Chapter 8 Ghosts of the Past
Old Wounds
Damon didn't sleep much after the storm.
That wasn't unusual.
What was unusual was the reason.
Normally, sleepless nights came from work stress, old regrets, or the occasional nightmare that refused to stay buried.
This time, the problem was Elliot.
Specifically, one sentence.
I think you're lonely.
The words had followed him home.
They followed him into bed.
They followed him through the dark hours of the night while rain continued tapping against the windows.
The kid had said it so simply.
No judgment.
No pity.
Just honesty.
And somehow that made it worse.
Because Damon knew Elliot was right.
He had spent years building a life that kept everyone at a safe distance.
Work filled most of his days.
The rest he occupied with projects, repairs, and responsibilities.
The routine worked.
Mostly.
At least it prevented him from dwelling on things.
On mistakes.
On opportunities he'd thrown away.
On people he'd lost.
Thinking about those things rarely ended well.
So Damon didn't.
Or at least he tried not to.
Unfortunately, life didn't always cooperate.
By six in the morning, he was already at the oil field.
The sky remained overcast from the previous night's storm.
Mud covered sections of the worksite.
Workers moved carefully between equipment.
The day promised to be long.
Good.
Long days left less room for thinking.
Damon grabbed a hard hat and headed toward the crew gathering near the main drilling platform.
Several workers greeted him.
A few complained about the weather.
Others discussed football.
Normal conversations.
Normal problems.
Exactly what he needed.
The morning started smoothly.
Equipment checks.
Safety meetings.
Routine inspections.
For several hours, work demanded his full attention.
By noon, he almost convinced himself that the strange emotional weight from the previous evening had faded.
Then he found an old photograph.
The discovery happened by accident.
One of the storage trailers needed reorganizing.
A box tipped over while workers moved equipment.
Contents spilled across the floor.
Most of it was paperwork.
Old reports.
Receipts.
Maintenance records.
Nothing important.
Until a faded photograph slid free.
Damon froze.
Immediately.
The image was old.
Nearly twenty years old.
Maybe more.
Yet he recognized it instantly.
A younger version of himself stared back.
Seventeen years old.
Angry.
Reckless.
Stupid.
The teenager in the photograph wore a leather vest covered in patches.
A motorcycle stood behind him.
Several older men occupied the background.
Most were grinning.
Drinking.
Looking proud.
At the time, Damon had considered them family.
Now he knew better.
A knot formed in his stomach.
The memory arrived immediately.
Sharp.
Unwelcome.
A different version of himself.
A different life.
One he'd spent years trying to escape.
"Damon?"
He looked up.
One of the workers stood nearby.
"You okay?"
The concern sounded genuine.
Damon quickly folded the photograph.
"Fine."
The lie came automatically.
The worker hesitated.
Then nodded.
Damon waited until he left before staring down at the image once more.
Funny how certain memories never truly disappeared.
You could bury them.
Ignore them.
Pretend they'd lost their power.
Then one unexpected reminder dragged everything back into the light.
The photograph transported him straight into the past.
Back to a time before responsibility.
Before second chances.
Back when anger controlled nearly every decision he made.
His teenage years hadn't been kind.
Neither had he.
His father walked out when Damon was eleven.
His mother worked constantly just to keep food on the table.
By fourteen, Damon spent more time on the streets than at home.
By sixteen, he'd discovered motorcycles.
Then he'd discovered the men who rode them.
The biker club offered exactly what he thought he needed.
Belonging.
Respect.
Brotherhood.
A place where nobody judged him.
At least not at first.
The reality turned out differently.
It usually did.
What began as friendship eventually became something darker.
Fights.
Violence.
Crime.
The gradual erosion of good decisions.
One terrible choice after another.
Until eventually there were police lights.
Handcuffs.
A juvenile detention center.
The memory still made his stomach twist.
Not because he blamed anyone else.
Because he didn't.
Every decision had been his own.
Every consequence earned.
The responsibility belonged entirely to him.
That was the hardest part.
The realization that nobody else had ruined his life.
He had.
Thankfully, he had eventually found a way back.
Not everyone did.
A loud voice interrupted the memory.
"Damon."
He looked up.
Another worker approached.
"Need your signature."
The interruption felt like a rescue.
Damon shoved the photograph into his pocket and focused on work.
The afternoon passed slowly.
The memories lingered anyway.
Sometimes old wounds didn't need invitations.
Sometimes they simply appeared.
By the end of the shift, exhaustion settled deep into his bones.
Physical exhaustion.
Mental exhaustion.
Emotional exhaustion.
The combination left him irritable.
Which was exactly why he decided to stop by the garage before heading home.
A few hours of mechanical work usually helped clear his head.
Engines made sense.
Machines followed rules.
Unlike people.
Unlike memories.
Unlike whatever complicated thing was happening between him and Elliot.
The garage sat relatively quiet when he arrived.
Most employees had already left.
Perfect.
Damon rolled up his sleeves and buried himself in work.
For a while, it helped.
A stubborn engine demanded attention.
Several repairs required focus.
Gradually, the tension eased.
Not completely.
But enough.
Then the front door opened.
Damon barely looked up.
"Garage's closing."
No answer came.
Strange.
Most customers immediately responded.
The silence stretched.
Something about it felt wrong.
Slowly, Damon straightened.
A man stood near the entrance.
Tall.
Broad.
Weathered.
Older than Damon by at least ten years.
The sight punched the air from his lungs.
No.
For a moment, he honestly thought he might be imagining things.
The years fell away instantly.
Memories returned.
Unwanted.
Unwelcome.
Impossible to ignore.
The man smiled.
Not warmly.
Not kindly.
The same smile Damon remembered from nearly twenty years ago.
"Well."
The voice sounded exactly the same.
Older.
Rougher.
But unmistakable.
"Damon Blackwell."
Every muscle in his body tightened.
Because he knew that voice.
Knew the face.
Knew the history attached to both.
The man took several slow steps forward.
Confident.
Comfortable.
As though no time had passed at all.
As though the last two decades meant nothing.
"Damn," the man continued. "You got old."
Damon stared.
A mixture of anger and disbelief crashed through him.
Out of all the people he never expected to see again, this man sat near the top of the list.
Because some ghosts belonged in the past.
Some doors should remain closed.
Some chapters deserved to stay buried.
Yet here he was.
Standing in the middle of Damon's garage.
Alive.
Real.
Smiling.
The man extended his arms slightly.
"Aren't you gonna say hello?"
Damon finally found his voice.
The words emerged cold.
Sharp.
Dangerously calm.
"What are you doing in Willow Ridge?"
The smile widened.
And immediately, every instinct Damon possessed began screaming trouble.
Because standing before him was one of the last people connected to the worst years of his life.
A man he'd hoped never to see again.
A man who knew exactly who Damon used to be.
And judging by the look in his eyes, he hadn't come all this way by accident.
Looking Forward
Damon spent the next two days trying to convince himself that Rick Lawson's arrival didn't matter.
The effort failed spectacularly.
Some ghosts had a way of dragging the past into the present whether you wanted them to or not.
Rick had been one of the older members of the biker crowd Damon ran with as a teenager. Not a leader. Not the worst influence. But close enough to both that seeing him again felt like reopening an old wound.
The man represented everything Damon had spent years escaping.
Poor decisions.
Violence.
Anger.
The version of himself he never wanted Elliot to see.
That thought bothered him more than it should have.
The fact that Elliot immediately came to mind was its own problem.
By Saturday afternoon, Damon needed a distraction.
Work couldn't provide one.
The garage couldn't provide one.
Even reading failed.
Eventually, he found himself driving through town with no particular destination.
Which was how he ended up near the youth center.
The realization arrived only after he parked.
Damon stared through the windshield.
"You're an idiot."
The truck offered no disagreement.
Through the building's windows, he could see students moving around inside.
The art program was apparently finishing for the day.
A few minutes later, children and teenagers began emerging from the building.
Laughing.
Talking.
Carrying projects.
The sight made him smile despite himself.
Then Elliot appeared.
And suddenly the rest of the world seemed a little less important.
The younger man stood near the entrance talking to several students.
One teenager held up a sketchbook.
Another appeared to be asking questions.
Elliot listened patiently to all of them.
Smiling.
Encouraging.
Present.
The kids clearly adored him.
That much was obvious.
Eventually the crowd dispersed.
Parents arrived.
Students headed home.
Within minutes, only Elliot remained outside.
The younger man spotted the truck almost immediately.
His face lit up.
The reaction hit Damon harder than expected.
Dangerous.
Everything about this was dangerous.
Yet when Elliot approached the passenger side window, Damon found himself smiling anyway.
"Are you stalking me?"