21. Chapter 21 - Damien
I can still taste Minnie on my lips when I park at the lot off Main Street and storm across town. The few people I come across stop and stare, but I’m too wound up, and too pissed, to give a damn.
How the fuck could she be a virgin? She’s fucking lying, that’s how!
“She’s a Blood Witch. She will suck you dry.”
All the lyrics I’ve ever written were about her—all the songs I’ve sung on stage—they were all about her. The real her. The her I wish she was. The her she’ll never be.
All a cautionary tale. A reminder to never trust Minnie again. That she really could suck me dry, if I let her.
Just not financially. The prenup made sure of that.
A few million barely make a dent in my bank account. Hell, I spent more on a one week rager after our last tour. All it takes is a phone call to transfer the money into her account—but the thought makes me want to punch something… or someone.
Minnie should pay for hurting me, but instead I’m paying her. What kind of fucking karma is that?
“Believed in balance, got betrayed,” I think. “Betrayed by a witch. Oh karma’s a bitch, oh karma’s a bitch.” The lyrics have promise, and I pull up my notes app and jot them down. “My inspiration, the furthest thing from salvation.”
I’ve got a list of lyric fragments, all inspired by her. Will I never be rid of the lying bitch? Or will she haunt me for the rest of my life?
“Is that Damien Starr?” a woman demands, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turn towards a building—a community center—and spot a brunette gaping at me and nudging a man who’s built like a wall.
To make shit ten times worse, the group of people milling around are all staring at me.
Fucking hell.
I shift into the first body I can think of—Phil the gorgon.
“That’s a chameleon,” Brick Wall Dude says in an accent that sounds Russian, Romanian, or maybe Italian. Never been good with accents, so hell if I know.
“Damien Starr is a chameleon…” the brunette says.
I wait for her to freak out. To realize that chameleons can only shift into people they’ve seen in the past week… and that the band hasn’t been in concert… which means that I’ve either seen Damien or I am Damien.
Instead, she sighs. “You’re probably right. Damien Starr wouldn’t just be strolling down the street, would he?”
You would think so, wouldn’t you? Except I am strolling—well, storming—heading goddess knows where in the hopes that I’ll forget.
Forget her lips. Forget her lies. Forget her.
I glance back at the disappointed-looking brunette and consider giving her an autograph. I could use a reminder that at least some people care about me. Hell, some people are obsessed with me… including the fae who sent me running straight into that lying redhead’s arms.
Any other day, an autograph would be exactly what I need. But my limo isn’t at the curb, and my private jet isn’t at the airport, ready to take me anywhere I want to go. I’m on my own, and if I’m not careful, I’ll get swarmed by paparazzi demanding why Not a Vampire broke up.
All that attention would be a great distraction, but I can’t risk my bandmates finding out where I am. What if the fae king goes back on his promise and my band ends up in this mess right alongside me?
Can’t let that happen. Not when I’ve already stooped so low. Not when I’ve done the one thing I swore I’d never do and ran right back to the girl who left me.
Married her. Married a fucking liar.
Well, fuck her. Fuck the fae. Fuck the entire fucking world.
I break into a run.
Unlike last time I raced through town, with Purple Popsicle straight on my heels, I’m not being chased… which makes me hyper-aware of the limp snakes slapping against my forehead with every step.
The feeling is oddly familiar, and it takes several blocks before I realize why.
I’m not a grower. I’m a shower. But this feels like that.
Forehead instead of thigh. But otherwise, exactly the fucking same.
I picture my head covered in limp dicks, grimace, and shift into the first person I see. A small pixie whose center of gravity might as well be five blocks away. I take one step and slam face-first into the fucking sidewalk.
And once again, it’s all because of Minnie Alexander. No Alexander my ass.
Minnie Stravinsky. Why did I insist she take my name?
I scramble back up and consider shifting into the penis-slapping gorgon when a normally proportioned jogger wearing shorts and a tee rounds the corner. Probably a shifter. Those guys always run hot.
He stops and lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat off his face, revealing a raven tattoo along his ribs.
Great. Now all I can think about is flying into Minnie’s window.
Hurt like a bitch, but not as much as being with her.
Cradled against her chest, sitting next to her, saying our vows, kissing her…
Every moment felt so real, even though our relationship is fake. She’s fake. She’s proven it, again and again, yet I keep falling for her shit.
Over and over like some idiot.
I shift into Raven Tattoo and break into a run. Dude clearly lifts, but the extra muscle doesn’t slow me down any. I easily pick up speed, my white sneakers pounding against the pavement as I take random streets, turning corners to avoid crowds.
It takes effort to maintain his shifted form, but I relish the extra challenge.
Truth is, I like running. Took it up when it all became too much—the pressure, the tours, the parties, the travel. Even started to crave that running high like I crave being on stage. Found that it helps clear my head when I’m frustrated with music…or with a certain lying redhead.
First kiss. I mentally roll my eyes. That’s how likely I am to believe her.
She’s a chronic manipulator, taught by the best of the best. Maude Montgomery. The most stuck up witch who’s ever lived.
Minnie thought of every detail, right down to convincing the judge that we are fated mates to make sure the wedding went off without a hitch. To make sure she got her hands on my money.
She’ll do anything to get what she wants.
I’ve known that little fact since the day Minnie left me behind…
so why can’t I let it go? Why can’t I let her go?
Even before I was forced to come back and marry her, I’ve thought of her, over and over, even when I didn’t want to.
Every woman fell short compared to who Minnie could have been.
Every experience was a little less because I didn’t have her by my side.
And I’ve wondered where she was. What she was doing.
Who she was fucking. And then I drank myself into a stupor so I could forget.
She’s the only woman who’s ever been able to get in my head. The only one who’s ever had the power to hurt me. The only one I’ve never been able to forget.
And now she’s my wife…
I should have just married that spoiled Fae princess. That has to be better than the redhead from hell. Except for the part where I’d have to give up my band, my friends, my music, my world.
I’m not going to live in some gilded fae cage at the whims of a superfan princess who’ll toss me into a dungeon when she’s through with me.
As soon as I’m free of Minnie, I’ll dump her, divorce her, and find a way to forget her for good. Maybe I’ll even find a reason to sue her and get all my money back. That will serve her right.
I put one foot in front of the other until all the anger and frustration roiling in my gut begins to dissipate. And I run until I’m so exhausted that I’m no longer thinking of Evil Red.
I slow down, then stop, bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard. Even maintaining the jogger’s body is too much. I can’t shift back to myself, so I pick the next best thing… after standing up straight. No way am I letting those snakes do any more penis bouncy-bounce.
I’ve spent so much time as the gorgon now that maintaining his form feels familiar. Comforting, almost. And it’s a lot easier than any other form in my arsenal.
Since animating limp snakes is not in my skill set, I walk slowly back toward my car. I turn a corner, and find myself in front of a brightly painted building.
The Arcade.
Easy way to blow through a shit-ton of cash… like Minnie is probably doing right now. I don’t give a damn—the amount I gave her was chump change—but it bugs me to no end that she’s enjoying herself, and my cash, while I’m a fucking mess.
I break into a run again, but all I can think about is her—her lips, her body pressed against mine, her lies—while she’s probably at some fancy dress store or spa, laughing at what an idiot I am for falling for her lies for a second time.