Page 51 of Knight

“That’s right,” he cuts me off again. “You didn’t do anything because he doesn’t touch you the way I do. He never will. His cock will never feel as good as mine does, he can’t handle someone like you the way I can. So stop thinking otherwise.”

Excuse me? “Someone like me? What the fu—”

“When I call, you answer,” Damien doesn’t take his eyes off the road, hands gripping tight to the wheel.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do. Not unless we’re …” I trail off, hoping he’ll cut me off but of course, when I want him to do something, he doesn’t. With his hands on the wheel, he lets the dead air settle, waiting for an answer before his impatience wins. “We’re what?”

“Nothing.” I’m fidgeting with the watch on my wrist, refusing to meet those heartbreaking eyes. I’m scared to say it. Don’t know why. It’s like I’m afraid he’ll deny something I’m not even sure we have. Looking out the window, the road looks familiar, Eden Lake coming into view and I keep picking at my nails, chewing my cheek. We’re close. “You think it’s a good idea to head back there?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You don’t think it’s too soon?”

“Is it too soon for you?”

Yes. God, yes. But I don’t tell him that. “No.”

“Good.” He doesn’t say anything else when he turns up the volume on the sound system. The Clash. And just like that, I’m reminded how much alike we are. Settling into my seat I take a deep breath, the words to “The Guns of Brixton” soothing my mind and when Damien takes my hand, it gets easier.

“For a rich kid, I’m surprised you’re into punk rock,” I say, grasping to his hand, his soft skin. I hope he doesn’t notice how tight my grip is.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, his hold tightening on my hand before he answers, “My mom played a lot of it growing up.”

I smile at Damien revealing another piece of his past. “Your mom’s cooler than you.”

That gets a laugh, one that eases my anxiety. Soothes my soul. “Shuddup, Rowland.”

With my head against the backrest, I’m enjoying this moment, watching the scenery go by.

This is it.

We’re heading back to the scene of the crime.

And we’re doing this together.

* * *

It’s like a dark cloud looms over the place when we arrive.

I can hardly admire the modern architecture before Damien parks the car and heads inside. It’s like he’s forcing himself to face the music and he’s bringing me with him.

Is that why we’re here?

Does he need me or is this wishful thinking?

Getting out of the car I take in a whiff of the crisp air. Pine and wet leaves. With one last look at the glistening lake in front of me, my fists tight, I head for the front door.

It’s not like I remember. Not like the scenes that keep replaying in my head.

The foyer isn’t a mess with glass, blood and porcelain. Streaks of red don’t trail to the kitchen. Everything shines and sparkles as if nothing happened at all.

Damien stands in the glistening kitchen, broad back towards me in his leather jacket. He’s staring at the island, frozen in place.

“Damien?” I call to him but he doesn’t answer. There’s a chill in the room as I move towards him, the place smelling like Febreze and bleach. He doesn’t hear me behind him because when I ask, “You okay?” he jumps as if lightning struck.

“Jesus, Rowland,” he mutters, walking towards the sleek black stairs. He grips the rail like he can hardly walk before he mumbles, “Bathroom.” Without a glance in my direction, he makes his way up the stairs in slow strides.

He leaves me standing in a space that’s getting spookier by the second. When I take another look around the room, most of the decor is wood and concrete, white walls matching the white counters in the kitchen. Coordinating white sofas sit in the open living room. It’s glamorous as usual but the King’s getaway home feels more like a showy hotel.

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