Chapter 30
Chapter
Thirty
HIM
I peek through the cracked door, and seeing no sign of Tammy, I step inside.
As I creep through the cramped trailer, disarray and chaos greet me everywhere. Floors are covered with clothing, broken appliances, and other trash, while forgotten boxes fill the corners. Ignoring the stench of stale alcohol and cigarettes that cling to every surface, I tiptoe toward my room.
I almost make it to my destination when I see her. Passed out in the hall, surrounded by half-empty bottles of booze and scattered syringes. This isn’t the first time I’ve found her like this, and it probably won’t be the last. Not caring whether the bitch is dead or alive, I step over her—only to feel her tugging at my pant leg.
“Damon Elliot, where have you been?” she slurs, her eyes glassy and bloodshot.
I shake her off and keep on walking, not bothering to make eye contact. “At the library,” I reply, adjusting the strap of my backpack for emphasis. “Studying for my tests, if you must know.”
“Watch your fuckin’ mouth,” she snaps, launching a bottle at me, which I barely dodge. It hits the wall, shattering to pieces. “I’m your mother, and you will fucking look at me when I’m speaking!”
My temples throb; I feel another migraine coming on. She’s always screaming, blaming me for everything—from her failings, to the weather, the traffic, and even the price of groceries. My fists clench in frustration and rage. I want to lash out, hit her or something. But I restrain myself and instead stare at her with contempt before finally turning away again.
“Don’t you walk away from me!” she yells, staggering to her feet. She clutches my arm, her sour breath on my face. “It’s all your fault, you know. If you weren’t such a fuck-up, none of this would’ve happened!”
Anger boils up inside of me, and I wrench myself from her grasp. I glare at her, despising her haggard skin and sunken cheeks. She’s let herself go worse than usual, though I’m not shocked; Rowan’s birthday is tomorrow. And she’s gone above and beyond in getting fucked up the past couple of weeks. “You’re not the only one who misses him,” I snap.
Without warning, she collapses into a heap at my feet, sobbing uncontrollably. I stare at her. Not with pity, but with disgust. I hurry to my room, shutting the door firmly behind me before locking it. I can still hear her screaming as I sit on my bed, depositing my backpack beside me. Knowing she’ll be at it for hours, I go over to my desk.
Pulling open the drawer to retrieve painkillers, I glance at the framed photo sitting atop the desk—one of Rowan and me, taken mere months before the unthinkable happened. He wasn’t just my brother, but also my best friend. Tomorrow, he would’ve been nineteen. It kills me that he’s not here right now, that some prick set us up and threw us to the wolves.
Of course, the police did jack shit. They claimed there wasn’t enough evidence to charge anyone and told us there was nothing they could do. But I knew that was a lie. We were seen as trash, born on the wrong side of the tracks. Our ‘justice’ system is a fucking joke.
The flashback of that night resurfaces in my mind, causing my stomach to churn. I remember the barricaded door, the screaming, and the gunshot that rang out through the house. The sheer helplessness I felt as I watched them drag Rowan away, unable to save him because of my wounds. I snatch the painkillers and slam the drawer shut, tears prickling my eyes as wave after wave of sorrow crashes over me.
I haven’t felt this kind of despair since he died. It feels like it’s never going to end—like no amount of time or distance will ever be enough for me to forget the void he left. I’m still haunted by his absence—by the final goodbye I never got the chance to say. My chest tightens; I can’t take being alone anymore. Everything is just too much to bear.
I rifle through my backpack, grab a bottle of water, and dump painkillers into my palm. I wonder if the rest of the bottle will prevent me from waking up tomorrow.
After swallowing the pills, I switch on the old TV, crank up the volume to drown out Tammy’s wailing, and flop on the bed. I don’t care what’s on; I just want to feel something else. Anything.
As drowsiness sets in, I remember the time we watched a meteor shower, how we made wishes on each falling star. Rowan knew it was silly, but he humored his little brother, anyway. I see his smile, his eyes that matched mine. Hear the echo of his laughter. Those were the good times—before our father abandoned us, before we had to scrape by, doing what we had to do to survive.
Before it all went wrong.
Tears slide down my cheeks, and I sob into my pillow. As I drift into sleep, my mind gets stuck on the looping memories of Rowan—his broken, battered body on the stretcher as emergency services carried him away for the last time. Gut-wrenching despair engulfs me until everything fades into darkness.
When I open my eyes again, it’s five in the morning. At first, I’m disappointed; I must not have taken enough pills. Sunlight filters through the curtains, and I groan, my head pounding. I rise, angrily shut them, and plop back onto the bed—and it’s then that I start paying attention to what’s on the television.
The documentary is about a notorious serial killer from Pennsylvania. I watch, captivated, as images of crime scenes flash on the screen. People talk about how this man—Cameron Cirillo, the Lakestone Reaper—was ‘such a friendly guy.’ Claims that they were oh-so shocked when they found out the things he’d done.
But when they played clips of him in court, I found myself agreeing with him. His brand of justice is something that resonates with me. The world is a fucked up place, with terrible people that get away with things they shouldn’t. When the justice system inevitably fails, I shall take matters into my own hands.
Suddenly, my heart stops. A girl appears on screen, her head ducked, her dark hair covering her face as reporters shove cameras at her. It’s Gwen Cirillo, Cameron’s daughter. A fire stirs to life inside of me; it’s like she’s calling to me, begging me to listen. I can’t take my eyes off her.
And I never want to.
“Ryan, the bastard responsible for Rowan’s death,” I say, opening the oven door to check on the lasagna, “he was my first blood. Killed him before leaving for college. It was sloppy, but fuck—it was cathartic, splattering his guts all over his grandmother’s kitchen tiles.”
Gwen chuckles darkly as I take the lasagna out of the oven, setting it on top of the stove to cool. “Not exactly the kind of thing I like to talk about over dinner,” she remarks with a half-smile.
“That piece of shit got away with murder for too long. Someone needed to take a stand, and that someone was me.” I grab two plates and forks from the dish rack and place them on the table. “I had no regrets or guilt over it, either. If anything, it felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.”
She nods, her green eyes glimmering with agreement; I always knew she was more like her father than she wanted to admit. “I guess it was justice, then, in its own way.”
The tension between us is simmering down into something closer to mutual respect and understanding. Seeing that her birthday dinner is almost ready, she attempts to get up from the couch. But her stitches pull, causing her to gasp sharply in pain.
An unfamiliar panic hits me all at once, and I rush over to her. “Careful,” I gently chastise, supporting her weight with one arm and steadying her with the other. “You have to take it slow for now.”
“It’s alright, I’m okay,” she assures me with a weak smile. “But thank you for being here for me.”
I feel a strange warmth spreading through my chest as I help her hobble over to the table and into her seat. She looks up at me with a small, grateful smile, and bizarre waves of emotions flood me. For the first time in a very long time, I feel guilty.
Just a bit.
“I really am sorry, Gwen,” I say, dishing out two generous portions of lasagna. “You know, for …” I motion to her side.
“Don’t worry about it.” She spears a piece of lasagna with her fork and blows on it. “Something tells me you liked it, though—seeing me bleed.”
Did she seriously just say that? A thousand replies run through my head. I laugh, trying to play it off as a joke. “Of course not! I would never?—”
“You don’t have to deny it. Seeing me covered in blood also got you off.” She stares at me for a few beats before breaking into a smirk. “Also, you don’t have to be Blake. You can be yourself—be Damon around me.”
I can’t help but smile; she understands me so well. With her, I can be myself, no need for pretense or a facade. It’s a beautiful thing, the freedom I’ve found with her.
And I plan on savoring every minute of it.
“Okay,” I say, cutting off a bite of my lasagna. “You got me.”
We both laugh.
As we eat, I steal unsubtle glances at her. I am in awe of how perfectly attuned she is to my thoughts and feelings, even when I try to hide them from her.
“So, what do you want to do now?” she asks after dinner once we’re back in the living room.
“I think I have a few ideas,” I say, waggling my brows.
She flushes pink as she takes in the meaning of my words. “But my stitches,” she weakly protests.
“I’ll be careful.” I snap my fingers, pointing to her legs. “Spread ‘em.”
She obeys, clearing her throat. “You know I desperately need to shower, right?” she states as I carefully tug off her pajama pants and underwear.
“Does it look like I care?” I retort, dropping to my knees.
She shivers as I grasp her ankles and place her legs on my shoulders. I kiss her mound gently before plunging my tongue inside of her, causing her to moan softly at the sensation. Leaning back, she allows me full access to explore every inch of her body with my mouth, to devour what is mine.
“You’re already soaked,” I remark, licking a stripe down her slit, then back up. Lazily, I circle her little bundle of nerves with the pad of my thumb as I eat her out, tasting her sweet nectar. She moans, twining her fingers in my hair, pulling me closer. I chuckle against her folds. “My girl is greedy.”
“Shut up,” she moans, her eyes fluttering closed.
I shake my head and smile, inserting a finger inside of her while I suck on her swollen clit. I use my teeth, nipping at her bud. She whimpers, clawing at my scalp. I soothe her clit with my tongue, pushing another finger inside. Then another. She clenches around me, and I feel myself harden; I want to fuck her so badly. But I can’t risk tearing her stitches.
Later, I owe her a rough fucking.
I pump my fingers in and out of her drenched pussy. She grips the blanket, her toes curling in pleasure.
“Don’t stop,” she pleads breathlessly. “Please!”
“Only since you asked so nicely,” I tease, holding her hips in place as she quivers beneath my touch. She grinds against me in desperation, teetering on the edge of falling apart.
“Damon, fuck!” she chokes out, her climax ravaging her body as I continue to finger-fuck her. “I’m gonna come!”
The moment I add another digit, she gasps, her orgasm ripping through her. She pulls me closer to her with her legs, forcing me to keep eating her out. It takes her a minute to calm down, her breath coming in stuttered waves. I pull away, her wetness glistening on my lips. “You taste wonderful, Little Finch.”
She lets out a cute whimper, biting her lip at the use of her nickname. I can’t help but smirk. I give her one last lick before rising to give her a messy kiss. She reciprocates eagerly, tasting herself on my tongue. A low growl works its way from my throat, and it takes everything in me to not throw her down on the floor and fuck her until she can’t move.
“That was amazing,” she says, fatigue hitting her like a truck.
“It certainly was,” I say, cupping her face. “You look tired. Ready for bed?”
She nods. I help her dress before scooping her up in my arms, being careful not to mess with her stitches as I carry her to the bedroom. Once there, I lay her down, taking a moment to observe her as she nestles into the blankets. She looks so peaceful, so content. Warmth blooms in my chest at the sight.
“Goodnight, Gwen,” I murmur, planting a kiss on her forehead.
She smiles sleepily in response, snuggling further into the blankets with a satisfied sigh. I give her one last lingering look before turning off the light and quietly leaving her to rest.
I want to keep her forever.