Chapter 15 The Hobby
THE HOBBY
QUINTON
Everyone knows that Damon Cavanaugh is a minimalist. He prefers his surroundings to be sleek, clean, and clutter-free.
His furniture. His decor. His office. Less is more.
He’s always been like this. Demanded perfection.
He has this incessant need to control his surroundings.
Clinically, I could equate this type of behavior to the loss of his family, but even as a college snob, he couldn’t handle a film of dust.
The elevator doors to Damon’s penthouse ping open, and my jaw nearly slams against the dirty hardwood floors.
My surprise quickly morphs into concern.
It’s a disaster in here. As if a hurricane swept through.
Art supplies. Sports equipment. Pots and plants.
The kitchen…a mess. Flour. Cutter cookers.
My gaze flits briefly to a pile of empty energy drinks, and then toward the hall.
Damon kicks around a football, his body vibrating as he concentrates.
"Mate…?"
Damon jerks, the football bouncing away as he turns to face me. "Jesus Christ, Quin!" He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to appear nonchalant. "What are you doing here?”
“I came here to check in on you and talk..." I walk slowly through the various delivery boxes. “What-What’s going on here, D?”
Damon's speech is jittery and neurotic. “Nothing, just you know, trying to keep myself busy."
My gaze sweeps around the room again, taking in the chaos. "It looks like an tornado blew through here."
Damon chuckles awkwardly, nervously rubbing the nape of his neck. "Oh, relax. It’s not that bad. Just a few deliveries." He nods to the kitchen. “Coffee?”
I narrow my eyes, not buying the facade. "No, we’re not sidestepping this, D. What the hell is going on? Why do you have…" I point to a large stand-alone furnace. "Is that a kiln?"
Damon's jaw tenses. "Yes."
I gesture to the other side of the room. "And those are?"
"Batons," Damon admits, his voice softer now. "For juggling."
I raise an eyebrow. "Juggling?"
Damon grumbles, brushing past me toward the kitchen before slumping down on a bar stool. "Yes, juggling, okay?! I also have fucking knitting needles and yarn somewhere around here." He drops his face into his hands. "I’m losing it, man. I’m fucking losing it."
I weave through the mess and stop on the other side of him, rolling up my sleeves. He needs food. I have a feeling his blood is currently a mix of caffeine and chemicals. "Talk to me, D. What’s going on?"
Damon hesitates, his mask slipping further. "I was…” He swallows as I pull out a pan and put it on a burner. “I was trying to find a hobby, okay?”
“A hobby?”
I turn my back to him and head to the fridge. If memory serves me right, Damon tends to be more forthcoming if not approached directly. Casual. My questions must be casual. Not accusatory. Not clinical. Not like a doctor. A shrink.
He groans. “Well, apparently, I need to find a hobby, otherwise, I’m going to ruin everything.”
I remove a carton of eggs, turkey bacon, and butter from the fridge, checking the expiration dates. Bless Josie for keeping the essentials stocked. She knows Damon better than anyone.
“Ruin everything? What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” he mutters. “Never mind.”
I begin cooking breakfast, keeping my gaze glued to the pan, but my attention is solely on Damon. “Don’t do that, D. Don’t ice me out. Talk to me.”
He hesitates, and in the corner of my eye, I catch him staring at me, unsure and guarded.
“Apparently, I’m on a path of self-destruction with Emery. I-I’m self-sabotaging our relationship.”
I frown. He didn’t come to this conclusion on his own.
“Elaborate.”
He grunts, raking his fingers through his hair, pulling it slightly. Jesus. “I’ve recently been made aware that relying on another person for happiness is toxic and unhealthy.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “So, I’m trying to find a hobby. And well, you can see how that’s going.”
The eggs and bacon sizzle in the pan, and I make the executive decision to finally glance up at him.
“So, you decided to purchase every conceivable hobby and try them all out overnight?”
Damon winces. “Maybe.”
I cock my head, finding him rather endearing at this moment. “And did you? Find a hobby?”
“What do you think?”
My gaze flits to the corner of his apartment that’s littered with canvases.
Emery told me about Damon’s paintings. I always knew he loved art, but picturing Damon with a paintbrush?
It was laughable. But the painting I found on his bed in the villa was…
beautiful. And even the half-finished pieces he has leaning against the walls are intriguing.
“Don’t,” he grunts, following my sightline. “Those are hideous. I should toss them in the trash.”
Grabbing a spatula from the drawer, I flip the eggs and bacon on two plates, pushing one toward him. I hand him a fork. “I personally think they’re quite good.”
“Of course, you would,” Damon scoffs. “You wouldn’t know a Dali from a deli.”
I snort. “I do enjoy a good Reuben now and again.”
Damon rolls his eyes, poking the over-easy egg yolk with the tip of his fork. “So, how was meeting Emery’s parents?” He scowls into his plate. “Were you everything they hoped for and more?”
“I don’t think they liked me,” I admit with a shrug. “I heard her mother tell her father that she thinks I’m pompous.”
Damon grins. “What a perceptive woman.”
I glare at him but keep Emery’s parents’ opinions of Damon to myself. “She missed you last night, you know? She wished you were there.”
Damon swallows. “It would’ve been uncomfortable if I stayed. It’s better this way. You and her. It makes more sense.”
“Don’t do this again,” I say, tone unwavering, gut stirring with familiar anxiety. “Emery loves you, Damon. She needs you just as much as she needs me. Neither of us are better for her than the other.”
“You really believe that, Q? Do you honestly think that I’m good for Emery?
I’m not. I’m not a good person. I’m not a good partner.
I’m not a good businessman. I'm not a good anything.” He shakes his head, scolding himself.
“Did she ever tell you the real reason why she started working at Cavanaugh Industries? Huh?” He pauses, tone dripping with self-deprecaion.
“I blackmailed her, Q. She was dancing at Lux when I met her. Funny, huh? I saw her and decided I needed to have her. I made her quit her job. I forced her to stop dancing. I lied to her. Repeatedly. Do you still think I’m a good person? Do you still think I’m worthy of her?”
I swallow. Emery never mentioned any of this. Then again, I never pried. Never asked. It wasn’t my place. But this fills in the gaps. It sheds light on Damon’s current emotional state. He thinks he doesn’t deserve her.
He’s wrong.
"But she stayed." My voice is softer. “Despite everything you just told me, Emery stayed.”
He scoffs bitterly. "For now. Until she realizes how much I complicate her life. The three of us? How does that even work in the long run, Q? We both want to marry her. We both want to put a ring on her finger. There’s only one finger, Quin.”
“Technically, there are ten.”
He glares at me. Worth a shot. “You know what I mean.”
“I think you’re being too hard on yourself, Damon.
I really do. We’ve all made mistakes. But we can’t live in the past. And we can’t miss out on the present by worrying about the future.
She chose you, Damon. Just like she chose me.
She knows it’s going to be hard. She knows it won’t be easy.
But she’s here. She’s trying. She shows up for us, Damon.
” Our eyes lock, and I ask him, tone genuine and solemn, “Do you think you can show up for her?”
The tendons in his neck tighten. “I don’t know…”
I perk a brow, nodding to the disaster that is his living room.
“I think you can. I think those boxes are proof that you want to show up. That you want to try.” Damon’s gaze is distant as I add, “Listen, mate, I know these past few years have been difficult. Horrible really. But you’re here, Damon.
Right now, you’re here. You survived. You might be a bit bruised, but you survived.
So don’t give up now, okay? Emery needs you.
” I inwardly cringe but it’s the truth. “I need you.” Reaching out, I place my hand on top of Damon’s.
“We make a good team, Cavanaugh. We always have. We just… We let egos get in the way before. But this time we know better. We won’t make the same mistakes.
” With a cough, I pull my hand away and straighten my shoulders.
“Now, finish eating and go get dressed. Maybe take a quick shower.”
Damon frowns. “Why?”
With a grin, I say, “Emery and her parents are on their way to the VanGust exhibit. I think it would be a splendid coincidence if they randomly bumped into you.”
He rolls his eyes. “That exhibit is mediocre. It’s only displaying his latest work. All the good pieces are tucked away in a private gallery.”
"Well, perhaps you can suggest a change of venue. From what I can tell, Emery’s mother is quite the art enthusiast.”
Damon purses his lips. "I could… Jean-Pierre does owe me a favor. I suppose it would be a good opportunity to bond with them." He adds in a grumbled mumble. “Seeing as I’m her friend.”
I ignore the salt in his words. "Exactly. Plus, you can always fuck her in the backroom if you get bored.”
Damon smirks, his eyes lighting up. "Now that’s an idea.”
"Then it's settled. Finish your breakfast, freshen up, and get going. I’ll…” My gaze sweeps across the room. “I’ll stay here, and uh, tidy up a little.”
Damon snorts. “You’re going to clean?”
I hold up a finger. “Not clean. Tidy. Big difference.”
“Fine, but don’t tidy too well, otherwise I might have to let Josie go,” Damon quips and starts eating, his mood seeming to improve.
As he finishes his food, I clear the island and clean up the kitchen, making sure everything is back in its place. Damon heads to the bathroom to shower and change while I tidy up the rest of the living room, organizing the scattered art supplies and sports equipment.
When Damon emerges from the bathroom, looking more like a regular human and not like a sad goblin, I give him a knowing smirk. "Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
He tosses me a wink. "That doesn’t leave much off the table.”
As Damon enters the elevator, I wave my fingers at him. “Toodles.”
Once the doors close, I stagger back and sink into his couch. Tomorrow. I’ll tell him tomorrow that I found Alison’s remains. Her ashes.
I pull my cell out of my trouser pocket and dial a number. It rings, and then a gruff voice on the other end answers. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Quinton. I sent you an email earlier today about a headstone. Alison Perry.”
I know where he wants to put her.
Beside everyone else he’s lost.