2. Damon
Damon
23 Years Old / BFA Visual Arts
Roman Bishop is across the bar, bleeding and grinning like he’s proud of it and I can’t decide if I want to end him now or watch the show.
He’s wearing a crazed smile as he takes the punch from the guy I know he could probably kill with his fists alone. The blood from his split lip trails down his chin and I can’t help but follow it with my eyes.
Then he licks at his split lip and I notice the venom piercing, something he definitely did not have two years ago. The guy is gearing up to take another swing, but Roman just smirks at him like he’s daring him to do it.
Typical. Roman fucking Bishop, one of Blackthorne U’s star forwards, and the sole fucking reason my life turned to shit.
I tip the whiskey back and it burns all the way down. Lighting my smoke, I adjust the collar of the leather jacket that doesn’t belong to me. It still smells like cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, just like my baby brother. Just like the past that I can’t seem to fucking bury.
Roman’s hazel eyes finally flick toward me, and I swear I see his mask slip before he forces it back into place and licks the blood from his lips again. He’s playing a fucking game he doesn’t even know he’s already lost.
“Another?” the bartender asks and I shake my head.
“Not yet,” I answer because I don’t need another drink. I just need him to see me and remember. And then, when the moment is right, to break.
I swirl the ice around in my empty glass, the nicotine doing fuck all to calm me down. I’m waiting patiently for someone to walk in and ruin the show, and as if on cue, Killian King walks into the bar.
Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and polished enough to look like he belongs at a country club, not a dive. But I know better. Everyone thinks he’s the calm to Roman’s chaos, but they don’t see what’s underneath.
Roman might be the wrecking ball, but Killian is the kind of guy who knows exactly where to place the bomb to make the whole building collapse.
Killian’s eyes scan the crowd and lock on Roman. They narrow when he sees the blood and the guy Roman is letting beat the shit out of him. He doesn’t hesitate to cut through the crowd to get to his friend. Roman doesn’t just look like he’s used to Killian’s shit—he looks like he needs it.
I should be gone already, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the sight. I was just supposed to be here to get a read on the fuckhead, and then leave before anyone noticed me.
I turn and know the show is over, so I kill my smoke and slip out the back door. The alley smells like piss and stale beer, the kind of place where regrets fester. My R7 is parked at the edge of the lot, the black paint gleaming in the flickering light of the lamppost above.
Fuck, I shouldn’t have come here. The bar, the campus, any of it. But I did.
And now Roman Bishop is back in my life, bleeding and laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like his hands aren’t stained with the same shit I’ve been drowning in for years.
I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the curls like it’ll somehow clear my head, but it doesn’t. Nothing does anymore. I know that revenge won’t fix anything, but it’ll at least quiet the demons in my head.
For a while, anyway.
I reach my bike and pull the helmet off the handlebar. The leather jacket feels suffocating, as if my brother’s ghost is sitting on my shoulders whispering shit I don’t want to hear. He’d tell me to let this go, to move on and live my life.
But I’m not him. The only good Ward died when he did. The rest of us are all fuckups, but at least I can do this for him, even if he doesn’t want it. Even if it is his best friend.
The engine roars to life, loud enough to drown out the thoughts trying to penetrate the back of my skull. I twist the throttle and take off down the empty street toward what will be my home for the next year.
Roman didn’t look like he recognized me, but he will. He has to. I didn’t come to Blackthorne to visit, or even to learn. I came to burn the place down with Roman in it.
The ride back to my apartment is cold even with this leather jacket on, but I don’t care. It’s not far, just a shitty one-bedroom close to campus, but it’s all I need right now while I redo my final year.
By the time I park the bike and kill the engine, I’m completely fucking jittery. I hate feeling like this, like I’m not in control anymore. It’s times like these I wonder if I should have stayed on my meds; maybe things would be easier and I wouldn’t feel like breaking Roman within an inch of his life.
I don’t bother locking up the garage. If someone steals the bike, good luck to them. I drop my helmet and keys on the counter and lock up. Inside the apartment is quiet, the kind of silence where I can clearly hear the whispers so I walk to my bedroom and put on some Sleep Token to drive out the voices.
Heading to the bathroom, I splash my face with water and look at my reflection in the cracked mirror. The splintered image is exactly how I feel, but I can still make out my reflection: unruly black curls, green eyes, a dimpled chin that runs in the family, and dark circles under my eyes.
“Miss you, little brother,” I breathe out, looking down at the yellowed sink. He would probably be here with Roman right now, playing on the same team, still best friends. If it weren’t for—
No. I don’t want to think about this, but my mind always seems to pull me into the past.
I see flashes of Caleb’s easygoing smile, his laughter, and the way he used to mess with me when I was trying to study. He was the only person who could make me feel like I wasn’t completely fucked up.
Then Roman took that away from me.
I grip the sink, my knuckles turning white at the memory of Caleb’s funeral and my mother’s sobs. I remember staring at his casket with my hands in my pockets so no one could see them shaking. Caleb didn’t belong here. He had just turned eighteen years old, not even out of high school for fuck’s sake. Now he’s just another name etched onto a headstone.
Guess who didn’t even bother to fucking show up. Not a call, not a message, just fucking nothing.
His best friend was dead and he couldn’t even show his face. I waited for him, half expecting him to show up with a cocky smirk of his, to hear him crack a joke like all our lives weren’t falling apart. But he never came.
I feel the anger burning in my chest again and try to will it down but the fucker doesn’t stay. Walking into the kitchen, I grab the half-empty bottle of Jack and down some while sputtering. The second shot goes down smoother, numbing the memories threatening to drown me.
I slam the bottle down harder than I mean to, the sound reverberating through the empty room. The voices are still there, whispering that this is pointless, that it won’t change a fucking thing. But I don’t care.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say to no one and run my hands through my curls, pulling them until the voices subside.