DAMON: A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel (8 page)

H
e would say
:

“Last time we were in North Carolina, Cristov nearly killed himself when he stuck his head out the car window and hit a beehive.”

Or she would say:

“So I got a lot of money out of it, but…well, it just felt confusing. Like I won the lottery, but the ticket nearly cost me my life, and it definitely cost me a big chunk of my sanity.”

He would joke:

“I’d like to start a restaurant called ‘Spaghett About It’…”

Or maybe the joke would be more like:

“What’s the difference between a garbanzo bean and a chick pea?”

“What?”

“Pervs wouldn’t pay $40 to have a garbanzo bean on their face.”

“Ew!”

And sometimes she would muse:

“Oh, Kill Devil Hills – this guy, Greil Marcus, he wrote a book about Bob Dylan and some of the stories are set there. It’s also where the Wright brothers had their first successful flights. It’s also a song on
Tyranny of Souls
. I hate Iron Maiden, though.”

“So how do you know it’s one of their songs?”

“To be honest, I have no idea…”

It hadn’t taken much for Damon and Tricia to open up to each other, and their second day of driving was all pillow talk – it just took place behind the wheel, and before they’d ever had sex. Damon’s bad jokes happened to be right up Tricia’s alley, while Tricia amazed Damon with her catalogue of odd facts, a occupational hazard of working as a librarian; it was amazing the sorts of questions people came into a library with, and even more amazing still that Tricia somehow always knew how to find the answers. That was her job, though, and she did it well.

As they bore down on the Outer Banks, feeling sand under the tires and salt in the air, Tricia changed the playlist from old, classic country to surf rock, with Damon’s approval. They sang along to
Pet Sounds
while rolling down Route 158 to Kitty Hawk, where Damon parked and pulled Tricia out into the heat of the day.

“This
is
worth a few extra hours of driving,” Tricia mused as they began to stroll along the beach. “Not that I’m doing any of the driving, but…”

“Your job is more important,” Damon said. “You’ve got to look pretty and play good music.”

“And laugh at your jokes,” Tricia teased, trying to fight the blush that threatened her cheeks at being called pretty. She was never such a schoolgirl with guys, but Damon had that effect on her.

“Jockey’s Ridge is up that way,” Damon said, pointing along the curved shoreline. “But it’s tourist season. Probably crowded.”

“This is fine,” Tricia sighed, kicking up sand as she walked. “Jockey’s Ridge sounds like a bad cousin of jock itch, anyway.”

Damon laughed, leading her towards the smaller dunes that lay nearby. They walked in silence, listening to the waves and the seagulls, for a while, enjoying the day and each other.

“My name is Damon, and I like bad puns, smelly cheeses, and long walks on the beach,” Tricia teased, darting ahead of him slightly along the hilly sand. They were coming up to a large dune; Tricia’s dress fluttered, clinging to her body, while the sun reflected off her dirty blonde hair, making it shine like gold. Her skin, tanned and slightly sandy, seemed to sparkle. Damon caught up to her quickly, looking at her with eyes that stopped her teasing immediately.

He put his arm around her waist, and pulled in gently. She turned, putting one hand on his chest.
We’re going to kiss now,
she thought, and felt a girlish flutter in her stomach.

“The sun should shine like this all the time,” he said, and with his free hand he brushed a bit of hair from her cheek, though the wind blew it right back onto her face. “It looks good on you.”

His hand on her waist squeezed once, then released. Tricia, confused, leaned in. But Damon was already turning away. Tricia’s mouth was caught between a smile and a frown, and the crease between her eyes showed her confusion. He gave her a half-smile, eyebrows raised, then grabbed her hand. His large palm, calloused and worn, pulsed against hers.

“That was rude,” Tricia said, trying to sound offended but biting back a laugh as Damon took off running, dragging her behind.

“What was?” Damon said over his shoulder, trotting with heavy steps through the sand. He was pulling her up, up, struggling vertically along a towering dune.

“You…didn’t…kiss…me…” Tricia managed to say between panting breaths. He kept up a steady pace until they were at the top, looking down, Tricia suddenly dizzy with the new height, the new landscape – they weren’t more than a few yards from where they’d started, but the world looked different from higher up, the sands shifting in the wind and the coastline daunting.

“Don’t worry,” he said, whispering in her ear now as he twirled her forward so that she stood in front of him, her back to his chest. His words struck chords all down her ribcage, turned her spine into a lightning rod. “I will.”

Tricia paused, waiting a long moment, savoring the heat and weight of his body against hers.

“Promise?” she said, the word barely a whisper.

He nuzzled against her shoulder and didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. She could feel his desire for her as he pulled her back tighter against his body. There was an unmistakable hardness between his legs, pressing against her thighs. That was promise enough. And it kept her heart racing, long after her body had recovered from the climb.

T
ula looked flushed when Kennick
, her cousin, opened the door. A thin sheen of sweat stood out on her forehead, her eyes were bleary.

“Where’s Damon?” she asked. Ricky appeared behind Kennick in the doorway, and Tula’s eyes gravitated towards her, deepened slightly. The whole tribe – Cristov, Kennick, Ricky, and Kim – had gathered in the trailer to discuss where Damon was going, and why. There had been no word from him, and only the vaguest of “it’s fine” texts from Tricia. Two days later, everyone’s nerves were well on their way to frazzled.

“Damon…we don’t know where Damon is,” Kennick said, immediately concerned by the crazed, fevered look in Tula’s face.

“Shit,” Tula hissed, running a hand through her dark hair. Now, Cristov and Kim crowded in the doorway behind Ricky.

“Come in,” Kim offered, when it became apparent that everyone else had forgotten how to act like a human. “Sit down. Let me get you some water.”

There was a moment of general confusion as the four figures in the doorway navigated their way back into the small kitchen, bumping into each other, each overcome with their worst nightmares unfolding in their imaginations. Kim poured some water into a glass and handed it to Tula, whose hands were shaking. Tula slid into the counter at the kitchen table; everyone else remained standing.

“I had a dream,” Tula said. “About Damon.”

Cristov and Kennick exchanged a glance. Tula was a
drabarni
, a psychic of sorts. For most people, gypsy fortune-tellers were scam artists. Tula was the real thing, inheriting her powers from the grandmother she shared with the Volanis siblings. Ricky and Kim exchanged a glance, too. Unlike their men, they were less convinced of Tula’s powers. They weren’t raised to respect things they didn’t understand. To the Romani, Tula’s powers weren’t magic mumbo-jumbo. They were a fact of life, a sense as strong as sight or smell, but only granted to some.

“What happened?” Cristov said.

“Blood,” Tula said, looking up at the group from her seat at the table. “Damon was speaking to me, but I couldn’t hear any of it. And then blood came; from his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his ears. More blood than a body can hold. He’s in danger.”

“Where is he?” Kennick asked, even though that was the exact question Tula had asked when he answered the door. She shook her head, looking down into the glass.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t…I didn’t see that. I’ll try to see it. I’ll do everything I know to do…”

“Wait,” Ricky said, holding out her hand with her palm out. “It was a dream. I mean, not every dream means something, right?”

Tula’s glare betrayed her emotions as she looked at Ricky.

“Do you think I don’t know the difference between dreams that mean and dreams that don’t?” she snapped. Ricky recoiled, knowing that she was in the minority in the room – even Kim had more faith in Tula than Ricky. “I’m telling you, my cousin is in trouble.”

Tula drank deeply of the water, then looked around.

“Where’s Mina?” she asked.

“She’s with Ana,” Cristov said. “At the store.”

“You’ll need her, when you find him,” Tula said, leaning back, looking exhausted. “You know she’s the only one who can talk to him.”

Kennick bristled, but Tula shot him a withering look.

“You might be
rom baro
, but Damon…”

“Is Damon,” Kennick finished, shoulders slumping.

“Well, what the hell is it that we have to stop him from doing?” Cristov said, and Ricky could tell how hard he was working to keep his voice from rising to a yell. Cristov had no patience, not like his brothers. If it were up to Cristov, they would jump in their cars and drive in random directions – chasing their tails.

“Hurting himself,” Tula said, voice flat. “Your brother, our Damon, is a violent man. But he’s most dangerous to himself.”

“He’s not a violent man,” Kim said softly, drawing all the attention in the room to her. “He’s not violent.”

“You don’t know him like we do…” Kennick started to say, a gentle correction.

“No, I don’t,” Kim said. “But I know him. He may be a fighter. He may have done violent things. But he’s not a violent man.”

Kennick held his wife in his gaze, trying to seek out her meaning. She wouldn’t make such a claim, especially in the company of those who knew Damon as intimately as they, without a reason. She met his eyes.

“He’s a protector,” she said. “He wants to keep everyone safe.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Kim?” Cristov erupted, tearing the charged moment in two. “You and Nick need to stop staring at each other like you’re in the middle of a tantric fuck marathon. Who gives a shit whether Damon’s violent or protective or whatever. He can be a secret Nazi for all I care, I’m not letting him get hurt or killed! Not before he…”

Now, it was Ricky’s turn to look at Cristov, wordless meaning passing between them.

“Not before he lets me finish that stupid-ass lighthouse he wanted on his abs,” Cristov finished. Tula raised an eyebrow.

They ended the conversation there; Kim went to pick up Mina so they could discuss it further, and Tula returned to her own trailer, where she would try her most potent – and dangerous – methods to draw out some concrete meaning from her dream. Later, she returned to the Volanis trailer with a bloody nose and nothing more to offer.

“What are we going to do?” Mina asked, sitting between her brothers at the small kitchen table. In the silence that followed, you could hear the clock ticking.

C
amped out in Ocracoke
, near the Atlantic waves, Tricia and Damon moved in surprising synchronization, considering it was only their second night together. She set up camp, he gathered wood. She built the fire, he played guitar. When the fire was small and hot, Damon prepared dinner. Tricia did most of the work since Damon did all the driving; though she offered, again and again, to drive for a few hours each day, he always refused.

“I like driving,” he would say. “And I don’t let anyone touch my baby.”

That “baby” was a twenty-year-old Crown Victoria. It was, admittedly, well kept, and Damon had made customizations that made it feel modern, like the CD player and new, leather seats. Tricia wondered, though, what made it so special to Damon that he’d rather constantly pay for repairs and upgrades, which would surely cost more in the long run than just buying a new car.

“It was my father’s,” he said when she finally asked, and understanding bloomed in her like a lotus. “Kennick inherited the title of
rom baro.
I inherited the car.”

“What did Cristov get?” she asked.

“His ring,” Damon answered. Tricia looked out the window and thought about Ricky, who was, arguably, the least likely to get married. But Cristov had clearly done some major work on Ricky’s cynicism. Just like Kennick had done work on Kim’s battered self-image. And Damon…

She wouldn’t let her mind wander there. Not yet. It was too new to start dreaming of a future beyond the next campsite. Though it seemed that they’d known each other for ages, they’d only been on the trip for two days. And she didn’t want Damon “fixing” her, anyway. She would fix herself. Sometimes, though, when she looked at him, seeing a deep and hardened strangeness – something
wrong
– inside his face, she wondered if he was the one who needed fixing.

That night, they dined on fresh fish from a local market, dressed with lemon and sage and parsley, fried up over the fire with spinach and arugula. Crusty French bread sopped up salty, herbaceous runoff, melting in their mouths at first bite. Damon turned a packet of instant mashed potatoes into a delicacy, mixing in well-aged parmesan, fresh garlic, green onions and more herbs.

Without thinking, Tricia sucked her fingertips into her mouth after the meal to clean them of oil and herbs – when she opened her eyes and saw Damon watching, she blushed.

“Shit,” he said, smiling through the veneer of lust. “Nothing like watching a girl enjoy her meal. Makes you feel like you done real good.”

“Well, you did,” she crooned. “That was the best fish I ever had.”

“That’s because of how fresh it was,” he said.

“So humble,” Tricia said, closing her eyes and shifting herself down to the sandy soil to lay out beside the fire and digest, her head propped up on the log they’d been sitting on. For a moment, looking at her laid out like that with her eyes closed and her hands folded over her stomach, Damon felt a dread sensation. She looked dead. Just like she almost was. Would have been, if…

He pushed the thoughts from his head and focused on the soft rise and fall of her chest, the way her nose scrunched when a breeze lifted a strand of hair and tickled it against her face. She wasn’t dead, she hadn’t died, she was
here now,
with
him.
That thought kicked up another sensation, one far more pleasant but harder to push away.

Her body, gentle and curvaceous and tanned to the shade of the sand, was enough to make his mouth water. She would be more delicious than any gourmet camp side meal. He was going to wait for her to be ready, for her to trust him, for her to
ask
for what she wanted from his body. But the waiting was hard. The waiting was damn near impossible.

If he could have, he would have gone over to her right then, in the light of the sunset, and run his hands up her legs to where they met at her delta, pressed his body against hers and spread her wide, licked the flesh of her neck and readied her for him, watched her eyes expand and deepen as he showed her everything a man could do to please a woman worth pleasing…

Instead, he rose and walked a short distance towards the sea. He was hard as stone, painfully hard, his erection throbbing against the zipper of his jeans. The waves against the shore were like the blood pumping up his neck, down his arms, through his manhood. There were always stories about gypsy witches. Tricia had more power over him in one finger than any sorceress of legend. He didn’t question why, or how. It wasn’t worth questioning. He trusted the tides of his heart and body.

How long was it supposed to take to fall in love? He’d fallen in love with her the night they met. And in the time since, that love had grown patient, tempered, and true. He would wait. He knew not everyone was like him, that most people needed to be sure of someone before they loved them. So he would wait for Tricia to come to that by herself, if she ever did. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she wouldn’t love him back. That wouldn’t make what he felt any less precious, any less worth having.

Back at the campsite, Tricia felt rather than saw Damon’s absence. She blinked her eyes open, turned to see where he’d gone, and saw his silhouette against the setting sun. It was so beautiful she felt her heart cracking in two. Off in the distance, she could see one of the island’s lighthouses, and thought that it was a fitting addition to the living mural before her. Something sturdy and larger than life.

It’s too soon,
she told herself.
You still barely know him…you’ve never even kissed…it’s too soon…

But beneath that warning, her heart beat steadily, and the tune to which it beat was a salve to every wounded doubt.

My man, my man, my man, my man…