38. Damon
Damon
The session leaves me feeling fucking drained. Like I’ve been wrung out and left to dry, every nerve in my body exposed. Some days are like that. Some days, therapy makes me feel lighter like I’m actually making progress.
Today isn’t one of those days. Today, I feel like my skin doesn’t fit right. Like there’s something crawling underneath it, pressing against my ribs, waiting to break free.
I light a cigarette as soon as I step out of my therapist’s office, the cool autumn air biting at my skin. My mind is too fucking loud, even after an hour of picking apart the mess in my head, even after sitting on that stupid couch and trying to make sense of the shit that still claws at me when I close my eyes.
The session wasn’t bad—not really. But the thing about therapy is that it forces me to think about things I’d rather bury six feet under. It peels my skin back and makes me look at the rot underneath, and today, that rot is the way Roman looked at me last night.
Like I was something that could be loved.
I don’t fucking know how to deal with that. I don’t believe in love. I don’t believe in forever. But Roman is making me question every goddamn thing I thought I knew.
I exhale slowly, absentmindedly flicking my lighter as I bring the lit cigarette to my lips. My hands are still shaking, so I put my lighter back in my pocket and pull out my phone. I need to hear a voice that isn’t my own, so dial the one person who’s never made me feel like I had to explain myself. Mom picks up on the third ring.
“Damon, sweetheart,” she says, and I swear, just hearing her voice makes my shoulders drop an inch. “I was just thinking about you.”
I take another drag and lean back against the bench. “Yeah?”
“Mhm,” she hums. “How was your session?”
I hesitate for a second, but it’s her. I don’t have to lie. “Shit,” I admit.
She sighs. “I’m sorry, baby. Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “Not really.”
She hums again, the sound filled with a patience I don’t fucking deserve. “Are you taking your meds?”
“Yes, Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re worse than my therapist.”
“Your therapist didn’t birth you.”
“Fair point.” I take another drag.
There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again, softer now. “What’s going on, Damon?”
I lick my lips, debating whether I should even bring this up. But fuck it. She’s gonna find out eventually. “I’m seeing someone.”
“Oh?” She sounds surprised, but not upset. “Tell me about them.”
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like a goddamn kid again. “Uh… it’s—it’s a guy.”
There’s no hesitation in her voice. “I assumed as much, sweetheart.”
I huff out a breath. “Yeah, well… it’s Roman Bishop.”
Silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence that stretches too fucking long.
I frown, shifting my phone to the other ear. “Mom?” She still doesn’t say anything, and my stomach twists. “Are you—are you still there?”
“I’m here,” she says finally, but something about her tone makes my skin prickle. “Damon, baby… do you know about Roman and Caleb?”
I sit up straight, my cigarette forgotten between my fingers. “What?”
She exhales slowly. “Do you know?”
My pulse pounds. “Yeah,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Roman told me.”
“I always knew,” she says, so quietly I almost don’t catch it.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry as fuck. “How?”
“I saw them,” she says sadly. “Little things. The way they looked at each other. The way Caleb smiled when he was around Roman. The way he’d come home some nights looking… lighter. Like being with him made the weight on his shoulders disappear for a little while.” She sucks in a breath. “And then, one day, it was gone.”
My stomach fucking drops.
“Damon,” she continues, her voice thick. “I always knew, but I waited. I waited for him to tell me, to trust me the way you did. But he never did. And with your father always preaching about how… wrong it was—” She stops, her breath shaking. “I knew he never would. And I hate myself for it.”
Her voice cracks, and I shut my eyes, my chest tightening like a fucking vice. I don’t know what to say. I don’t fucking know. Because I thought I had the whole picture. I thought I understood Caleb’s pain, the weight he carried, the isolation. But I didn’t. Mom knew. She fucking knew, and Caleb still felt like he had no way out. I press the heel of my palm to my temple, trying to quiet the roar in my head.
“I need to see you,” she suddenly says.
I blink. “What?”
She swallows audibly. “I need to tell you something. In person.”
My stomach twists. “What is it?”
She hesitates. “I can’t do this over the phone, baby. I need to see you.”
Dread creeps up my spine.
“Mom,” I say, my voice coming out wary now. “What the fuck is going on?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and that makes my chest go tight as fuck. “I’ll be there soon,” she says finally. “I love you, Damon.”
“Mom—”
The line goes dead. What the fuck?
I sit there, my phone still pressed to my ear, my pulse pounding in my skull.
What the fuck just happened? What the hell does she need to tell me that she couldn’t say over the phone? What the fuck could she possibly have to tell me now?
And why does it feel like my whole fucking world is about to change again?
I flick my cigarette away, exhaling hard. My hands are shaking, so I close my eyes and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
Roman.
I need to see him. I need his stupid fucking smirk and his warm hands and the way he looks at me like I’m not completely fucking ruined. I grab my phone and shoot him a quick text.
Where are you?
My knee bounces as I wait for a response.
Ten seconds.
Thirty.
A full minute.
My phone vibrates.
In my room. You okay?
No.
Can I come over?
Door’s open, baby.
I don’t waste another fucking second. I need him right fucking now.
I shove my phone into my pocket and head straight for my bike, yanking my helmet on with shaky hands. The moment the engine roars to life, I take off, weaving through traffic like a man possessed. The wind stings against my open visor, but I don’t give a shit.
I just need to get there.
I don’t stop at the front door when I get to Roman’s house—I push it open like I fucking live here. Technically, I might as well at this point. The house is quiet, which means most of the guys are either out or passed out. Good. I’m not in the mood for their bullshit right now.
I take the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering, and my head spinning from everything my mother just dropped on me. My chest is so damn tight it hurts to breathe, and I can’t shake this feeling, this weight pressing down on me like a goddamn vise.
I need Roman.
His room is at the end of the hall, and the door is cracked open. I push it the rest of the way, and there he is—sitting on his bed, a book in his hands, one knee drawn up as he leans against the headboard. He looks up when I walk in, his dark eyes scanning my face immediately, and I see the worry settle in his features.
“Damon,” he says, setting the book aside. “What happened?”
I shake my head, locking the door behind me. “Not now.”
He frowns as I walk toward him. “Not now? Damon, you—”
I cut him off by grabbing his face and kissing him hard.
He makes a startled sound but doesn’t hesitate to kiss me back, his hands flying to my waist, gripping me tight like he knows I need to be held together. I press my body against his as I climb onto the bed, shoving him back against the pillows.
I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think. I just need to feel him.
Roman groans as I grind down against him, his hands sliding under my hoodie and fingers pressing into my skin like he’s trying to anchor me.
“You’re freaking me out, baby,” he mutters against my lips, but I don’t let him say anything else. I kiss him deeper, licking into his mouth and nipping at his bottom lip until he gasps.
His hands move, pushing my hoodie up, forcing me to break the kiss so he can pull it over my head. My chest is bare, my tattoos on display, and his gaze rakes over me like he’s committing every inch to memory again.
“Damon,” he murmurs, softer this time, his fingers tracing the ink on my ribs. “Talk to me.”
I shake my head again. “Later.”
His brows pull together, but he doesn’t argue. He just exhales and nods, his hands sliding down my back, gripping my hips. “Okay.”
Then he flips us over, pinning me to the bed and straddling my waist as he looks down at me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, but beneath all the lust, there’s something else. Something deep.
Something real.
“You need to stop running from your fucking thoughts,” he says, voice rough.
I smirk up at him, trying to push past the ache in my chest. “Then make me stop.”
His lips curl, and for a split second, I see the challenge spark in his eyes before he leans down, his mouth brushing against my jaw, then my throat. His hands move, sliding down my sides, his thumbs skimming over my hip bones.
I shudder beneath him, my fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer. He kisses his way down my chest, lips ghosting over my tattoos, and when his mouth finds my nipple, he bites.
My back arches, a growl ripping from my throat as he laves his tongue over the sensitive skin. “Fuck, Roman,” I groan, my grip tightening in his hair.
“You came here to get out of your head,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth across my skin. “Guess I’ll just have to keep you occupied.”
I smirk, even as my body burns for him. “Yeah? And what’s your plan, Hotshot?”
Roman lifts his head, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. “You’ll see.”
His lips trail lower, hot and teasing, and I feel the smirk against my stomach when I twitch under him. He sucks a mark onto my hip, his hands pinning me down like he knows I’ll squirm.
“Impatient?” he mutters, glancing up at me, his hazel eyes dark and knowing.
I narrow my gaze at him. “Get a fucking move on, baby.”
Roman just chuckles, slow and easy, dragging his tongue over my skin before biting down, just to be a dick. My body jolts, a sharp inhale escaping me, and he hums like he’s satisfied with himself.
“I should make you beg,” he says, pressing a kiss to the spot he just bit. “Make you say please like a good boy.”
I let out a sharp laugh, gripping his hair and yanking his head back. “You want me begging, painslut? Fucking earn it.”
His grin is wicked, something dangerous flickering in his gaze, and for a second, I know I’ve pushed him exactly where I want him.
Roman moves fast, knocking my grip free and pinning my wrists above my head. His body covers mine, pressing me into the mattress, his breath hot against my ear. “Careful what you wish for, Damon.”
His hands map me out, dragging down my arms, over my ribs, fingertips ghosting over my stomach. It’s a slow descent—a calculated torment—because Roman loves to play. Loves to draw things out until I’m on the verge of snapping, until I’m cursing his name and arching into his touch like it’s the only thing tethering me to this world.
And maybe it is.
“Shit,” I rasp, my fingers gripping his hair.
Roman doesn’t give me a second to think, to catch up, or do anything but feel. He takes his time with me, drawing every sound, every breath, every desperate groan from my lips like he needs to hear it. Like he wants to remind me that I’m here with him, and not trapped in my own head.
And it fucking works. Roman makes sure of it.
He’s not soft about it, not careful. He knows me better than that. He knows exactly what I need—knows how to drag me out of my own head, knows how to shut out the noise until the only thing left is him. His hands, his mouth, his fucking presence taking over every inch of my body until there’s no room for anything else.
There’s no pain, no ghosts, no fucking voices in my head.
Just him.
Roman pulls back just enough to look up at me, his lips slick, his eyes burning. “You still with me?” I nod, my throat too tight for words. He smirks, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip. “Good.”
Then he goes back to making me forget. And by the time he’s done with me, my mind is blissfully quiet.