the bottle of wine, pouring two generous glasses before setting it aside. I take a sip of it, and its mediocre—I mean, I think all wine is mediocre, but that’s beside the point.
“That’s for the stew, Damien,” Lillith says as she breezes back into the room.
She’s wearing a Kuromi sleeping set. The pale violet bottoms hug her hips.
She’s wearing a black sleeping tank with Kuromi’s frowny face plastered across the chest. She’s also wearing big, fluffy slippers and a soft cardigan hanging from the bend of her elbow.
“Mmmm—I think we need it more,” I say, handing her the glass. “There’s about half left of the bottle, that should be fine.”
She doesn’t take it. “Damien, I’m a really cheap date. And Boeuf Bourguignon is hard to make.”
“It’ll be fun!” I press the glass into her hand more insistently. “Come on. Get a little tipsy with your cute drummer boyfriend before he’s gone for two weeks.”
She gives me a mildly disapproving stare, but finally takes the glass. She takes a big swig and grimaces. “God, that’s awful.”
I shrug, lifting my glass to have more. She stops me by placing her hand on top of the glass. “Hold on,” she says, pulling me down for a kiss. It’s quick and hot and dirty and right as she finishes, she stirs my wine with her finger, then stirs hers.
“Uhhhhh,” I say, frowning at the glass.
“What? My hands are clean,” she says.
“The wine is sparkly now,” I say. It is. It’s literally iridescent with sparkles and has turned vaguely magenta colored instead of red.
“Just taste it,” she says as she takes a sip of her own sparkly wine. She nods approvingly.
I do taste it, and now, I shit you not, it tastes like fucking cotton candy. “Christ, what did you do?”
“I made it better.”
“It tastes like how early two thousands’ Bath and Body Works smells.”
“Why would you know what that smells like?”
“Leave me alone,” I say, sipping the wine again and grimacing. “God it’s so bad. Why do I keep drinking it?”
“Because it’s not bad. Unless you hate fun. Now go put clothes on. This is a puritanical household.”
I snort a laugh, setting down my glass to do just that. When I return in my own loungewear (black joggers and a distressed sweater), Lillith is queuing up some music on her Bluetooth speaker, and her glass of abomination-cotton-candy-wine is almost empty.
I pick my glass back up and take a sip. Now it tastes like... a vanilla milkshake? Like it even tastes kind of creamy, somehow.
“S’that better? For your. REfiNeD. Palette?” Lillith slurs as Portent blasts through the speakers.
I can’t help but grin. “Are you drunk already?”
“LeAVE ME ALONE,” she says, downing the dregs of her glass and pouring the rest of the bottle into her cup. She pouts as she stirs the wine with her finger, turning it pink and sparkly again. “I told you I was a cheap date.”
“You’re fucking adorable,” I say.
“NO!” She refuses, “I am sss-hexy. And mysterious.”
“Right,” I say. “Of course.”
“You think I can’t tell when you’re being sarcastic? Well I can.”
“I wouldn’t dream of implying that you can’t read sarcasm,” I say. My face starts hurting with my smile. “Not even when you’re adorably drunk.”
“SEXY AND MYSTERIOUS.”
“I see you lose all volume control when you’re adorably drunk.”
“Damien. I will cry. And you will feel awful.”
“Will I? I seem to recall enjoying the sight of you crying.”
“Not when it’s REAL.”
“And these tears—the ones over me calling you an adorable drunk? They’ll be real?”
“YES.”
“Alright,” I say. “Try me.”
A pout. A very adorable, very drunk pout. No tears, but she seems like she’s trying to conjure some. When I can’t help but give her an even more jaw-cracking grin, she rolls her eyes and downs more of her wine.
“Mayyyybe we don’t cook tonight?” I suggest to her as she finishes the glass.
“Why? I can cook! I need to busy my mind.”
“Busy your mind to distract from what?” I ask, testing her.
She blinks at her empty glass. “Mmm... don’t remember,” she mumbles. “Actually, doesn’t Chinese sound good?”
I laugh and nod. “Yeah, sounds dope. I’ll get some delivered. Let’s go get settled on the couch.”
She leaves the kitchen and all the food behind.
I sip at my weird milkshake wine as I put the unused groceries away, taking breaks to ask her what she wants to eat.
We wind up ordering a mountain of chow mein and a small army of crab rangoons.
We skip any proper entrees because, as Lillith reports, she is “in a carbs mood.”
When I settle onto the couch with her, she snuggles up to my side before I pull her onto my lap. She rests her head on my chest and sighs. “Your body is perfect. Basically made for cuddling.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “I like to think it’s made for other, more exciting things.”
“Like waterskiing.” Not a question. A statement.
“Yep. Waterskiing.”
She nods sagely as her eyelids droop. “You’re going to be bored here.”
“I’m never bored hanging out with you, sweetheart,” I say. “You know I love lazy nights with you.”
“I don’t mean... I don’t mean right now,” she says, her brow creasing with a frown. “I mean... overall. Eventually. You’re going to be tired of me being stuck here.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m not—”
“You are,” she says, her expression turning tragic. “I’m... I’m starting to think I’ll never be free of this trap. That I’ll never be able to leave the house, even. I’ll have to be a recluse.”
“Then we’ll move to The Buried City. I’ll retire with you and be your little kept man while you spend your days charming all the vampires and fae lords, and I’ll make every effort not to be eaten while you’re away at work,” I say.
“I hate that those are your options. Option. Just the one.”
“Baby, I was ready to leave my band today,” I say.
“Music is as much a part of you as magic is a piece of me,” she says. “You can’t just amputate that piece of you.”
“Lillith, I just... All I want is to be with you.”
“That’s really easy to say this early on. When I’m still fun and new and interesting. But I can’t let you just—”
I grab her chin, pressing my thumb against her lips. “Stop,” I say. “What did I tell you a few weeks ago?”
Her hooded eyes meet mine, flickering as she seems to try and remember.
“You cannot. Pregame. This shit,” I say. “You cannot break your own heart early to try to avoid being heartbroken later. And unless you have worked some magic you didn’t tell me about, you also can’t tell the future or read my mind.”
“I don’t want to take music away from you,” she says, her throat sounding painful and tight. “It would fucking ruin you.”
I smooth my thumb over her cheekbone before leaning in to kiss her.
It’s soft and slow and I try to put all my love for her into this quick, stolen moment.
Try to make her feel it in her bones. When it ends, I brush my nose against hers, catching her silvery eyes.
“Some people are worth being ruined for. You are worth being ruined for.”
She lifts her hands, wrapping them around my wrist. The wrist where that red band marks me as hers. The little piece of herself that she gave to me, the one I want to keep forever. The one I want to look at when I’m old and fucking ugly and still just... taken with her.
“I wouldn’t survive losing you, Damien,” she whispers, real tears gathering on her lash line and spilling onto my hand.
“You never will,” I promise her. “Not even if you try to kick me out of your life. I’ll be an annoying fucking thorn in your ass.”
I hope that it will make her laugh, but it doesn’t. She drops her eyes from mine.
“Where is this coming from, baby?” I ask, lifting my other hand to wipe her tears away with the broad edge of my palm.
“I don’t know,” she says, her breath hitching. “It just... feels like something is coming. I don’t know what it is. But my gut just... I feel it, Damien.”
“Maybe you’re just a sad drunk, baby,” I say, forcing myself to smile despite the way that admission tangles in my gut. “Maybe you just... feel blue, and that’s why it feels that way.”
Her long lashes are wet, clinging together like spiders’ legs. She doesn’t look convinced, but she nods anyway. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Yeah... Maybe you’re right.”
“Come on, baby. Let’s try to cheer up, yeah? I don’t want to think about you being so sad while I’m so far away,” I say. “How about you tell me about that mind-blowing-phone-handjob you plan on giving me. Hmn?”
She finally cracks a smile. “If I tell you now, it’s not going to be mind-blowing over the phone.”
“No?” I ask, smoothing my hands down to her neck, bracing my thumbs on either side of her windpipe. I feel the roll of a swallow against my palms as she finally looks up at me, a faint flush already forming. “How about a game then?”
“What kind of game?” she asks, clearly intrigued, if not skeptical.
“Let’s see how many times I can make you come before our delivery driver gets here with your mountain of carbs,” I say.
It’s a shitty copout. I know it is as I lay her down on the couch and devour her again. But I’m a useless asshole. And I’m good at very few things. And I really would do anything I could not to have to think about how sad she looks right now as our plane takes off from LAX tomorrow evening.
I would do anything to ignore the feeling tangling in my gut.
The one that agrees with Lillith’s.
Because something does feel like it’s careening toward us. And I know I won’t survive losing her, either.