Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.
Beta'd by HollettLA.
I was going to wait until tomorrow . . . but I have the extra time today. LOL. Here's Wednesday's/tomorrow's update. Depending, I'll update again on Sunday.
WARNING: Most of this chapter will be offensive to some readers. I apologize ahead of time, but it's Damion, not me! XOXOXOXO
ENJOY!
Immediately follows chapter 15.
Riders on the Storm
Chapter Sixteen: Case Study
DAMION
"Amelia!" I called after her. She was walking very fast ahead of me on the busy Manhattan avenue, holding her cell phone.
But she hadn't called for her ride.
I observed that shit. And unless she's the stealthiest texter in the world, she hadn't sent a message either.
It was a game . . .
She was the mouse, I was the cat, and I was down to play. "AMELIA!" I shouted.
"Fuck you!" She turned to give me the finger.
"You promise?" I kept following after her, strolling at a normal pace.
"You—" She waved her fist, groaning. "You're an asshole!"
Some guy whistled. "You tell 'em, honey."
I chuckled, getting a kick out of this shit. "AMELIA!"
"Fuck off!" She showed me her phone, this fire in her eyes. "I've had enough of your shit—you lousy bastard. I'm calling for a fucking ride."
"Oh!" I boomed. "You kiss your boyfriend with that mouth?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Is that what you are?" She walked backward, and I hoped she didn't stumble. Amelia was wearing the highest heels I'd ever seen her wear—ever seen any female wear. Her legs were long as days tonight, and I couldn't wait to have them wrapped around me. "I thought you were a demon sent from hell to torture me."
"That's bullshit." I was finally caught up to her, but she was fast to step away. "I only have good intentions—"
"More like cruel intentions . . . is this all a game, Damion? Do you just…I don't know. You get random thoughts and think, 'Hey, I wonder what I can make Amelia do today?' Because it's not funny." She was trying not to cry, her chin wrinkling. "No…fuck you!" Amelia turned, walking away.
"Amelia—"
"What?!" She whipped around, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Get over here." I'd had enough of her shit and pulled her into my arms. "It was a stupid idea." My hands roamed down her back—loving the dress she was wearing. It hugged every fucking curve, and she wore it just for me.
"No…" She tried to push me away. "All you care about is sex—that's all I'm here for."
"That's not true—"
"Yeah, it is…You fuck up. I get mad. You smile, which makes me smile, and then we're naked. We never talk about our problems . . . You drive me crazy!" And she did look a bit insane, stomping away from me again. "I can't—I can't keep doing this with you . . . What the fuck am I to you?"
"You're my girl—"
"No." She held her face, and something dawned on me. We were having this fight in a very public venue. Amelia had me shouting in a fucking street for her. If that doesn't tell her something . . . "You fucked that stripper."
"What?" I laughed, because that totally came out of left field.
"As soon as you walked in the door, she was all over you." It was true. In fact, Misty thought Amelia was a new hire or something. That's how hot my girl looked tonight. "You did . . . and then at the party, I had to see that hag. Everywhere we go…are we going to run into women you've been with?" That shit was even funnier.
"No," I whispered. "I never slept with Misty—"
"You're lying."
"Amelia…" I sighed.
"Okay. I believe you." She wanted to smile, but she wasn't going to. "I just—I feel—I—I don't know. Like, we're not moving forward? We just, and I'm not complaining, but all we do is have sex—"
"That's not all we do." In between, I've been baring my fucking soul to her—wanting her to get to know me.
She never asked me for a list of all the women I've slept with, but the ones I've spoken about—Lauren, Julie, and then that woman I met in a diner two years ago, I can't recall her name—are the only ones I've been intimate with.
I even told her about that shit with Alex . . .
Amelia didn't have an immediate reaction, but now she watches Alex . . . like she's competition when there's no need for that.
I've never spoken about the other things I've done—not yet, not until she's my wife.
But why am I divulging all of this?
Last week, I started my psych rotation, and I have to make a case study—report about a mock or real patient I'd had an encounter with. It's supposed to be ongoing and in-depth. I'm just starting.
The narcissist that I am didn't find any of those fuckers interesting.
Although, I can wait 'til I find someone, I chose to study myself—hitting the books, doing research, doing that soul-searching Dad suggested.
What I've learned about myself so far . . . it's a hoot, truly hilarious.
After thinking . . . searching my brain, trying to dig up repressed childhood memories . . . a random thought came to mind.
The first time anyone had ever judged me, I was twelve years old. Poking fun, teasing, was one thing, but this was different, and I had no idea what I'd done to warrant such a reaction—or maybe it was a general observation.
My father looked to my mother, pointing at me, while he said, "That's one cold kid". My mother bristled, defended me, but Dad gave me an odd look before just walking away. The both of them were always in such denial . . . All their kids were perfect, nothing wrong, everything heals itself with time. They were great parents, but when confronted with issues? They'd acknowledge them and push past them—tell us to be brave and do the same without actually working through anything.
Either way, it all boiled down to when I was sent away at the age of eight—when my family went into hiding.
A few years ago, I found out it was actually because New York was at war with Jersey . . . ironic as fuck. Reminds me of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, "My only love sprung from my only hate."
We went into hiding. Then things kind of went downhill after that—one after another, things were happening, all at a pivotal developmental age . . . when I was finally becoming aware of things—comprehending circumstances.
My aunt blew her head off, Nanny died, new people were inserted into my life, we went back into hiding after Sonny was shot, which was traumatic in and of itself. I can still recall that day—the smell of his blood mixed with my father's aftershave . . . being dragged across gravel while shots were fired. Being scared shitless because . . . my one and only constant . . . Forget about my mother or my father. If they sent us away, Sonny was there—he was always there, like a surrogate father. And that time, I was shipped off without Mom, Dad, or even Sonny to dull the ache.
Those events . . . none of them were ever explained. My parents never sat me down to talk it all out. All of which made me self-soothe, be my own rock—when I was away from them, and then coming back from wherever we'd gone.
Shouting—Mom and Dad fighting—used to scare me. One day, it didn't anymore. The monsters under the bed, the ones in my closet, the boogeyman who was going to steal me from the window . . . They disappeared. Fuck them. They weren't scary anymore. Real shit—real life was something to be afraid of, associating with people could be hazardous.
One minute my dad's about to buy a car, and the next . . .
Apparently, I just kept getting more and more detached from people, my family especially—colder, if you will.
Then when things started to slow down . . . I was starting high school. My father took an active role in my life—Mom was happier . . . things were just chilled out for a while, and then that shit happened with Lauren.
I never saw that shit as anything, although I do look back on it with disgust. She molested me, practically raped me, yet she gave me the kind of attention I actually craved—and I'd inadvertently been seeking the approval from older women ever since.
I'm still working on it, but from a clinical standpoint . . .
With no conscience, essentially no regard for others, I can be superficially charming and manipulative. During certain acts or in times where I should…feel something, I don't. I have no empathy, and when it's over, I have no remorse.
I'm very passive—try to swallow my anger—but when pushed . . . I snap. Although I hardly ever get angry, I have deep-rooted aggression issues, which present—manifest—in a predatory drive. I get off on control and the domination, anywhere from fucking to a fresh kill, or just walking down the fucking block.
And I find myself suppressing most of these issues . . . urges . . . desires—I'm trying to be mainstream, acting, taking the forms of others I see.
I don't want to give myself this much credit, but all signs point to Sadistic Sociopath.
It was a startling discovery, one that sent me running for anti-psychotics.
Kidding.
I think it's bullshit.
But with all arrows pointing, why can't I see myself this way?
Some shit just doesn't add up, which leads me to need more information—do more research.
I hate psychiatrists, though. Most of the week, I had a brow raised, passing them tissues . . . blamed their mothers for their issues—psychobabble garbage.
But that's just it . . . you can't get to where you're going unless you know where you came from. . . and everything goes back to the parents. No matter how loving, smothering, or horrible—we're all fucked up in one way or another.
"You're not liked. How does that make you feel?"
Boo-fucking-hoo.
Half of those sorry slobs I saw last week . . . I wanted to euthanize them, give them the out they so clearly needed—pathetic pieces of shit.
Aerophobics—put their asses on a plane.
Homophobics—put them in a room full of gays.
It's not a real phobia anyway. That's just ignorance.
Agoraphobics—push them out a window, make them go outside.
Claustrophobics—lock them in a closet for an hour.
All the pills . . . all the talking . . .
Let's take those options away and let natural selection do its job.
Hand them a revolver and one bullet . . . most of them would never pull the trigger. And the whiners? I wanted to send them to a Third World country, so they could have something real to bitch about. Schizophrenics? Dude, put them on a fucking stage—get a good laugh—find out the innermost government secrets—and then strangle them.
Amelia makes it all disappear. I don't think about that stuff when we're together.
Was she my salvation? I needed her, like air to breathe. I opened myself up, as much as it killed me, and she doesn't know everything. I bet if she did, she'd run away. Yet, I needed to know her—she needed to see me.
"Please." She scoffed. "Call me when—"
"Don't do that." I placed my finger over her lips. "Stop running your mouth, stop storming away from me—"
"Fuck you. I'm so sick of walking on eggshells with you." She went to turn.
I grabbed her arm. "Don't."
"Don't, what?" She pulled away again. "You told me a couple of secrets . . . I've told you everything about myself." Amelia was crying again. "You want me, and then you blatantly disregard me. What do you want, Damion? Tell me. Please, enlighten me!" She was shouting again.
"Nothing," I said, content with everything about us. I didn't need anything more, just her—my girl, my partner-in-crime, because that's what she was—with her own demons and devilish mind. She'd gone through some shit, too.
Growing up within the families we did, our childhoods were bound to leave scars.
"Nothing." She nodded, sucking her upper-lip into her mouth, slowly backing away. "Right." Amelia blew out a shaky breath, her whole face falling, and I'd never seen that expression on her before. "Thanks," she whispered, going toward the curb. "Taxi!" She lifted her arm, her voice strangled but loud.
"Hey…we're talking."
Amelia refused to look at me. "I'm done—I can't." A cab pulled up, and she opened the door. "You need a ready-made whore, one who doesn't speak . . . someone to spread her legs and stroke your ego, obey your commands." She spat at me, entering the vehicle.
"What?" I couldn't wrap my head around it. "You offered to let her dance for you—"
"You're fucking clueless. Don't call me. Don't contact me—" She went to close the door, but I stood in her way.
"Get out of the fucking car." I pointed.
"No—"
Gnashing my teeth together, I pulled her out, closed the door. "Go!" I hollered to the driver, while Amelia fought against me. Once the car took off, I released her. "Relax—" My head whipped to the side when she slapped me.
My hand immediately came up to grab her jaw. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Relax!"
She spit in my face. "Let me go!"
"What is the matter with you?" I kept my voice down, ignoring her saliva on my cheek.
"Just let me go," she cried, exasperated.
"I can't." And I really couldn't.
"Why?" Her voice was pained. "I'm nothing special—"
"Don't say that." I placed my arm over her shoulder, ushering her to the corner closest to Eclipse. "I've never slept with any of those pigs in there."
"That's not the point. I know it's only been—been a little while—" She sniffled. "I don't know what I mean. I know I—said it the first night we met. But you, you are intense…and I'm driving myself crazy trying to keep up with you, trying to please you, afraid of doing the wrong things."
"You—"
"You've said it before . . . face the world, face your fears guns blazing. So, here I am." She widened her arms. "I'm ready to leave you—end whatever the fuck this is. Meanwhile, I bet it hurts worse…being away from you, more so than being with you." She ranted.
"You hurt, being with me?" I asked. "It's painful to be with me?"
She looked away, not meeting my gaze.
"Amelia." I turned her chin to me.
And she shut down. Before my very eyes, tears quietly fell down her cheeks. She looked grim, sad—her face pale.
"Baby?" I kissed her lips, and she pulled away. "Don't do that." By this point, my stomach was a knotted mess—and I hated myself, wanting to force a reaction out of her, get her to tell me what was truly bothering her. This outburst…it came from nowhere, and it obviously went deeper than having fucking Misty dance on top of her.
"I wanna go home," she whispered.
I shook my head.
Her face crumbled. "Please."
"No," I said, taking her hand in mine.
"No, I wanna go home now. Y-you're scaring me."
"Me?" I pointed to myself, the picture of calm.
She took in a shaky breath. "Your eyes are—"
I didn't know what was wrong with my eyes, but I rolled them. "That's bullshit, but regardless...we have to talk. Then…barring any complications, I'll call a taxi for you myself." That was some more bullshit . . . she's spending the night with me.
Amelia didn't say a word as I escorted us back to Eclipse. Momo let us in, no questions asked. The party at La Bella Italia must have broken apart because Aro was at the bar, and I vaguely wondered what he'd be doing here. But then I saw Sonny pouring him a shot—the both of them looking like wounded soldiers or some shit.
Caius and Nunzio were across the room, associating with a couple girls…
It was packed now—with made guys and guys ready to spend their paychecks, the money they'd made.
"What's up?" Sonny shouted.
"I need your office!" I half-turned, hiding Amelia with my body. Her face was a wreck, makeup all over from crying, and I didn't want people to get the wrong idea.
"What's wrong?"
"Mind your business," I told Aro, continuing on.
They let me go, didn't say another word, but when I entered the office Layla was in there. That chick who was hurt… She was at Sonny's desk going over invoices. "What are you doing in here?" I asked.
She shot up, staring at Amelia. "Is she okay?"
"I asked you the question." I stood in front of Amelia, who'd gone for the door. I was quick to run and stop her from opening it, slamming my hands on the door above her head. "Stop being dramatic—I just wanna talk." Bringing her over to the couch, she plopped down, giving me this cold glare. "You ripping my brother off?" I turned back to that chick.
She shook her head no. "I, uh, Mr. Cullen wanted me to make-make-ma-make out a-a list—for inventory? What-what we buy more of and such." She was shaking.
"Go." I pointed to the door, and she ran.
Once the door closed, I breathed a sigh of relief. The walls were still pumping from the music, but it was peaceful—better than some street. "Can you talk to me now?" Sitting next to Amelia, I took her hand into mine.
"I think I hate you," she whispered.
I nodded. "That's a strong emotion—go with it." That shit just flew out of my mouth, like she was one of the patients I saw.
Apparently, she didn't like that response either. Amelia fucking punched me in the face—right in the nose.
"Fuck." Instinctively, I grabbed a hold of her hair to stop her. "What the fuck was that for?" I shook her a bit.
"Oww—"
"Oh, but you can punch me…?" I found it hilarious, laughing and leaning over her—incredibly turned on by her temper.
"You sounded like an asshole." She pushed her tits out, giving off those fuck-me vibes. "You just—" She stared at my lips, her chest heaving.
"Christ…you—" Words failed me, staring into those watery, beautiful brown eyes, needing to kiss her pouty mouth. "I lo—"
I stopped when the door burst open. It was my brother. He stood in the doorway, looking like a madman.
"Get away from her," Sonny said.
"We're talking—"
"That's talking?" he shouted, gesturing toward us.
Letting go of Amelia's hair, I said, "Fuck you" and shook my head in disbelief; people were buggin' today. "Just give me a minute."
My brother came barreling toward me, and then I was thrown halfway across the room. It all happened so fast, I barely had time to register a thing.
Shooting up, I rammed into him—making him fall back. There were various screams—mostly by Amelia, and I heard Aro shouting, telling people to stay back. Sonny had the upper hand, straddling me—punching me in the face, while I tried to block him, but then—as hard as I could—I got him with my forearms, right in his gut.
He grunted, falling over to his side, and I was on him fast—using my forearm again to choke off his air supply, hugging his head with my other arm. I wasn't sure where that strength came from, but my teeth were grinding—about to break a fucking tooth with the anger I felt. I was about to say it—tell Amelia the words I so desperately wanted her to hear, and he had to ruin it. Because he's miserable, I have to be, too.
Amelia thinks I'm intense, but we're—the way we care for one another—is intense. Others just wouldn't understand. Nothing, not even Sonny, was going to take her away from me.
"All right, Dame—let go." Aro pulled me by my shoulders.
My heart was thumping in my chest, ignoring Sonny's nails digging into my arm, his legs flailing, my entire body shaking.
But then it all went black . . .
Sonny, who was likely holding himself back, letting me choke him for a bit, punched me in the head.
My eyes fluttered, my vision blurry at first, and Sonny was in my face. I threw my fist out, and he caught my hand. "Good…you're alive." He backed off.
My head ached something horrible when I sat up, sure I had a minor concussion. "Where's—"
"She left—"
"What?" I jumped to my feet, grabbing my nine from my waist. "You let her go?"
He stared at my heat. "What'chu gonna do, Dame? You gonna shoot me?" He found this amusing.
"You motherfucker—"
Then I heard a gasp come from behind me and whipped to the sound. It was Amelia.
"I asked her to step out…just for a minute," Sonny said, tilting his head and staring at me. He wasn't sizing me up. His gaze was scrutinizing.
"Damion…" Amelia stopped where she was.
"Get in here." I pointed my shit to the ground.
"Put the gun away." Sonny was unfazed, and I wished he was . . . He had no idea. No fucking idea what I would have done to him had he let Amelia leave. I'm not stupid. My girl does have a temper, and once she crosses the line into Jersey . . . I no longer have any hold.
"Oh…check out this big shot." Caius and Aro were suddenly behind Amelia in the doorway.
"Oh, ho-ho," Aro laughed, waving his hands.
"Put it down, Dame." Now Sonny didn't look so calm with them here. "Don't provoke him. All three of you—get out," he spoke to everyone but me.
I shook my throbbing head.
"Gimme a fucking break." Caius scoffed, walking farther into the room. "This little shit…?" Now, he sized me up, looking me up and down.
My eyes followed every step he made . . .
But then Aro stopped him, staring at me. "Call the Skip—tell him his kid's about to get shot."
"Do not call my father again." Sonny sounded bored now. "Bet he's on his way here already."
"Damion…" Amelia placed her hand on my chest.
"Come on, hon…your boyfriend's about to have a mental meltdown." Aro ushered her away—he put his hands on her, and I put my Glock to his neck. "Put it down," he said. "We both know you ain't gonna do shit—"
"Don't!" Sonny shouted, and my finger was itching.
"Go 'head." Caius nodded. "Go for it, Dame. You know you want to."
Aro laughed. "Fucking C-bag—stop messin' wit' the kid."
"What the fuck?" Sonny widened his arms, and there was too much movement going on in the room. "Don't provoke him!"
"Look at me," Amelia said, stepping out in front of Aro. My body went limp as she directed the gun down and to her chest. "Put the gun away—"
"Maybe you should listen to your girl—"
"Quiet," Sonny hissed at Caius.
"I love you," Amelia whispered. She was crying, and I felt this . . . tremendous amount of relief, even my shoulders relaxed. But then, I suddenly felt like I was trapped in this fucked up nightmare.
"What?" I rasped.
"I-I said I love you," she sobbed.
I nodded. "I love you, too." My eyes slowly trailed about the room. "What's wrong with me?" I think I asked myself that question.
No one answered me either way.
Sonny snatched the nine right out of my hand, and I let him, gulping—my mouth like a desert. Then my brother pushed Caius out of the room, turning back to Amelia. "Can you give us a minute?" He looked to me fast. "Just a minute."
I didn't say anything, cradling my hurting head and collapsing to the couch.
Once the door clicked closed, Sonny came over to my side. "What can I do to help you?" he whispered.
I didn't answer him.
"Maybe he needs a doctor—maybe you knocked the last screw loose," Aro said.
"Fuck you." I spat.
He laughed. "Good. You're still with us." Aro patted my back. "I don't know what that whole shit was about . . . but do-do you want me to call your parents?" I think I saw fear in his eyes. "Your father—"
"No." I pulled on my hair, and even that was painful. "I'm fine." Deep in my heart, I knew Amelia was definitely leaving now, despite whatever she felt—she'd seen me. That side of me had been exposed, and she was going to run, but I couldn't imagine that—not now, not ever, not when I'd—by any means necessary—do whatever it'd take to keep her.
"We all go a little googootz sometimes. Know what I mean?" Aro asked. "You'll be okay." He squeezed my shoulder, and then he was gone too.
Sonny was the last man standing, or sitting in his case. "What the fuck was that?"
I shrugged.
"You're scaring the fuck out of me, and I don't know how to help you…" His voice had an anguish in it that I couldn't place. "I always look out for you, but…I mean, you were so happy before. I don't understand."
I didn't reply.
"Do you truly not realize what's right and what's wrong? The difference? Is that what it is? Because . . . you do things, carry on like there'll be no consequences…yoking up women, pointing Glocks at fuckers who'll kill you faster than you could pull a trigger. Shit. Important women at that...Alex and now Amelia—"
"I didn't hurt Amelia," I whispered. "I was drunk that one night—"
"Okay." He put his hands out. "Do you have a death wish? Do you want to die? Because that's what's going to happen." He nodded. "Dad and I can only do so much. There's already a pile of bodies because of the shit you pulled. Maybe Joe's no longer talking, but others are . . . You also can't burn bridges—you can't point a fucking gun and not—"
"I had every intention of—"
"Exactly, and then you'd be dead," he said. "I need you to help me help you." He placed his hand on my knee.
I laughed. "Maybe we should trade places . . . you be me for the next three weeks." Maybe being with all those head cases fucked with me, but I knew that wasn't true. "Why do I feel—why do I feel everything at once and then nothing at all? There's different levels of anger—"
"And you just flip the fuck out. You go from being cool to insane in seconds," he laughed. "I know. Dad's like that, too…sometimes."
I didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
"He told you not to come here." He nudged my elbow. "When he says all of it or none of it, he means that. You can't be half a gangster, Dame. There's no such thing. When you have a button, you can get away with a lot more. Right now? You're basically an outsider—fuck your last name, or who your father is. You're a nobody who pulled a nine on two capos and a underboss." When he laid it out, it sounded even worse. "And fucking Amelia . . . She's not the type to tattle to Daddy, is she?" No, that shit was worse.
"No," I said. "I think she's used to me by now. It started as a game . . . She does this—does things to get reactions out of me."
"Well, she got one—got roughed up and told she was loved all in the same night. That's—I don't know what to call that."
Neither did I. "I didn't rough her up."
"Bro, the way you love and the way I love are two different things." He grimaced. "But I get it."
"You're a pussy—"
"No," he said.
"We're back to this?" I asked. "You judge me, but you're just going to let Katie walk away again? What the fuck for? Put your foot down."
"This isn't about me, Dame," Sonny sighed, looking away from me. "Stop deflecting . . . I know it's easy, but cut it out and be straight with me."
I groaned, shaking my head of the last of the fog. "I'm fine, all right? No worries."
"You're not—"
I put my hand out.
"No fucking way." He put my nine in his waist. "This shit is mine now. I'm not giving it back—" There was a knock, and we both turned for the door.
Amelia stood there with that Layla chick peeking in from behind her. This shit was none of her business.
"What is she, what's her deal?" I gestured to her.
Layla was attacked, so now she's the Patron Saint of all crying women? She can go chill with Alex.
"Me?" Amelia pointed to herself. "It's me, Damion. It's Amelia."
"No, I mean . . . Fuck." I held my face.
Sonny laughed at me—at the situation.
"Hey." Amelia pulled on my arm. "You okay?"
I nodded. "I'm sorry."
"So am I," she whispered, but my attention was torn away from her.
My father came stomping into the office. "It's like you're fucking babies—all of youse!" He was pissed. "Kylie can't hold her liquor, puking everywhere—Dame's throwing a tantrum." He turned to Amelia. "Go get me a drink—a bottle of Jack."
My girl scurried away to fetch that for him.
"What the fuck?" I asked.
Dad was shaking his head at Sonny. "I got laid more when youse were toddlers . . ."
Sonny chuckled. "That—that sucks."
"Tell me about it." Dad took off his coat. "Mom was tipsy, too, and you know she goes into freak mode."
"Eh, eh, eh." Sonny plugged his ears.
"Oh, fuck you." Dad pushed him playfully. "I gotta hear about every blowjob you ever had, you can hear—"
"That's my mother!" Sonny was laughing.
Dad pursed his lips. "All right...I get it."
"You can talk to me . . . When I hear the word freak, though, I just don't wanna hear anymore."
They were both in hysterics now.
They were both ignoring me.
Not once had my father even glanced over at me.
They got all quiet when Amelia came in with the Jack. "Hon, Sonny's gonna drive you home—"
"Hell no!" I shouted.
"I had a couple. It'd be wise I didn't drive." Sonny scratched his head, but—sadly—that wasn't what I was worried about. My stomach rolled with nausea—just the thought of him being alone with her.
"Then have someone else drive youse, but you're taking the ride," Dad explained. "Luke knows you, and so you'll take her home—"
"I can—"
"You don't talk." He waved a finger at me. "Go," he told Sonny.
My brother was fast to gather his things as I walked over to Amelia. I didn't know where we stood—what was going on, or . . . anything. "I'm sorry."
Her lip quivered. "Call me—no matter what time."
"What?"
"Call me." Her eyes widened. "Let me know you're okay." She reached for my head. "He hit you so hard . . . I just—I think you should go to the ER." She was worried about me.
"You don't hate me." Relief flooded me again, practically brought fucking tears to my eyes.
"No," she said. "I love you."
I swallowed. "I love you, too." I held her cheek, my knuckles bloodied and red. "I do everything wrong." And I'd more than likely hurt her again in some way, but I was too fucking selfish to let her go.
"Different." She snorted. "Not wrong, just different." Her smile . . . it just—
"All right. All is grand in Loverville, now scram." Dad waved her and Sonny away. "It was very nice seeing you again." He patted Amelia's head.
When they were gone, my father turned to me. He made me sit in a chair while he occupied the desk, and then we stared at each other for a long time. I was pissed at him for letting Sonny take Amelia home. Logically, I knew she had to go, but I didn't want her to.
"You better start talking, or I'm gonna start swinging." He looked to his watch. "I got people calling me, telling me you're here when you're not supposed to be...then there's a hold-up at my club . . . I'm thinking the worst, but it's my son throwing a hissy fit."
I threw my hands in the air. "Right…tease me. You don't treat Sonny—"
"Oh, no." He shook his head. "Sonny works for me. You'd cry if I treated you the same way I treat him. Maybe that's where I went wrong?" He stared at me. "Always having to worry about your feelings . . . your mother always telling me how sensitive you were," he laughed.
"I hate you."
"I know." He nodded. "I've realized that lately."
"Good," I said.
"We're a lot alike—me and you." He waved a finger, bringing the bottle of liquor to his lips with the other hand. "You want?"
I declined the booze, gritting my teeth together.
"I can sit here all night . . ." He swiveled in his chair. "You can stew, plot ways to kill me, or you can talk to me. Tell me what the fuck your problems are—tell me where I went wrong as a parent." He found that shit funny, too.
"I'm fine—I snapped. I'm fine now. Case closed."
"Until next time." He pointed to me. "Your behavior will escalate and escalate until you're A) Dead, B) In a straitjacket, or C) In prison." He smiled, counting off his fingers. "Take my word for it."
"What makes you so sure?" I asked.
He smiled, turning away from me. "I won't lie. I can't help you, because I don't know how. But I can do what I've been doing all my life."
"What's that?" I raised a brow.
"Play devil's advocate." He moved in his chair again, swaying from side to side, and he did resemble Satan in a way . . . "You, me, that fucker Caius . . . We're all cut from the same mold, have that same . . . side to us."
"I'm nothing like that asshole—"
"You're a natural born killer. That sound better?" he asked. "I think the technical term is sociopath."
I put my head down, didn't know what to say.
"And I can't seem to keep you away from all this . . . My mind automatically goes to how I can utilize you, not necessarily how to punish you." He pursed his lips. "Beating the fuck out of ya would be ideal, but Sonny already took care of that."
I glared at him.
He smirked back at me. "You ain't shit, baby boy . . . You can try to knock me down, but the key word is 'try'." And he lost me. I had no idea what he was talking about. "The day you try to take me out . . ." He chuckled, and I'd never seen this side to him.
"You just keep reminding yourself that while you might be invisible to others, you're not to me. I can see every side to you." Dad took a swig from the bottle. "You want some now? Thirsty?"
I cautiously took the Jack Daniel's from him, taking a large gulp.
"I know exactly what happened . . . You were feeling a certain way, too overwhelmed. It happens to guys like us—guys who don't know how to act when we actually feel. Then one of those fuckers caught you at the wrong time. Made you—in your words—snap?"
I took another sip of booze.
"Oh, I'm right." He clapped. "Learn from now. I always am."
I nodded, my cheeks puffing and burning before I swallowed all the liquor down.
"There's two kinds of cats in this thing . . . Ones that are like you, me, Caius, and Lou, and those who are like your brother, MY brother, Jasper, Aro, Anton, Nunzio—the logical thinkers, the moneymakers. You wanna be friendly with them. They're the bread and butter behind this whole thing . . . the whole thing." He trailed off with a sigh, swiveling in that damn chair again. "But you need something done? You come to me, you do it yourself, or you ask Caius . . . Aro, too. He's versatile, and one may say he's the one to watch out for, but he's relatively harmless—has a big heart. We all balance each other out, I guess...keep each other in check."
"Are you drunk?" I asked, clearing my throat.
"Maybe . . . I was at your uncle's house. We all went there after dinner." He blew out a breath. "The babies, the twins were somewhere. I dunno . . . You know, your cousin Eddie scares me—the way he looks at your sister. It ain't right."
"He's curious," I said. "What's he, fifteen? Kylie's the only one close to his age."
"Still . . . fucking freak. We're all freaks. Each one of us is more fucked than the next." He pointed to me.
"Is there a point to this?" I whispered, my head still throbbing, and I passed the bottle back over to him—knowing I shouldn't be drinking.
"You were doing so well. I hadn't heard from you—anything bad, I mean. You were all smiles . . . in love." He grinned, bunching his shoulders. "It was cute . . . while it lasted, and I was happy for you."
"She's still—"
"I meant that cloud you were on, while you were trying to channel your bad behavior, that energy into sex and kinky shit."
He had me there, and I didn't say a word.
"You'll get used to having a heart...feeling, having emotions besides waning, bullshit desires—shit that only temporarily gets you off. You'll also get used to dealing—when your heart's threatened to be taken from you. You won't flip out every time. Feeling something won't be such a shock, and you'll handle things better. Make sense?"
"Yeah."
"Sometimes...we just need a good woman to wake us up—make us feel, fall in love, and open our eyes." He chuckled. "We all have our soft spots, and you can't show any weakness. Your brother is good at that. Maybe he doesn't like to get his hands dirty, maybe he loses his temper sometimes—which can be seen as a fault, others will learn how to push his buttons—but he's tough as nails. He has real heart—honor, loyalty, respect—all the shit I taught him. He's smart, doesn't whine...Christ, I can't remember the last time that kid cried. The only thing he doesn't have is love . . . He only thinks—fooled himself into believing he loves Katie. Once he realizes, deals and gets over that hurdle, falls in love again..." He looked back to me. "I think we'll see a whole different side of him. Although I could be wrong...I'm still going to support him while he tries to make it work with her. On the real, though, you—you're his weakness in some ways. You're his best friend, he'll always go to bat for you—Kylie, too."
He smiled at me. "I'm sorry for rambling...my head flew away from me."
I shrugged.
"I used your brother as an example. My point is you only think you're void of emotion, Dame, but you're really not. You don't even mask that shit well, as much as you try. Others don't have to try at all. You say you don't give a fuck about anything, when you actually care about everything." He widened his arms. "Yet, you still do what you want even if it's wrong. You know right from wrong, and you choose to fuck up anyway; meanwhile, fucking up doesn't faze you, which is likely why you do it. But you still care . . . That doesn't mean you don't give a fuck . . . it means other things—" He furrowed his brow. "I'm not going to tell you. You have to figure that shit out on your own. Plus, I'd hate to insult you, or condemn you to those qualities. Know what I mean?"
I nodded.
Either way, the next time Dad sees Sonny, he should just get on his knees and suck his dick. Sonny's the boy wonder. Like I didn't fucking know that already.
Dad hummed, staring at me for a beat too long. "You think no one understands you, right?"
Once a-fucking-gain, I didn't say anything—anything I'd say at this point would be considered whining.
"I'm sure you think Amelia does, and that's awesome. Salute." He tilted the bottle back. "But what are you doing?"
"About…?" I asked.
He ignored that. "Bottom line, you have to keep your eyes on them all."
"Who?"
He twirled a finger, meaning his guys. "The ones closest to you will turn on you faster—hurt you the most. It's disappointing. I've been lucky so far."
"You have?" I encouraged him, and I didn't know why.
"Yeah." He nodded. "For years, I thought Aro or Carlisle would—pop." He pulled an air trigger. "But not for my seat . . . for your mother." He winked, sitting up in his chair. "Amelia . . . she reminds me of your mother a lot—a lot." He bit his lower lip. "She's gorgeous, funny—a real ride or die chick. You need to hold onto her—with two hands. You don't let that bitch go." Finally, he was saying something I could definitely agree with, relate to.
"She's loyal, accepts your erratic behavior, and she'll love you to the point of stupidity. And you won't understand. At times, it'll be too much, but the payoff . . . it's worth it," he laughed. "In the end, I love you—Damion, I love the fuck out of you, Sonny, and Kylie. I won't lie, Kylie's my favorite."
"Great."
He rolled his eyes. "I was kidding."
I didn't say anything.
"But your mother . . . She's my everything." He pointed to himself. "And I know…besides this burst of love your feeling at the moment, Mom's your everything too."
I didn't comment again, but he was correct. The love I feel for Amelia is completely different—on a whole different wavelength—than the love and trust I have for my mother. She's my fucking mother, and I love her to death.
"Sonny—forget about it. The bullshit with Katie, any woman he meets…" He made a fart noise with his mouth. "Now that's one loyal motherfucker," he laughed, "loves his momma possibly as much as I do."
"That's a bad thing?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No way. In our house, chivalry isn't dead. We even go to extremes . . . When we don't give a fuck, we don't give a fuck, but when we love . . . we love. You feel me?"
"I do," I whispered. "But…why were you quick to send Amelia away? If you're encouraging—"
"To give you something to think about." He smiled.
"Think about?" Now I raised a challenging brow. "Or did you just pit Sonny against me for the fuck of it? You know how he is—" I trust Sonny, but I couldn't stomach the thought of him alone with my girl, and—for some reason—I think my father knows that.
He shrugged. "I guess you'll never know."
Dad was fucking with me. How many times had I done shit to Sonny or whoever and had that same answer. Maybe he's trying to teach me some fucked-up lesson. I wasn't sure, but he's my father. Why would he do something like that? Go out of his way to make me feel like this. His whole demeanor, the things he's said, the way he's acting toward me, it makes me wonder if he hates me, too. I didn't mean what I said before, but he . . .
"What kind of games are you playing? What's the point of doing that shit?"
My father laughed, a deep, belly laugh. "Come on. It's Sonny—honest to a fault, the gentle giant. If he didn't resemble me, I'd swear he was Aro's kid."
"Did you ever think he might Carlisle's?" I ducked when the bottle of Jack came soaring toward my head—right fucking at me, only to crash onto the floor, the sound of glass shattering. If I hadn't moved . . .
"I was kidding," I said.
He locked eyes with me, slamming a pad of paper and a pen down in front of me. "I want your whole schedule—"
"For what?"
"Write it down. Now." He pointed.
Blowing out a breath, I leaned forward to do as he asked.
"I want school hours, Amelia hours, hospital hours—write down the times of day you're likely to take a shit!"
I rolled my eyes, which made him slam his fist down. "I'm doing it," I said, and my daily routine didn't consist of much—just large blocks of time where I was either on campus or at the hospital. When it came down to it, Amelia's schedule only meshes with mine three days a week—Tuesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays.
"Tuesday nights . . . you're mine—from dinnertime on. We'll start . . . Expect phone calls from me starting on November 2nd. I'm off this week, and then I got shit to do next week—stuff I can't hold your hand through."
"For what?" I asked.
"Sonny won't work with you . . . you'll work with me."
"You're serious?" I snorted.
"As a fucking heart attack." He spat. "Other weeknights, too. I'll let you know—keep your ringer on. When I was just starting . . . I never slept, but I was in school, too. I think that kept me on point. You know? You can either embrace this side to yourself, or cope...deal, let it go…We'll see." He was cryptic.
"Okay," I agreed, basically selling my soul to the Devil. "Sonny has my Glock."
He smirked at me and dug into his breast pocket. "Then take this."
I stared at the butterfly knife in his hand. "What am I going to do with that? Just get mine back from him—"
He shook his head. "You don't get your heat back until you've earned it, until you can respect the sword others will die by. My thing—this, my organization—ain't no joke—it's a business, and you're going to learn. I'll teach you the same way I taught Sonny, by showing you. . ."
"How to clip someone with that?" I pointed.
"No!" he shouted. "You know the saying . . . you can talk the talk. Listen to you...clip." He started laughing.
I rubbed the bump on my head, trying to make sense of his words.
"I meant, I'll be teaching you about loyalty, honor, and respect the only other way I know how. I thought I did—as your father, I thought I'd done that already." He frowned. "This thing of ours is a well oiled machine, and I can't have some punk-ass kid coming in and riling shit up, starting trouble. There's only so much I can do to have your back. One day, I mean, Sonny or me...we might not be around to pull rank. You feel me...? Now, take it." He held the knife out to me. "Come on...it's not that bad. Push comes to shove, you can get really crafty with one of these fuckers."
I took it from him and stuffed it into my pocket.
"Where's your sense of adventure, creativity?" he laughed. "There are a plethora of ways to...do some shit." He suddenly had a somber tone. "Regardless, Sonny gave the nine to you, he can take it back—whatever."
Since my father decided to take most of the week off, and he was at Eclipse anyway, he made me leave. He had business to conduct, and I was like . . . Felt like I was out to sea, in a boat without a paddle. Amelia sent me a text. There was no traffic, and she got home in no time.
Calling Sonny to see where he was, my brother was already minutes away from Eclipse.
Being uneasy about them together doesn't stem from distrust, per se. Okay, so I don't know if I truly trust anyone, but that's an issue for another day. Sonny's just...He knows how to talk to women. He's smooth, and I was afraid Amelia's affection might shift? It made me feel uneasy.
And I was halfway home to Bay Ridge, not my dorm room, when Sonny asked me if I wanted to hang out. I declined, content to just chill out, get a good night's sleep.
When I left the taxi, my eyes traveled up to the moon. I don't know what it's called...when it looks like the top half of a thumbnail. Maggie would know what it was called, and my gaze lingered on her house. The lights were on in one of the bedrooms on the second floor, and I bet that was her room. It was curiosity that had me staring, hoping she'd get a hunch to look out her window, because God knew, I needed someone to talk to . . . an angel would do.
An angel . . .
I didn't want to fuck her anymore, seeing how young she truly was, yet there was still some appeal there. I'm 100% devoted to Amelia, but I can't deny that I find Maggie attractive. She was cool, could be my friend. For some reason, I wasn't as ready to easily blow her off. I felt bad as I'd forgotten all about her, but not really. I didn't know what it was about her. I could just talk to her, just be myself, and she listened.
We were both drunk that night, but . . .
Dad said she snuck into the backyard, like a ninja or some shit since Vito never caught her. Maybe he wasn't there, though.
And she did all that just to see me, the last person to deserve her company.
She's a silly little angel.
I laughed to myself and stopped pacing along the sidewalk.
Maggie never opened her blinds, and I entered my parents' house. It was quiet. I tiptoed around, not wanting to disturb anyone. Amelia actually called me while I was drinking a bottle of water in the kitchen.
She said "I love you" again, and that was pretty fucking awesome. We talked for a little while, which made me feel a whole lot better. I apologized once more, and then she told me just how crazy she was about me.
That was when I realized something . . .
Those patients at the hospital weren't driving me mad. It was me keeping shit bottled up, biting my fucking tongue, that did it. Suppressing shit is what screws you up. Like I told Amelia, face your fears guns blazing, reach for the damn stars.
Why the hell not?
Fuck fear.
And I'd promised myself that I'd speak up a lot more a while ago.
Why did I sit there and let Dad talk to me like that?
Feeling wired, I actually went into my parents' room. As if I was a kid, I wanted to wake up my mother, and I had no idea why. Amelia couldn't squash all those dreadful emotions, no matter how much she loved me, but maybe Mom could?
"Edward . . . Stop pacing by the window."
I paused, stopped pacing and held my lips. Her talking startled me.
"Talk to me—spit it out or come to bed." She sounded half-asleep. "Just stop pacing."
"It's me." I rasped, quick to clear my throat.
Mom shot up. "Dame? What's wrong?"
It made me smile and I knelt down to her side of the bed. "Nothing."
She held my cheek. "You sure?"
I nodded. "I told Amelia...I love her. She said it first, but..."
Mom smiled brightly. "I knew you did. Well, know you do."
"Yeah..."
"Why do you look so sad? You should be rejoicing, not...you know." She poked my side.
"Um." I was about to be very fucking honest; meanwhile, I felt like a total pussy. "Can I just rest my head here, and you scratch my head, like when I was little?"
Mom was still smiling when she scooted over and patted the bed. It was awkward, but I crawled in, keeping my back to her. "Can you tell me what's really wrong?"
"I love you," I whispered. "I guess...I just miss you."
I'm also insane or probably on my way there. I scare myself daily, but don't worry, Ma.
"My Dame-y Bear. I love you, too." She kissed my hair, running her fingernails along my scalp. "Where'd you get this bump?"
"Um...I tripped over something. I don't know."
"Sonny knocked you one?"
"Yeah," I admitted.
"Why do you have to lie?"
"I have no idea." I was honest.
She sighed. "Everything happened so fast. Things changed overnight it seems. But everything will be okay."
"You promise?" And it sucked that I actually felt safe, I felt at ease. I'm almost twenty-five years old for fuck's sake.
"I promise."
"Cool." I grinned.
Thank you for reading.
Please leave me your thoughts.
Oh, and please don't give me shit if you're offended by Dame's inner thoughts. I don't think that way. While I realize some of it is sensitive subject matter, and I WILL apologize if you're offended, I did give you guys a warning. Mental illness plagues a lot of us, and it's no joke. I know this.
I'm so glad they're reposting these! Adult stories FOR adults. Amazing, really great. Check them out.
FIC RECS: Two of my favorites are BACK!
Scars and Souvenirs by Ashma0407
RE-POST...A pending divorce, kids and reconnecting with a lost love. *Working summary* (Lexi's summary: Bella is unhappily married, and then she gets a surprise phone call from an old flame, Edward. Life and circumstances tore them apart, but can they reconnect - repair what was once shattered, their hearts?)
www dot fanfiction dot net/s/8023233/1/Scars-and-Souvenirs
At Last by Itlnbrt
Edward and Bella find each other while married to others. Go on their journey while they try and find a way to be together and make it work. They have a lot to learn along the way to finally be together, at last.
www dot fanfiction dot net/s/8533785/1/At-Last