Restore Me Page 9

  I enter the penthouse expecting two things: Hemingway to run up to greet me and to see Damon in his office, either staring at that fucking cabinet or acknowledging me dismissively from behind his computer screen. Same shit, different day.

  Damon is, surprisingly, not in his office. I walk in and look around, but he’s nowhere to be found. Hemingway and I go upstairs in search of him but still no luck. I peek into the kitchen. “Not in here, Hemingway.” I check my cell phone to see if he’s left me a message or anything. Nothing. I go back to his office to see if, by some stroke of luck, he’s left a note. I walk around his desk and snoop around. His desk is exceptionally neat, no interesting papers scattered or anything. My hip bumps the desk, causing his computer screen to light up. An email pops up and my eyes struggle to focus on the screen. I have a seat in his chair and take a closer look.

  I know we fought last time we saw each other, but I love you very much and I always will. I heard about your girlfriend and I’m assuming that’s why I haven’t heard from you. I wish you would just talk to me. Can we meet at our usual place? Call me.

  -Elise

  I feel my blood start to boil until I see the name at the end of the email. I remember Grams telling me that Damon’s sister’s name is Elise. From what I understand, they rarely talk or see each other. Another thing I should ask Grams about it, I guess. He’s probably gone to meet up with her. I stand to leave and notice that the key he uses to lock that fucking cabinet is sitting beside his computer. I swear, he has a better relationship with the cabinet than he does with me. I look down at Hemingway, seeking his approval.

  “Don’t judge me,” I whisper. Hemingway tilts his head to the side and watches me snatch up the key then shamelessly march over to the cabinet. “I’ve been dying to know what he keeps in here. You know you’re curious; aren’t you, Mr. Hemingway?” I turn the key over in my hand to inspect it before I slip it into the lock on the cabinet. With one half turn the locking mechanism clicks, giving me access.

  “What in the world?” I furrow my brows at the sight of dozens of notebooks. They’re piled high in three tall stacks. There have to be dozens here. I pick up one from the top of a stack. It’s a black and white composition book. A child’s scribbled handwriting in the title box on the front of the notebook declares the owner.

  Damon Cole 1989

  He had to have been around ten years old in 1989; just one year older than I was when the accident happened. A visual of a young Damon pops into my head, coaxing a smile from me. I can imagine him as a little boy with a troublesome grin, a milk mustache, and curious amber eyes. I picture him having shaggy hair that he probably only combed when someone forced him to. I bet he was adorable. My smile quickly fades as I open the notebook and read a line at random. I read the next line, and the next, and the next. My smile disappears completely as my eyes grow big. I cover my mouth with my hand. My eyes scan line after line of what Young Damon has written. I’m speechless; completely and utterly speechless. Oh, Damon. I turn my attention to the next notebook in the stack.

  Damon Cole 1994

  “15 years old,” I mumble. I choose a page somewhere near the middle of the notebook and begin. I read as far as I can before my eyes refuse to go any further. I shove the notebook back in the stack. I pull another notebook out from somewhere in the bottom of the pile of books. A tri-folded paper slides out from between the next notebooks and I stoop down to pick it up. With one hand, I flick my wrist to open the document. I gasp. His birth certificate. I skim the official document until I find the line that lists the parents. “Father: Edward William Cole, 25, Las Vegas, Nevada. Mother: Beverly Wynona Davis. 17. Las Vegas, Nevada.” He knows his mother’s name?! Why in the world hasn’t he found her? Has he ever even tried?

  My phone chirps as a text comes in. I check my phone to see the message is from Brian.

  Heads up. Boss man is in a mood.

  I fire back a text. Why?

  I secure the birth certificate back in the drawer at the bottom of the pile, but keep the last notebook I dug out. I check the title while I wait for word from Brian.

  Damon Cole 1996

  “The year of the accident.” He was 17 years old. A big boy in my nine-year-old eyes.

  My phone chimes again with another text and I toss the notebook back in the drawer.

  His sister, Elise. He’s on his way home.

  “Oh, shit.” I fire off another quick text to Brian, asking him to pretty please with cherries on top do the car switcheroo for me. I scurry frantically to lock the cabinet doors and return the key to its original position beside his computer monitor before Damon gets home. I rush Hemingway out of the office and busy myself in the kitchen. This should be interesting.

  ***

  Brian was right when he said Damon was in a foul mood. He’s stewing about something but, of course, has said nothing to me about it. He still won’t open up. He doesn’t even say a word to me. He ate his dinner then disappeared into the bedroom. I’ve lost my grip on my self control and it’s time to lay the cards out on the table.

  I make a quick pitstop in the office for my ammo and walk into the bedroom, the stack of composition books in my arms. They’re heavy but I’m so pumped with adrenaline and a rainbow of emotions that the weight of the books are no hindrance.

  He’s sitting up in the bed. His back is against the headboard and he’s wearing the indifferent expression that I’ve come to despise.

  “Do you even know I’m here?” I mumble as I set the books onto the foot of the bed. I glance up at him with the same pitiful hope I have every time I see him, that when my eyes meet his I’ll finally see life, or at least emotion, in them. It’s pathetic. I feel like a dog begging for a scrap of food. I know this isn’t his fault. I know that better than anyone, but I’ve lost patience. I’m boiling over with emotion and I can’t stand the rejection anymore.

  “Still on vacation, I see. Must be nice to just quit! You just throw in the fucking towel and walk away from reality, huh?!” I clench my teeth so hard that pain streaks like a bolt of lightning through my jaw.

  He doesn’t look up. He hardly blinks.

  “Damon, I’m begging you. Begging! Come back. I can’t take it anymore. I feel so damn lonely. Just stop this!” My begging falls on deaf ears because he doesn’t show even the smallest of reactions. He just stares at me with empty amber eyes.

  “I found something today. Wanna know what I found, Damon?” I grab one of the composition books and flip it open. Before I start reading, I glance up at him. I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not, but I swear his chest seems to be rising and falling just a little quicker than before. Please let this work.

  “I found all these composition books. Loads of the damn things just stacked up in that cabinet in your office. So you can imagine my surprise when I decided to be nosy and see what was in them.” I put a finger to a line at random and go for it.

  “I don’t know why he thinks I would ever steal money from his wallet,” I read. “It wasn’t me. He wouldn’t listen and now my lip needs stitches. I only hate him because he hates me.” I peek up at him and I know it’s not my imagination. He’s definitely breathing harder. I flick my wrist to close the book then throw it like a frisbee across the room.

  He startles at the noise, but still doesn’t look at me.

  “That wasn’t your fault,” I clip out through gritted teeth. I grab up another book and flip it open. “I don’t know why he hates me. I wish I did know, because then maybe I could fix it. I could be a better kid and then he would love me. I wish he loved me.” I throw the book and it lands near the other one. I’m making a fucking pile of Damon’s childhood catalog of abuse!

  “Not your fault, Damon. Is this the shit you’re running from, or is it me? Huh? Answer me!” My lip quivers as I reach for another book. Again. My eyes land in the middle of the page and my heart clenches.

  “W-why…does he use a coat hanger?” I think I may vomit, but I continue. “The coat hanger is th
e worst, especially when he heats it with his l-lighter.” I throw the book as if it’s on fire. Tears stream down my face and I’m as desperate as a person could be.

  Damon’s cheeks redden. His chest rises and falls almost like he’s panting. His hands are clutching the blankets so tightly that his knuckles are almost white.

  “That shit wasn’t your fault either.” Before I know it, I’ve opened yet another composition book. My eyes find a bold line at the bottom of the page.

  “Maybe someday someone might save me.”

  I close my eyes and absorb the ache that comes with reading his horrifying journal entries. With my eyes still sealed tight, I send the journal sailing to join the others on the floor. It crashes into the pile and Damon flinches again. My poor Big Man.

  “Not. Your. Fault.” My gaze is locked on a crumbling Damon. I see him coming around. He can’t fight this. He can’t fight me. I take a tentative step towards him on the bed. “Not your fault,” I repeat in a softer tone.

  His brows draw together but his eyes are still locked onto a focal point other than me. Tears stream down his cheeks.

  “It’s not your fault, Damon.”

  His head shakes back and forth. His brows pull even closer together. His jaw tightens. I can see his jaw muscle bulge and tick as he grits his teeth. I take another step closer to him.

  “None of it was your fault,” I say softly.

  “Stop!” He roars so loudly that I jump back.

  I don’t know whether to haul ass or fall to my knees in relief. I do neither. I’m frozen in place. I know I’ve come too far to back off now. “No. You wanted someone to save you from that shit? Well, here I am. Let me save you. You were an innocent kid. None of that was your fault and neither was the accident.”

  “No! Stop!” His booming voice still startles the hell out of me, but I can’t quit now.

  I reach for his hands and unclench them from the blankets. “I’ll save you. You have to let me save you.” I guide one of his big hands up my stomach to my chest. I press his trembling hand, palm down, to my chest; to my heart “My heart beats for you. Let me save you.”

  His eyes flit from side to side before meeting mine. The turmoil I see in those eyes is gut-wrenching.

  “Please, baby.”

  His fist tangles in my shirt as his eyes slide closed. “I’m s-so sorry.” His voice cracks and quakes and I let out a breath that I feel as if I’ve been holding forever. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Hush. It’s okay now,” I whisper as I climb onto the bed to straddle his lap. New tears well in his amber eyes and my heart breaks all over again. Seeing him so distraught is painful for me. I don’t want him unhappy. I don’t want him hurting.

  “I wanted to tell you. I was so dumb. I put you through hell. I—” Tears spill from his eyes and I can’t bear to see it. I pull him to me. His arms wrap around my waist and his head rests against my chest. I feel his body rock as my Big Man sobs; he completely crumbles. 33 years of torment have reached a pinnacle and I’m here to see him fall to pieces.

  And I’ll be here to put those pieces back together.

  “Look at me,” I say, after several long moments pass. My hands cup his head and I pull him away from my chest so I can look at him. Those eyes I melt for bore into me.

  “I love you, Damon. You’re going to get through this. We are going to get through this. Together.”

  His eyes close and he draws in a deep breath. I’m compelled to lean forward and press my lips to his tense forehead. I swipe my thumbs beneath his eyes, wiping away tears as I go. My hands cup his jaw and tilt his head back to look at me. My sweet, broken man needs me. Actually, I’m not sure who needs who more at the moment. I need to feel close to him again. I need to feel wanted by him and he needs to feel anything but tortured. I lean in and press my lips to his. It feels like I haven’t kissed him in millennia. The feel of his mouth against mine is like breathing for the first time. Painfully perfect. It makes me abundantly aware that loving him can be painful as hell, but being without him is a hellish agony.

  ***

  I straddle his lap and hold his sodden face in my hands. I’m still so shocked that Damon was abused so horrendously by the person that he calls his father. It breaks my heart to see this successful, driven, strong man so tormented by his past.

  “If you want to leave, I’ll understand,” he offers weakly.

  “Why in the world would I want to leave?” My head snaps back a fraction as if I’ve just been slapped. “I didn’t leave before, why would I leave now?” He’s lost his mind if he thinks I’d hightail it out of here when I’ve just gotten him back.

  “Because now you know. You read it.” His head drops in shame and it breaks my heart to see him so defeated.

  I lift his face to mind and stare into his bleary eyes. “Listen to me, Damon Cole. I’m not the expert, but I think that’s what love is. It’s knowing the ugly truth and not giving a damn. I don’t care about that.” I motion towards the stack of notebooks that I’ve tossed across the room. “That’s not you. It doesn’t define you. It doesn’t define us.” I motion my hand between my chest and his, lowering my forehead to his. “We define us.”

  “We define us,” he repeats.

  “Yes, Damon. Us. Nobody else.”

  In almost an instant, I see the worry leave his face. Those warm eyes, the ones I’ve missed so much, return. I wrap my arms around his neck and hug him tightly. His muscles relax under my touch and I’m so relieved I could cry. I thought he might always be Zombie Damon. I’m glad I was wrong.

  With one easy motion Damon flips me onto my back, his hips conveniently settling between my thighs. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at me with a tentative smile. “I’m going to make you happy, Josephine.”

  I haven’t seen him smile in almost two months and it makes me almost giddy with excitement. I let out a girlish, high-pitched laugh and his smile widens. I lift my hand to brush the back of my fingers down his cheek. “You already have.” It’s the truth. “When you say things like that, it’s all the proof I need that I chose wisely. I chose a wonderful, caring, brave man. I just wish you could see how great you are.”

  “I wish I could, too. I wish we both could. One day, Josephine. One day we’ll convince each other what good people we really are.”

  He sighs contemplatively then moves in, kissing me breathless. His lips are soft but firm against mine. His tongue slips across my lips to caress my own tongue. I moan into his mouth and he deepens the kiss. I bite down on his lower lip and he growls appreciatively. This Damon, my Big Man, is a naughty devil and I love it. He kisses me chastely once more before he pulls away.

  He gets to his knees and grabs the hem of my shirt, pulling it swiftly over my head. I actually have butterflies in my stomach as he unbuttons my shorts and pulls them down my legs. His eyes skate over my body appraisingly as I lie beneath him in just my bra and panties. He takes off his shirt. His chest is a sight that I’ll never get tired of seeing. It’s a perfectly defined masterpiece that has my mouth watering to kiss every inch of it. I slip my hand behind my back and unclasp my bra as I watch Damon kick off his pants. He’s commando today and it’s just another reason why I adore my naughty man. With one quick tug, my panties join a stack of clothing on the floor beside the bed. He kneels back between my legs in all his naked glory, his cock bobbing heavily, fully erect and throbbing. My heart begins to race with anticipation.

  Damon leans down, resting on his forearms, caging me under his beautiful body. He angles his head and kisses my neck tenderly. My eyes slide closed; it’s a spot he knows I love and I squirm beneath him. He kisses a hot trail from behind my ear, up to my jaw, to my mouth. The moment his lips take mine, his cock breaches past my wet opening, plunging all the way into me. It steals my breath. I dig my fingernails into his muscular back. His tongue caresses mine. Each thrust of his hips seems to be in perfect time with his tongue. He plunders my pussy and my mouth simultaneously and I’ve never felt so c
ompletely his until now. I let him take as much from me as he possibly can. The pace isn’t slow but it isn’t fast, either. I can feel the bulging tip of his cock striking against my womb. It’s a euphoric feeling that I’ve come to love and count on from him. I know and he knows that he’s the only man to go there. I hope he’s the only man that will ever know my body so intimately.

  My favorite sensation begins to bud deep within my stomach. It tightens and stirs with each thrust he makes. A resounding moan flies from my mouth. Damon groans knowingly. His pace quickens. My toes curl and stiffen. My breath catches in my throat. The sensation in my stomach explodes violently, sending shock waves of pleasure roaring through my body. Tremors have my limbs shaking as my joy peaks. Damon’s gaze is glued to mine, a bead of sweat blossoming at his brow line as he takes two more breathtaking drives into me. His body shakes and jolts as he spills deep inside me, giving himself to me with every drop.

  I have no memory of ever being so content. Not ever. I lie with my head on his shoulder, tracing the dips, hollows, curves, and crests of his naked form with my finger tip.

  “Does Versan know about the notebooks?” I tilt my head back so that my eyes can meet his.

  He glances down at me. “I think I’ve mentioned that I used to journal growing up, but no one has ever seen them. You’re the first.”

  I’m not surprised by his confession; I am impressed that he’s talking to me, even if it is a post-coital glow. This is progress! “Why do you keep them?”

  “To remember how much I hate him.”