A/N: I'm seriously speechless, once again. Something that doesn't happen quite often. I never expected the response to this story to be so wonderfully vocal and supportive. My deepest gratitude to you all.

Speaking of support, we all need to go show some love to Trogdor19. That sweet angel of a sexy dragon had the week from hell when she was challenged by an evil wizard that posed as a knight, and it came in with a cookie that turned out to be a sword on fire and brandishing hurtful words and tried to woo her with daffodils but really it was barbed wire fencing. And we've almost cut her loose, but some scars have been left when it comes to things like whether or not she is actually the fucking master that she is. So do me a solid, my sweets, give her a little love. Confidence is a dangerous thing to lose. In Time We Trust is a great place to leave her a little review love, and you know where else? On Amazon! Because she just published Sanguine Veritas by Michelle Hazen, a short story ($1.99) about bloodsharing and truly knowing an individual and love and the power of vulnerability and you should all go check it out. You will not be sorry, it is crazy amazing and will leave your mouth watering and yeah, the cover is stupid gorgeous and I'm a little jelly of that. Love you, little dove.

Back to the show!

Hope you guys enjoy!

Chapter 7: Lions and Leprechauns

I head into the lion's den, and they're both ready to pounce.

Bring it on, fuckers. I am so not in the mood for this shit today.

And yeah, I should probably be feeling pretty good after Rebekah's mouth took very, very good care of me in the shower. A favor I returned happily. But when I tried to go to sleep, all I could see was Elena's disappointed face and that just pissed me off to no end.

So I drank myself to sleep until I woke up sick as all hell at five A.M., and I've spent a good portion of my morning throwing up everything I've consumed in the last month. I finally managed to drag myself to the store and got my hands on some Pepto Bismol, and I think I just downed about half of it in the parking lot.

And all of this, every single bit of it, is Elena's fucking fault.

"What happened to you last night?" Ric asks when I take my seat at my desk, and Elena huffs.

"Ten bucks says she was blond," she says sarcastically and I turn to scowl at her.

"Seriously?" I snap and she leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.

"He usually goes for the brunettes," Ric tells her and she arches an eyebrow at me.

"I've noticed," she says haughtily. "But something tells me he struck out, and downgraded to a blond bimbo."

I lean forward and harden my gaze at her. "Pay her, Ric."

"Unbelievable," Elena mutters.

"So they tell me," I smirk. "Especially Rebekah."

"Am I missing something here?" Ric asks.

"Not as much as Elena is," I say to him, still staring her down.

"You know what?" she snaps at me, and I see Ric flinch from the corner of my eye.

"What?" I taunt. "Come on, sweetheart. Gimme your best shot."

"Okay, okay," Ric says quickly. "Whatever this is about, it needs to stop. Now."

"Yeah, wouldn't want Damon getting in any more trouble than he already is, would we?" she says cheekily, and that fucking does it.

"Is that a threat?"

"What trouble?" Ric asks and I wave him off.

"Damon's got HR hounding him for being inappropriate at work," she grins at me. "Although why they think that's ever going to change has got me beat." She leans forward and drops her voice to a cruel, breathy pitch that I never knew existed. "I doubt he can spell the word inappropriate. It's not like you have any real education, am I right?"

"Fuck you," I tell her and Ric jumps up from his desk.

"Damon, get out," he tells me and I look up at him.

"Why am I the one that's getting put in time out? She's the stuck up-"

"Out," he growls at me. "Go take a walk and cool off or drive around the parking lot or something. I don't care what you do, just go somewhere else for a few minutes before you both say something that's going to get you fired."

"Ridiculous," I mumble and get up.

"Toodle-oo," Elena mocks and wiggles her fingers at me, and never in my life has a woman made me this blindly furious. "We'll call you when you're allowed to rejoin normal, adult society, if you were ever a part of it," she sneers.

"Out," Ric says and shoves at my back.

I'm three steps away when I hear Elena ask Ric, "How can you stand him? He's-"

"Stop right there," he snaps and I smirk.

Rip her apart, buddy. Do us all a favor and shred her down into nothing.

God knows she could use it.

I am so ready for this week to be over.

Six o'clock on Thursday and the silence is the only reprieve I'm getting, because Elena has barely said two words to me all week. And I have no idea what Ric said to her, but whatever it was must've been good. Because she's barely talking to him either.

Serves her right.

At least he and I are cool. We hung out last night and after he reamed me out for telling Elena to fuck off, which Jenna was super pissed about, he kinda just blew off the rest of his lecture when he admitted that I had every right to be angry. Because that only made Jenna more mad, and they got into it while I sat in the kitchen and quietly ate my lasagna.

They made up after about thirty seconds, and afterwards Jenna came over and scowled at me, then weirdly hugged me, and then she gave me dessert. Whatever.

Now I just need to finish out this day so I can get away from Elena's perfume and her obvious attempts to ignore me, then find another blond to bed.

I almost want to text Caroline. Just for spite. But even I'm not that much of a dick and Caroline doesn't deserve to be used like that. Even if her roommate is a snotty piece of work with a stick firmly lodged up her ass.

"Claims reporting, this is Damon…"

"Hi, I'm Anna, calling on behalf of Pearl and Frederick Attorneys office, and I need to report a loss for one of our clients."

Great. Lawyers mean bad shit. Someone's seriously hurt. Or dead.

"Sure, be happy to help." I pull up the policy information she gives me, verifying the driver we insure, the one she's representing. "Alright, Anna. So what happened?"

I lean back in my chair and get ready. Sometimes it's quick, the bare minimum if they're used to this. Other times, if the paralegals are new, I get a full story with three acts.

"Our client, your insured, Mr. Lockwood, was leaving his girlfriend's house…"

Movie version it is.

"And we're not sure why, but he lost control of the vehicle and it rolled when he struck a ditch."

Ouch. Sucks for you, dude.

Rolled car usually equals a concussion at minimum, because when they land upside down, the next thing they do is unhook their seatbelt and end up hitting their head on the roof. Like clockwork.

I take her through giving me the nitty gritty of the where and the when, the shebang of the damage to the vehicle. Then it's onto the screen that has some information pre-populated for Mr. Awesome Lockwood, and I stifle a laugh when I see the name of the street he lives on. I don't know why city developers name some of the shit the way they do, but it makes my life a little more interesting.

"Okay, Anna. What kind of injuries did he sustain?"

I'm already noting a concussion and transported by ambulance and keeping the field for the name of the hospital open, when I realize she hasn't answered.

She shifts some papers in the background and clears her throat. Definitely a new paralegal.

"Anna?"

"Mr. Lockwood was pronounced dead at the scene when paramedics arrived."

I blow out a breath.

Now she fucking tells me.

I've been sitting here mentally laughing about the guy's street name, and guess what? No one lives at his apartment anymore, and his girlfriend is either now single and mourning him, or already fucking someone new because Lockwood's buried in the ground.

I clear the concussion and mark it as a fatality, and just because I didn't look that closely, I check the guy's birthdate.

Twenty-two years old. And he's dead. Because he went to change the radio station or got tired or because his cell phone rang or maybe he was reaching for a bottle of fucking water and his car landed in a ditch.

The ones that make it through a rollover, they tell me it's the strangest thing because it's like they stay righted, but the world spins around them through the windshield. Like keeping your eyes open through the loop on a rollercoaster. And it happens very, very slow. Every detail is retained. Watching the tree line approach or knowing that there are cars on the road behind you and you're just waiting for the impact. And you're still rolling. Getting cut by broken glass and listening to passengers scream, or just the sound of metal groaning against pavement and your own heartbeat echoing in your ears.

God help you if you're not wearing your seatbelt.

And sometimes, God help you if you are.

I'm a thousand percent focused on handling this professionally when she tells me that's what happened to Mr. Lockwood. Twenty-two year old Tyler. That the parents are suing the car manufacturer because the seatbelt lock malfunctioned and he couldn't release it, and it was twisted around his neck and caught on the headrest, and it actually strangled him.

And I can't fucking breathe.

He knew. He knew and he was awake and it's not like he died on impact.

He survived the crash. And then he suffocated because no one could help him.

Jesus Christ, I can't breathe.

I can't feel my hands or my arms or my legs or anything but the cold sweat that's streaking down my back and a trickle of it running down my temple and I can't stop seeing his face. You don't witness someone suffocating to death when you're fifteen years old and just forget that shit. It lives in you, every single day.

His eyes wide and panicked, absolutely terrified, and it's done.

It's just…done.

I mute my phone and try to catch my breath, and I hear Ric say my name but I can't deal with him. I have to get this girl off the phone and file this claim and God, he's dead.

I take a few deep breaths and unmute, blurring through the last two details I need and telling her the adjuster will call the attorney's office by the end of the day, and I almost forget to give her the claim number and now she wants our fax number so she can send the letter of representation because the law says she has to and goddammit, I can't do this.

I finally get through it and slam my numb and shaking fingers down on my break button, jerking off my headset and tossing it down.

"Damon," Ric says worriedly as I pass, and I brush him off.

I head straight to the restroom and gag into a toilet, choking and sputtering and completely dizzy because I can't throw up because I can't fucking breathe and it's disgustingly appropriate. If Devon can't breathe, why should I be able to?

I lean a hand against the stall door and hang my head, and it takes me a minute, but I'm finally able to feel the air filling my lungs. The bathroom door opens and a couple of new voices reach me, guys laughing about something I don't give a flying fuck about and I spit into the toilet and flush it, scrubbing my hand over my eyes and shaking my head.

I've got to pull this together.

I clear my throat and walk out towards the sink, rinsing my mouth out with water and ignoring the guys that are trying not to watch me.

"Jager hangovers are a bitch," I tell them and they chuckle as I leave the restroom, ducking into one of the abandoned conference rooms and closing the door.

I sit in a chair and lean my elbows on the table, my head in my hands and one name, one face, blaring in my head.

There's a knock on the door and I shake my head.

"I'm fine, Ric. Just need a minute, man."

"It's not Ric," a soft voice tells me, and I wince.

The door opens and I lean back in my chair, my hands dropping to the table and my thumb tapping harshly against the wood. She shuts it behind her, and I barely hear the door latch she does it so gently.

"Not right now, Elena," I say without looking at her, and I don't know if she doesn't hear me or just doesn't care, because she slowly walks around and sits on the opposite side of the table so she's facing me.

She swallows and sets down a Monster in front of me, and I arch an eyebrow.

She claims it's poison in a can and I'm better off drinking gasoline. Is this her way of telling me to drop dead? Because I gotta admit, it's creative.

She stretches her arms out on the wood table top, extended forward like she's reaching for me, but her hands are in fists.

"Pick a hand," she tells me, and I scoff.

"Aren't we a little old for this?"

"Yep," she nods.

I sigh and tap the back of her left hand, and she unwinds her fingers as she turns it over, palm up. I squint and lean forward, and there's something I can't discern drawn onto her skin in blue ink.

I cock an eyebrow at her.

"It's a unicorn," she tells me.

"And why is there a unicorn drawn on your hand?"

"Because I can't draw a leprechaun," she says like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and I feel myself start to barely smile.

I tap the back of her right hand, and she opens it to reveal a rainbow.

I huff a laugh and shake my head, and she smiles.

"Watch this," she says and moves her left hand in an arch over her right. "Ta da!"

"Unicorn jumping over the rainbow?" I confirm and she nods proudly.

"Wanna watch it again? It's a feat of amazement."

"Especially since the unicorn accomplished his leap upside down," I tell her and she scrunches her nose.

"What? No he's…" She trails off when she looks at her hand and realizes his "hooves" are pointed towards her fingertips, but when he made his "leap," she held her hand with her nails directed at the ceiling.

"Upside down," I tell her and she bites her lip.

"Whoops."

"Eh, it was a decent effort," I shrug, picking up the Monster and popping the metal top. I take a sip and she grimaces.

"You really shouldn't drink those."

"You brought it. And why are you bringing me poisonous drinks and performing supernatural feats with imaginary creatures again?"

She tucks her hands in her lap. "You were upset."

"So," I shrug. "You hate me," I remind her, and she winces.

"I don't hate you," she says quietly. "I was angry and I said some things that I didn't mean."

"Oh, you meant them," I chuckle and take a drink, and she narrows her eyes at me.

"I'm trying to apologize."

"Why? You got mad at me, I got mad at you. Shit happens. You don't see me apologizing."

"You know…I'm trying to be nice here, but you're obviously not in the mood to talk about this. Sorry for bothering you," she says dejectedly and pushes away from the table, and I grit my teeth.

Dammit.

"What did Ric say to you?" I ask quietly just as she reaches the door, and she pauses. She turns to face me and when I stare her down, her brow furrows.

Great. Thanks a lot, fucker. Like men can't have secrets, or at least just not blab everything to other people who don't have a right to know any of this shit.

I shake my head and she squares her shoulders.

"He pretty much went off on me for what I said. Which I deserved," she finishes quietly and looks down.

"Uh-huh, feel free to spill the truth any time."

She sighs and heads back to the table, re-taking her seat. "He said…we don't have to talk about this right now, Damon…"

"What did he tell you?"

"He said that you were, are, really smart, but that some bad things happened in high school and it kinda threw you off for a few years. And that's why you never went to college."

Okay, not the worst thing he could have said. He can live another day.

I tilt my can at her and she studies me for a minute.

"You could go to school now, you know. It's never too late," she shrugs and I roll my eyes.

"I don't care, Elena. I'm fine with where I am. Having a degree doesn't make you better than other people."

"You're right," she says quietly, staring at her hands in her lap.

"I didn't mean-"

"No, I know," she nods. "I, um, sometimes…I'm a little snobbish, and I'm working on that."

My eyes widen.

Talk about being honest.

I hold my hand out across the table. "Insensitive, womanizing prick. Nice to meet you," I smile and she takes my hand, shaking it once with a coy grin. "So," I say and lean back in my chair. "How does one work on being snobbish? Isn't that something you're kinda stuck with? Like your eye color?"

"Well, they say the best way is to hang out with insensitive, womanizing pricks, because they're not afraid to put you in your place when you need it."

I chuckle and she blushes.

"So, not to open a can of worms," she says tentatively, and we were so close. "I'm sorry I got so upset on Monday. I had no right to leave like that."

"Sure you did," I shrug. "But why did you get so upset?"

"Honestly?" she asks and I nod. "I'm not used to men like you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I laugh.

"Men that stare at other women's asses when I'm around."

"For the record, I didn't stare. I…looked."

"So you admit it?" she smiles.

"Never denied it."

"See?" she sighs, but she's still smiling. "I don't get how you do that."

"We're just friends, Elena." I tilt my head at her. "Sometimes," I clarify and she laughs softly.

"Okay, but you don't see an issue with checking out another girl when you have one right in front of you?"

"I thought I wasn't supposed to consider you a girl? More like a non-gender entity in my general vicinity…"

She laughs loudly and I grin. "Fair enough," she tells me.

"Besides," I shrug. "The girls I stand in front of know good and well what kind of guy I am, and I don't hang with ones that are susceptible to being offended by an act such as alternate ass scoping."

"Oh, Jesus," she says and shakes her head. "First, I don't think I have ever heard anything so offensive put so eloquently. And second, that's the trick?" she grins. "Spend time with girls that won't care when you're a jerk, so you can be as big of one as you want?"

"Basically," I admit and she rolls her eyes at me.

"So we probably shouldn't hang out anymore," she whispers.

"No, we can hang out," I tell her and the corner of her lips perk up. "As long as we're straight about what's happening."

"And that you're liable to disappear so you can make out with another girl in a bathroom?"

"It was the locker room shower, and we weren't making out," I say plainly, and when she takes a deep breath, I grimace. "That's not what you were referring to, was it?"

"Nope," she says quickly.

There's a quick knock and then the door opens, Ric peeking his head in.

I jerk my chin at him and he startles when he sees Elena.

"Hey, I was just…" he stumbles and Elena flashes a smile at me before she gets up.

"I was just leaving," she tells Ric, and he stands aside so she can pass by him.

He closes the door behind her and I stand, chugging the rest of my drink.

"What was all that about?" he asks and I shrug.

"She apologized. We're cool."

"Not Elena, Damon. The call."

"Oh, you know. Rollover." He looks at me a little closer and I clear my throat. "Guy suffocated under his seatbelt."

"Jesus Christ," Ric mumbles and I look away, staring at the whiteboard on the wall that's been wiped clean.

"Yep."

I swallow and look back at him, and he jerks his chin at me. "You…um…"

"Yeah, man. I'm fine," I tell him. "Need to get back."

"Okay," he says and I go to follow him, but he stops with his hand on the doorknob and both of us still in the room.

He suddenly turns and actually hugs me, and it takes me a second before I return it, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Love you, buddy," he tells me and I flinch.

"Thanks, man."

He lets me go and opens the door, and we go back to our desks, neither of us saying a word.

It's finally eight o'clock and I log out of my phone, printing off the image from my computer.

"See you later," Ric says to me when he heads out, and I grab my keys from my desk.

"I know, squirrels are the worst," Elena tells her customer and mutes her phone. "Goodnight, Damon."

"You okay by yourself?" I ask her, and she gives me a thumbs up.

I smile and lay the piece of paper on her desk, and she picks it up, her mouth stretching into a huge grin. Because it's a children's connect-the-dots worksheet. Of a leprechaun.

"Get to work, because your unicorns are hideous," I tell her and she laughs softly, then unmutes her phone.

"I know, I can't imagine…"

I make an overly-dramatic look of terror and she looks like she wants to laugh again, shooing me away with her hand. I take a step away, then come back and reach under her desk, grabbing her trashcan. I set it out in the middle of the aisle and she blushes.

"Yeah, I don't know why people don't hunt squirrels," she tells the guy and I snort.

I pretend to rack a shotgun and point it at her phone, making all the necessary sound effects of an explosion that I've had perfected since before kindergarten, and she covers her mouth to hide her giggle.

"Goodnight, Elena," I call out loudly. "Don't be late for your dinner reservations," I say and she points at me threateningly.

"No, another Elena…yes…yes, I know what those squirrels will do to an engine's wiring, and it's just awful…" She mutes her phone. "Get outta here!" she tells me playfully.

"Not until we kill the squirrels! Git 'em! Git 'em all, I say!"

"You're distracting me," she laughs. "Go!"

I hold up my hands in surrender and back away. "Tell him to coat some acorns in rat poison and plant them all over his yard."

"I am not telling him that!" she says shocked, and I shrug.

I turn around and keep walking towards the parking lot. "Death to squirrels," I say to Trevor when I pass him and he high-fives me.

"Screw the furry bastards."

I smile and continue out into the parking lot, frowning when I see my bumper. I really need to get that fixed.

"I know, darlin'," I tell my car when I start the engine. "I'll take care of it, don't you worry."

I head to my apartment and grab my golf clubs, going right back out and heading to the driving range that's open late and only a few blocks from where I live.

The guy that runs it is cool and doesn't try to make small talk with me when I go into the office, paying for my bucket of balls and a beer. He's seen me enough to know I'm only here when I really need it, and it's usually not a good sign.

I head over to an open space that's far from the two other guys that are out here, whacking away their problems, and I pull out my five-iron.

Everyone and their dog loves the seven-iron, the Apple Pie of the mid irons in their bag, but the five is where I call home. And some people will switch them out for the newer designed hybrid clubs, especially chicks, but fuck that. I hit mine with the distance of a short four-iron and the ease of swinging the seven, and it rules my game on the long par 4's and par 5's at the golf courses I favor. I can manage at least 185 yards out of the beast on a good day, longer if I keep the club face low and let the ball roll and roll and roll. But when I'm 330 yards in from my tee after smacking the ever loving shit out of my driver, staring down 140 to the water and 195 to the flag, I flip the bird to the layup and fly that little white ball long and high so she drops on the green and sticks like a magnet, giving me a nice and easy two-putt for birdie.

Thank you, and yes, I will take a bow.

I tee up a ball and roll out my shoulders, loosening up my body for the swing I need. The one I know as well as my walk. The one I've known since I was twelve and started playing.

I line up to the ball and pin point my landing spot on the range, then look down at a dirty white Titleist and blow out a breath. I can't believe I had a fucking panic attack at work. I start my backswing and my shoulders feel weird and my left arm is bent and I stop, stepping back.

I shake my head. There's nothing I can do about it. It's done. It's time to let it go.

I pick up my beer and take a swig, swallowing memories and nightmares and setting it back down.

I do a quick practice swing, and it feels a little better. A few more and I'm starting to remember how it should feel. What grace and power feel like when they are one and the same.

I go back to the Titleist that's mocking me, and I set my five-iron's club face behind it like a warning. I check my end point and then it's all my focus on the ball, on tiny little divots that are going to flex and bend when I show it who's boss. What I can control when everything else is fucked.

I swing and hit it a little thin, but that's okay because Jesus, did that feel good. At least I didn't shank it.

I roll another ball over, not even bothering with a tee, and I line up. I take another swing and this one I hit cleanly, the trajectory starting low and slowly creeping higher and higher under the stadium lights that line the range, soaring over an old Volkswagen Beetle that marks the 150 yard range and dropping down at about 180. I can totally live with that.

Someone behind me starts to quietly clap, and I roll my eyes and bend over to grab my beer. Go to a movie or something, and if you try to talk to me or ask me for tips, especially during my backswing, you're gonna know what that ball feels like.

I set my beer back down, rolling another ball over and glancing down range, picking out where I want it to stick.

"So this is where you spend your time when you're not planning the death of defenseless animals?"

I chuckle and shake my head, and swing. The ball pops up just like I wanted it to, touching the sky before it plummets back down, bouncing off the roof of the VW Beetle.

"Who says I'm not?" I say, turning to face Elena.

A/N: I know it's cruel to leave you there, and I'm sorry. Really, I am. But that's why you want to make sure you click those follow buttons, so you don't miss the next chapter! And I can't wait to hear your thoughts, but that leads me to something I want to talk about real quick.

Every review is invaluable. I plan to publish this story and your feedback tells me so much: what I'm getting right, what I need to explain more, occasionally, when I push some serious buttons. I truly appreciate every review, good and bad, because those pieces of information are the greatest tools I have to be the best that I can. However, SPAMMING as a guest reviewer will not be tolerated and I will delete them. By all means, if I strike a nerve and you have a serious issue with something I'm saying/doing, please, let me know. Send in a review under an ACCOUNT or send me a PM so I can reply and we can talk about it. Or, if you really have to do it as a guest, speak your peace, and then be done. Sending in multiple reviews that all say the same thing, under the cloak of anonymity? I hate to say this, but you're wasting your time. Although thanks for the bump in the review count ;) Now, that being said, if I see that the majority of readers (i.e. reviewers who I can recognize by their account names) are all having the same concern, then yes, I will take that into consideration. Please understand, I really do love all of your reviews. And 99% of guest reviewers crack me up and are wonderful additions to the color of my daily life, but let's keep it courteous, shall we?

All my gratitude,

-Goldnox