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sixteen

Damien

She approaches me in all black, skin-tight athletic wear with her sports bra peeking out slightly from beneath her form fitting jacket.

Jesus, with the way this outlines her curves, I’m wondering if it’s worse than the skirt. The realization that she can make anything look sexy has me shoving my phone into my pocket aggressively. I punch the button for the garage on the elevator and step inside, not wanting to look at her.

I can’t be distracted by her right now. Even though we just fucked each other to oblivion. Even though I punished her and she seemed to love every goddamn minute of it.

Even though she looked me dead in the eye and told me she wanted to come and watch me dispose of a dead body. One that I killed in front of her. One that I killed for her.

She’s silent the entire way down and I want to peek at her from the corner of my eye. She’s never this quiet, not since she was young actually. I’d like to be pleased that she’s listening to me, but for some stupid reason, it brings me back to a moment I witnessed in the Fairchilds Connecticut home years ago.

“So, Damien, how long have you been in the Marines?” Michael Fairchild asks me from his long, plastic covered, expensive couch.

He holds a glass of scotch in one hand and a lit cigar in the other. I can’t help but eye it and want to laugh at the hypocrisy. They cover their couches but still smoke inside of their beachside mansion?

Fucking rich people.

“Since I was eighteen sir. Nearly twelve years now,” I say as I clear my throat and straighten my uniform, afraid that I might stain their white carpet with my combat boots.

But I am clean, polished. Formal and presentable for the senator, my girlfriend’s father.

“I climbed the ranks fairly quickly. I’ve been head of special forces for quite some time now,” I say, my tone low and confident, but not braggy.

I don’t want to brag to a piece of shit that loves to brag. All politicians do. I’m pretty sure it’s in the handbook or something.

“I wanted to protect this country and our fellow citizens since I was young, and I set out to do so when I graduated high school. I got my masters in Nuclear Engineering during my time there as well,” I say, knowing that only the first part of the sentence was a lie.

I didn’t join because I cared about this country or its people. I joined because I needed an outlet for my rage, because I wanted to make enough money without my father’s help to travel this world and hopefully find my mother. My real mother.

Megan’s small, manicured hand finds my thigh and I want to narrow my eyes at her fingers for creasing my uniform, but I keep my eyes on the senator who is now giving me a wide smile.

“You’re straightforward, Reed. I like that about you. I can see why Megan has taken quite the interest in you, though I’m not sure why she’s kept you away from us for so long.” A puff of his cigar leaves smoke billowing throughout the air. I try not to choke on it.

“Daddy, you know I’m busy with school. Damien works out of the state most of the time.”

That’s partly true.

“It’s hard for me to get alone time with him and also schedule a trip for us out here to meet my family,” she says in a slightly whiny voice, but he does nothing but smile at her.

She is the perfect apple and his eye. Megan could do no wrong, which is one of the many reasons why I’ve decided to propose to her soon.

One of the many selfish reasons.

I’m about to ask him about his time in office, but am quickly interrupted when I hear a small, frustrated growl followed by stomping footsteps enter the room.

“Father, did you tell Marcela to get rid of my notebooks?” a young, short girl asks as she stomps into the room and stops directly in front of Michael, unphased by the billowing clouds of smoke from his cigar.

Her light brown hair is long, and braided down her back. She looks different from the rest of them. Different from her well-groomed father, from her perfect and thin sister that’s now sneering at her, and definitely different from the tall, frail looking woman that now enters the room behind her.

It must be their mother, who practically serves as Megan’s twin. God only knows how much botox this woman has had in her lifetime.

He doesn’t look at her when he speaks, in fact, he doesn’t speak at all. Just barks out a short and curt laugh as he rolls his eyes at her, annoyed by her presence.

It seems like everyone in this room is, especially her mother who growls at her in disgust.

“You were getting charcoal all over my sheets and floors, Lucille. Your little art projects are making a mess around the house that I’ve worked so hard to maintain. It’s entirely disrespectful. I wanted them gone,” she hisses and I want to laugh at her, because I know she doesn’t maintain this home.

The maid does. Marcela.

The girl, Lucille, turns to glare at her mother and I see every ounce of color drain from Michael’s face as she does. She doesn’t speak or flinch when Michael shoots up and grabs her small arm, tugging her out of the room and into the foyer whilst muttering a short “excuse me”.

I look at Megan then, because quite frankly, I don’t know where else to look. Their mother pisses me off and I know that if I look in the direction of the foyer, they’ll likely judge.

She’s mentioned her sister only once. She’s eighteen and enrolled in a marketing program at the local university, which everyone disapproved of. So she’s forced to double her major and go to???

Megan offers me a small, plastered smile, one that she’s so good at giving. I swear, if she wasn’t so good at giving head, I might hate her mouth altogether.

I hear Michael bark orders at her, Lucille. I hear her whine slightly and try a rebuttal, and then I hear the hard slap that echoes throughout the room. I’m pretty sure we all do, but none of us react. I don’t move or say anything, because I know this scene all too well. I’ve had it play out in my own home for years. Except I didn’t have a younger sibling like Lucille, I was Lucille.

I know I should probably offer her a look of sympathy when they both re-enter the room, but I don’t. I keep my eyes on the white carpet and take Megan’s thin hand in mine. It’s cold like always.

Lucille doesn’t say a word, but Michael makes a sound in her direction, a wordless command.

“I apologize for my theatrics, Mr. Reed. It’s lovely to have you here,” she says quietly, robotically.

Jesus, this poor girl. Why am I not trying to help her? Why am I trying not to care? Have I really turned into that much of a heartless bastard over the years?

“Damien. Call me Damien,” I say as I glance at her, her bright blue, sad eyes locking with mine as she nods her head silently before knotting her hands and staring back down at the carper for the rest of the time.

I can feel Megan eyeing me close, but I pay no mind to it because her father is already grabbing the bottle and a new crystal glass after he puts out his cigar.

“So, Reed, you like old scotch?” Michael asks as he offers me the glass that I take with a half smile.

No, actually. I fucking hate it.

“Yes sir, I do,” I say as we clink our glasses together whilst he and the women in the room chuckle.

Everyone but Lucille. Who’s staring at me now.

“That’s my boy!” he exclaims as he claps an old, hard hand down on my shoulder.

That night, I became an official member of the family. And like the rest of them, I ignored the quiet, meek, brown haired girl that was condemned to the corner, a quiet shadow in the room that everyone refused to acknowledge.

I became just like them.

“Damien.” I hear her voice cut through the air and I realize the elevator has stopped moving.

“We’re at the garage now,” she says, her blue eyes locking with mine.

I don’t feel much remorse, well, I don’t want to address what I feel, but her eyes are so much different from that night. They’re older now, sadder. Exhausted from the world and dim from all of the brightness that she probably did deserve at one point. I hate that for a moment, I want to put light back inside of them. I hate that I feel like she’s deserving of good things. Nobody really is. We’re all equally as shitty, we’re just shitty in different ways.

“Let’s go. Don’t say a word when we arrive,” I order and she nods at me robotically, something she’s become great at doing.

We walk to my blacked-out Audi and I get a text from Bruno that he and Andy are already at the warehouse with the body. I head that way and Lucy is quiet most of the time.

It’s a business that I own on the upper east side. The basement serves as a partial warehouse where the main floor is a butcher’s shop. I bought it mostly for the equipment, but also because of its discreet location.

When we arrive, I sigh and kill the engine.

“You don’t have to go in there, you know. It’s not in the contract. In fact, I’d rather not include you in such personal-”

“I’m going.” She cuts me off, short and clipped.

There is no emotion on her beautiful face. She is cold and emotionless, but not like her family can be. She’s made a wall of protection around herself and I can see right through it. She’s using her quiet strength as a defense mechanism and I can’t help but admire it because it’s one of the first things I learned in basic training.

You are a wall to the hideous despair you will see in the outside world. Do not let anyone or thing try to break it down, not even anguish or guilt. Nothing.

“I’m ready,” she says, her blue eyes dark in the moonlight, her face hard as stone as her hand wraps around the door handle.

“Let’s go,” I say, trying not to admire her. Trying not to be in awe of her.

I walk with her to the back alleyway that snakes down and leads to the door of the warehouse. The butcher shop is closed and won’t be open for a few more days due to new renovations, so this job doesn’t have to be rushed, though I’d really like it to be.

When we enter, Andy and Bruno are unzipping the body bag and laying him on the table next to the meat grinder. I stand there with my hands behind my back as I give them a short nod when they take in Lucy’s presence. They are not fazed, though, I pay them not to be.

I look over at Lucy, whose arms are crossed over her breasts. Her eyes never travel to me, they are locked on the saw that Bruno pulls out. They don’t close, don’t even blink as he starts to saw the body into several pieces so that it can be put in the meat grinder. She doesn’t speak, I’m worried that she might not even be breathing. But despite all of that, I can tell by the pensive look in her eyes and twitch in her thick brow, a question is brewing.

“Ask it,” I command, hating that I want to know what’s going on inside of her head.

“If they are taking care of this, why are you here?” she asks as she watches Bruno slice the body while Andy wipes the blood.

“To make sure it gets done right,” I say, even though I trust Bruno, but when you’re dismembering a body and covering up a murder, you have to make sure you know that it was taken care of. I’ve seen too many men grow ignorant and complacent and they’ve either wound up in a Colombian prison or with a bullet in their heads.

Once the body is dismembered, Bruno and Andy push the parts one by one into the meat grinder. It is a loud machine and all we can hear is the crushing and grinding of a man who will be wiped from existence. Lucy watches the whole thing and I watch her.

“What did he do?” she asks quietly as her eyes remain locked on the machine that grinds a man down into nothing, the meat of his flesh falling into a large bucket.

“Stole from me. Stole a lot,” I say as I eye her closely.

“Is that why you killed him?” she asks, and I tilt my head at her.

“No, I killed him because he was running at you with a knife,” I say honestly and she sniffles then, but doesn’t look at me.

Time passes and silence stretches, except for the grinder as it continues to pull body parts through. Andy sparks a match and ignites a fire in the large stone oven that’s built into the wall of the warehouse. It’s used for smoking large portions of meat, but also does wonders for an impromptu burning. The chimney extends to the very top of the store, so the smoke will mostly smell of cured or smoked meat, something not too uncommon for an overnight butcher shop in New York City.

“If I didn’t show up, would you have let him live?” she asks, turning to look at me now, her eyes void of all emotion.

I want to reach out and move the strand of hair that falls to her cheek, but I refrain.

Instead, I shrug.

“It was his first offense. I would have taken his fingers for the crime, but allowed him a few days to find me the money. If he didn’t, then I would have killed him.” I answer honestly, looking at her closely as she takes in my words.

She doesn’t say it, but I can see the fleeting emotion on her face and it speaks volumes. She regrets walking in because it could have spared a man’s life. She blames herself.

“Don’t do that,” I order, and she tilts her chin up at me as I walk closer and tower over her frame. “He was a thief, a selfish one at that. He had no family he was fighting for, no loved ones he was trying to feed or get to. He did it for drugs and himself,” I say, and she remains silent, immobile.

“This is a business, Lucy. People do bad things in this world and in my business, they pay for it. When they fuck me over, I do it right back. An eye for an eye,” I say, and she tilts her head at me.

“So you’re Karma? Taking the initiative to make the whole world blind?” she rasps out and I sigh, because in a way, she’s right.

But that’s just the way the world works. Surely, she should know this by now.

“I’m ready to go,” she says and I nod, knowing the job is practically done anyways.

“Clean up when you’re done. Dump the ashes in the sewer. I’ll see you bright and early,” I say to the men as they nod at me before we turn on our heels and leave.

She’s quiet when we enter the vehicle, quiet most of the way home actually. It has me curious, dying to know what’s going on inside of her head. And I hate that. I hate that her silence bothers me, that I want to know what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling.

I’m beginning to wonder if she is my own Karma.

“My lawyer finalized the contract,” I start, as she turns to look out of the window, eyeing the glimmering city as we pass through it.

“We’ll be married by the end of this month,” I say and she nods, not uttering a single word of acknowledgement.

It’s driving me fucking mad.

Who is this woman? What is it that she’s thinking? Shouldn’t she be freaking out? Stomping her feet in protest or running for the hills in fear?

I put the car in park in the garage and she goes to undo her seat belt, but my hand snaps out to stop her.

“What is it that you want, Lucille?” I despise the words as they leave my lips, but I can’t stop them.

She eyes me closely, almost shocked that I asked them.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. You’ve made that abundantly clear,” she says as she swallows tightly, her hand twitching in my grasp.

You’re right, it doesn’t.

But fuck, I wanna know.

“Humor me,” I say, my eyes locked with hers.

The air in the car is tight, thick with many things.

Tension. Confusion. Frustration.

Lust.

So much fucking lust.

I can see it pouring from her gaze, I can feel it in the curl of her fingers. I watch it as she bites down on her lip and leans closer to me, her large breasts pressing against my biceps as she breathes into my mouth. She smells like peppermint. I want to swallow the scent down.

“I want you to fuck me again,” she whispers against my lips, her mouth moving against mine, but never pressing against it.

Because she’s listened to me about the no kissing rule. Because she’s such a fucking good girl.

I exit the car rapidly then and pull her from it. I haul her over my shoulder and walk us to the elevator, my hand squeezing the back of her thigh as it climbs to the top. When we get inside, I take her to the bathroom and strip down. When she goes to take her clothes off, I stop her.

“I never got to undress you earlier,” I ground out, my heart pounding in my throat as I start to peel her tight clothes away from her delectable body.

I don’t know why my body reacts like this with her, but it does. It feels a rush of excitement that I haven’t felt in a very long time. I know I shouldn’t lean into it, shouldn’t lean into her, but fuck, it feels too good.

She feels too good.

Once she’s naked, I turn on the shower and walk us into the warm spray. I take her into my arms and lift her. She wraps her shapely legs around my waist and my cock instantly presses to her opening. She shifts her hips so that I slide in and then I push forth, filling her hard and deep. She moans as I fuck her, low and slow. It matches the rhythm of my thrusts.

I take my time with her tonight, I fuck her long and thoroughly under the shower and she comes around my cock over and over again, moaning my name each time.

When I feel my own climax surge, I take her nipple into my mouth and pull out, splattering on the floor of the shower as the water washes it away. I was careless earlier, I can’t be this time.

“We will get you on the shot tomorrow,” I huff out to her and she nods against my shoulder.

When I ease her down to wash her hair, I can’t help but catch a glimpse of the disappointed look in her eyes. I can’t pay any mind to it, can’t even entertain the thought of having a baby with anyone, especially her. Especially since the idea of it makes my heart begin to pound a strange and unfamiliar rhythm.

“No more lies after tonight,” she whispers as I spread soap along her soft body.

She turns to look at me, her eyes dark under the dimmed light of the bathroom.

“I’m going to be your wife, your partner, whether I like it or not. So the least you could do is keep me in the loop and not lie to me. I’ve had enough of that my entire life.” She sighs and I nod at her.

Even though I just lied to her right then.

Because there are many things I am keeping from Lucy. Her actual ties to her family being one of them.

My fucking growing feelings for her being another.

“Nothing more,” I ground out and she nods, her own lie shining through her eyes as she looks at me.

“Nothing more.” Even though I know she means anything but that.

Because I know what she actually wants. Lucille wants me to give her everything, she wants all of me, and she’s trying to hide it from me. Just as I am trying to hide what I’m beginning to feel for her, what I’ve felt for her in the past. Maybe in a way, she knows that. Or at least hopes for it. Maybe she’s hoping that this arrangement will defy all odds and bring us closer together, a true union.

But I know that I will crumble that hope into ash.

And she knows that I can give her nothing.