Chapter 15 – Damian
Chapter Fifteen
DAMIAN
Mom’s voice fills the SUV, bright and easy, like she hasn’t just spent the last half hour soaked in rain and fear, clawing at me like I was the devil himself.
“Are we coming back from church?” she asks, glancing around.
Her hands smooth over the damp fabric of her dress, but she doesn’t ask why it’s wet.
“I must have fallen asleep. That pastor is so boring.” She pats my thigh with a weathered hand and gives me a little wink.
She’s only sixty, but dementia has already hollowed out the woman she used to be.
Marlowe catches sight of the wink and offers me a soft smile.
I don’t feed into it. I can’t play nice with Vick’s spawn.
I hate that she’s here, being witness to all this.
Being vulnerable in front of people like her is not something I enjoy.
But here she is, calming down mom. I can’t figure out if she’s a threat or a miracle.
Fuck that, she’s Vick’s daughter, she’s a threat… a fucking thief.
“Oh, I know,” Marlowe says, her voice light, conspiratorial, as if she’s been sitting next to my mother in church pews for years. “I nearly nodded off myself last time. And that woman in the front row? She always wears that awful perfume. What’s it called again?”
My mother perks up. “White Diamonds! My God, the pastor’s wife, you can smell her coming a mile away.”
Marlowe laughs, shaking her head, treating the moment with the ease of a Sunday afternoon chat.
“And that hat she wore last Easter?” My mother groans, pressing a hand to her temple. “Looked like a whole damn bird’s nest on her head.”
Bridger exhales softly. Cody stares hard at the road.
And even though I try my damnedest, I can’t stop staring at Marlowe. She keeps talking, keeps handling this better than any of us can. I bet she’s done this before, because somehow she knows how to step into a world that isn’t real and make it feel solid beneath my mother’s feet.
I just don’t get why she’s doing it for us.
And I hate that I feel anything other than resentment toward her.
She shouldn’t have been able to do what I couldn’t. I should have been the one to calm my own mother down, to talk her through it, to bring her back. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I never fucking can.
And yet, Marlowe? She slid into the moment so easily, so naturally, I almost believe she belongs here.
I study her, every detail: her hands still slightly damp, the way her wet hair clings to her face, the careful way she speaks, her soft, steady voice keeping my mother here with us.
Why did she have to be that asshole’s daughter? How the hell is she related to someone like Vick?
But then again, even Vick could be charming when he wanted to be. He could sweet-talk, lie, manipulate, make you believe he cared, especially if there was something in it for him. If there was money on the table, Vick always made sure to slip it in his pocket when no one else was watching.
I guess Marlowe is great at that too. I bet Vick taught her well.
The SUV rolls to a stop in front of the house. The storm is gone, but everything still smells earthy and clean. The moment the engine cuts off, my mother sighs, looking at the house with a soft smile, like she’s missed it. She turns to us, her expression warm. “Well, you boys must be starving.”
Bridger rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”
Cody clears his throat. “Sure, Mom.”
She can’t cook. Last time she started a small fire when she forgot she had eggs boiling on the stove. “We’ll order something, okay? You don’t have to cook.”
She waves a hand, already pushing her door open. “Nonsense. There’s probably stuff for sandwiches. Something easy. It’s not a problem.” She smiles again, softer this time. “It’s not often you’re all here visiting.”
I don’t correct her. I don’t remind her that this isn’t a visit, that she went missing, that we aren’t here because of some nice family gathering. I just nod and climb out after her.
When I glance at Marlowe, she’s already watching me.
Judging. She must think I’m the world’s worst son for not knowing how to handle this, for not taking over the situation with grace, for standing there and letting her fix everything instead.
Her arms are jammed on her hips, and I can practically hear whatever sharp words she’s thinking.
But then my eyes drop.
And fuck me. Her shirt is drenched, still clinging to her like a second skin, soaked through from the rain. The material is pale, nearly translucent now, sticking to every curve, to the dip of her waist, to the swell of her breasts.
I can see everything.
A slow pulse of heat rolls through me, completely at odds with the exhaustion, the stress, the absolute shitstorm of a day.
Her nipples are tight, pebbled against the wet fabric, and I hate how my eyes track over them, how my breath tightens in my chest and I suddenly can’t get enough air.
She shifts and says something, but I don’t hear it. I’m too fucking distracted.
She yells, louder this time. “Damian.”
I finally drag my eyes back up—slowly, too slowly.
“My eyes are up here.”
I smirk before I can stop myself.
Then I meet her gaze. Fuck me sideways—her eyes are so blue. Bright and sharp, almost electric, the kind of blue that makes my skull hollow, that makes me hate that I’m noticing.
I tilt my head, still staring. “Not sure that’s any less distracting.”
Her lips part, something strange flickering across her face, but before she can fire back, Cody loops an arm around Mom and starts leading her inside.
She’s still babbling about church and lunch. I need to follow them inside, make sure she’s really alright. I take one more slow look at Marlowe, at the way her wet shirt clings, at the way her lips pinch up, like she wants to either slap me or smile.
Not sure which I’d prefer.
"Can I please go somewhere private and change?" Marlowe asks.
I don’t answer right away. It takes a second to pull my gaze off her.
The wet fabric makes her look damn near obscene.
And when she moves, when she takes a step closer, her breasts bounce slightly, the damp material molding to them, making it look so fucking pornographic I swear my brain shorts out for half a second.
I give a curt nod, tearing my gaze away. “Yeah. This way.” I turn, leading her inside and down the hall, each step tense and heavy.
It should be a short walk. Technically, it is.
But every step is torture. She’s close behind me, her presence hot and sharp at my back, and all I can fucking think about is how good she smelled in the car, how soft her voice had been when she was talking to my mother, how quick her tongue is when she’s fighting me, how her lips look when she’s pissed.
I reach the bathroom and push the door open, stepping aside to let her pass.
She moves toward the doorway, and when she squeezes through, her chest brushes against me, just for a second, just long enough for the soaked fabric to press against my front.
A fucking brand.
Heat licks up my spine, and I hate it and want it at the same time.
Marlowe hesitates in the doorway and looks up at me.
I should step back and give her room. I shouldn’t be standing this close.
But I don’t move. Thing is, neither does she. I can feel the heat of her body, see the rise and fall of her chest, watch as a single drop of water slides down the side of her throat, disappearing beneath the damp collar of her shirt.
I hate myself for wanting to touch her. But I do. I want to touch her everywhere.
She inhales sharply, and for a second, I swear she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Fuck me, I think she’s thinking it too.
Then she steps inside and slams the door in my face.