Page 20

twenty

Damien

“You’re falling in love with her,” Adrian says from his desk across from our office downtown.

I wave him off, but he’s right.

I’m falling in love with Lucille Fairchild and it’s quite honestly the dumbest decision that I’ve ever made.

I didn’t sleep at all last night, mostly because I was in bed with Lucy until one in the morning. Right now, I am filled with confusion, frustration and a massive fucking headache.

“I don’t want to get into this right now,” I groan as I rub my forehead with my fingers.

Adrian scoffs at me.

I’ve been lying to him and he knows it. Hell, I’ve been lying to everyone. Brushing things off because I got too much shit to worry about, shoving things under the rug because I don’t want to think about any more bullshit than I already have to.

Lying, for me, feels like a skill I’ve mastered. The words roll off my tongue with ease, and the guilt that once tugged at my conscience has long since faded. It’s like slipping into a well-worn coat—comfortable and familiar. I navigate my interactions with a sense of detachment, aware that my lies shape the reality others perceive. There’s a certain power in that, an ability to control the narrative to my advantage. The truth, with all its complications, seems like a burden I no longer need to carry. Instead, I focus on the outcomes, the benefits, and the ease with which I move through life, unburdened by the weight of honesty.

But ever since Lucille Fairchild entered my world, all of that has gone out the window.

Now, lying gnaws at me from the inside out. Each untruth I weave seems harmless at first, just a way to smooth things over, but the weight of my deceit grows with each passing day. It’s as if I’ve created a tangled web that ensnares my conscience, pulling tighter every time I face those I’ve deceived. The guilt lingers in the back of my mind, a constant reminder of the trust I’ve broken. Sleepless nights become the norm, as I replay my lies and the potential fallout. Something I’ve never done before. The facade I maintain feels like a prison, trapping me in a cycle of dishonesty that erodes my sense of self-worth. It’s a burden that I can’t easily shake off, a shadow that follows me everywhere.

It’s something I’ve shoved so far away inside of my mind because the heaviness of it is too much to bear. Because there isn’t time to let things like lying weigh you down. Everyone has secrets.

Keeping secrets can sometimes feel like possessing a hidden strength. These unspoken truths give me an edge, allowing me to maneuver through social dynamics with a certain finesse. They offer a layer of protection, safeguarding my vulnerabilities and providing a sense of control over my narrative. By holding back certain information, I can avoid unnecessary conflicts and maintain an air of mystery, which often works to my advantage. These secrets become my silent allies, empowering me to navigate life with a discreet sense of confidence and independence. In a way, they act as a buffer, shielding me from potential harm while enhancing my ability to manage relationships and situations effectively.

I first learned this when I was a small boy, when I saw my father abusing my step-mom. He taught me about secrets at a very young age.

I remember when my father first taught me the art of deception. I was five years old, and I had no idea that the little white lies he encouraged would become a significant part of my life. One evening, he sat me down and explained that sometimes, telling the truth wasn’t always the best option. He shared stories of how keeping secrets and bending the truth had helped him navigate difficult situations. At first, it felt like a game, a skill to master. But as I grew older, I realized the weight of his lessons. Keeping secrets became a way to protect myself and those I cared about, while lying became a tool to maintain control over my circumstances. These teachings shaped how I handled relationships and challenges, and though the burden of deceit often felt heavy, I couldn’t deny the power and advantage it sometimes offered.

And then, I started keeping my own secrets. I started lying to the very same puppet master that taught me the art of deception.

I remember the days when my father’s anger would fill the house like a storm. His manipulative ways were a constant presence, shaping my actions and thoughts. He had a way of twisting words and situations to his advantage, making me feel small and powerless. Every decision I made was influenced by the fear of his wrath and the need to avoid his manipulative tactics. It was a suffocating environment, where I learned to tread carefully, always second-guessing myself. The impact of his behavior lingered long after I left home, shaping how I viewed relationships and trust. Even now, the memories of his anger and manipulation are a reminder of the strength it took to break free from his control.

And when I found out that he was keeping secrets from me, his wrath became my own.

I remember the day I discovered the truth about my mother. It was like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless and reeling. My father had always been a shadowy figure, but I never imagined the extent of his actions. After I was born, he sent my mother away to Mexico, hiding her from me and the world.

The realization that he had kept her away from me all these years filled me with a mix of anger, sadness, and betrayal. It was as if a piece of my identity had been stolen, and I was left to pick up the fragments of a life I never knew I had.

The weight of this secret was overwhelming, and I couldn’t help but wonder how different my life would have been if I had known her from the start.

Not trusting my own father was a painful realization that took years to fully sink in, but as soon as I found my mother’s files in his office during my freshman year, it hit me like a box truck.

His words, once a source of guidance, became tainted with manipulation and deceit. Every promise he made felt like it came with hidden motives, and I found myself constantly questioning his intentions. The moments of genuine connection were overshadowed by the nagging doubt that he was playing another one of his mind games. It was a lonely feeling, knowing that the person who should have been my rock was instead the cause of so much uncertainty and pain. This mistrust seeped into other areas of my life, making it hard to open up and rely on others. The foundation of our relationship was cracked, and no amount of effort seemed to mend the damage.

In fact, this broken foundation only made me hate him.

Made me hate him so much that as soon as I graduated high school, I packed up all of my shit and left for the Marines.

When I went to bootcamp, I learned that the art of deception traveled far. Even into foreign parts of the world. Into governmental powers.

During my time in the military, I learned that deception is an essential tool in our arsenal. It wasn’t just about brute strength or tactical maneuvers; the art of misleading the enemy was a skill we honed with precision. We were taught to create elaborate ruses, to manipulate perceptions, and to plant false information to gain the upper hand. It was a delicate dance of strategy, where every move had to be calculated and every detail meticulously planned. The training emphasized that deception could save lives, disrupt the enemy’s plans, and turn the tide of battle. It was a sobering lesson, realizing that victory often depended on our ability to outwit and mislead. This aspect of military strategy became ingrained in me, shaping how I approached challenges both on and off the battlefield.

But I didn’t realize that the strategy was actually played against us and not for the benefit of saving innocent lies. I learned that when I climbed the ranks and landed in Special Forces. When I was tasked with tracking the Mexican Cartel. When I found my birth mother living inside one of them.

“Adrian,” I say as I twirl my pen in my hands, unable to focus on yet another merger I’m meant to sign off on.

“What is it?” he asks, clearly annoyed with me and my constant bullshit.

Hell, I’m annoyed with myself too.

“Do you remember when I found my mother?” I ask and he swallows tightly, offering me a short nod and nothing more.

“We found her that night when we got our disguises. We had a truckload of coke that border control gave us and we transported it from Texas to the residence. You were scared shitless,” I say and he nods, because he was.

And I was too.

“We were mules, you know?” I say as I lean back in my chair, the sour taste that’s forever been in my mouth growing stronger.

“That’s it. Lifeless cattle meant to transport goods and information. They didn’t care if we were shot to pieces on their drones or plants. But Eduardo and his father…they cared,” I say, and I can tell from the look in Adrian’s eyes, he remembers.

“They knew we were tapped the whole time,” Adrian said, and I nod.

“And they never killed us,” I say, and he sighs.

“Because they didn’t want a bigger war with the feds-”

“Because they clothed and fed my mother. Because they knew the woman that worked so hard for them for years, only wanted to see her son,” I growl, and he falls silent.

Eduardo’s father was the head of The AG when I first was introduced.

Meeting the head of a cartel was an experience that left an indelible mark on me. The room was thick with tension as I was ushered in, my heart pounding in my chest. He sat at the head of the table, exuding an air of authority and menace. His eyes, cold and calculating, seemed to pierce right through me. Every word he spoke was measured, every gesture deliberate. I could feel the weight of his power, the fear he commanded. It was a world I had only heard about in whispers, and now I was face-to-face with its reality. The encounter was brief, but it left me with a profound understanding of the dangerous game I had stepped into. The memory of that meeting still haunts me, a stark reminder of the fine line between survival and peril.

But his son, his son was vastly different.

Meeting Eduardo was an unexpected twist in my time there. I had braced myself for someone hardened by the world he was born into, but instead, I found a kind and gentle soul. He had a warmth in his eyes that contrasted sharply with the cold, ruthless environment he came from. We talked about our lives, and I was struck by his genuine curiosity and empathy. Despite the shadows that loomed over his family, he carried a light within him that was impossible to ignore. It was a reminder that even in the darkest places, there can be unexpected moments of humanity and connection.

We bonded over the course of the week that Adrian and I were there.

He made me feel safe. Safe enough to tell him that I was working for the Feds and that I wanted to find my mother.

It turns out, Eduardo was good at keeping secrets too.

He kept my secret about working in special forces until I quit, just as I had kept his secret about how he had slowly been poisoning his father until he died so he could take over.

I trusted Eduardo. And he trusted me.

He knew what it was like to be controlled by the devil, just as I did. He knew what it was like to lose an important woman in his life, just as I did.

Joining The AG was a decision that changed my life forever. I remember the day vividly - the tension in the air, the weight of the choice I was about to make. It wasn’t a path I had ever envisioned for myself, but circumstances had pushed me to the edge. The allure of power, money, and a sense of belonging drew me in. The realization that my mother was there and that she was cared for. The initiation was intense, a test of loyalty and resilience. As I stood among the seasoned members, I felt a mix of fear and determination. The reality of the cartel’s world was harsh and unforgiving, but I was ready to embrace it. Eduardo had my back just like I had his. That moment marked the beginning of a journey that would shape my identity and challenge my morals in ways I could never have imagined.

“She reminds me of them both, Adrian,” I say as he narrows his eyes.

“Of my mother and Eduardo,” I explain, and he sighs as he taps on his chair.

“She’s warm like my mother, hard-working like her. She’s honest and obedient, for the most part that is. But she’s also determined. She’s steadfast in her approach. She can be hard when she needs to, handle the bullshit life throws. She’s different than Megan. Different than all of them,” I say, and he shakes his head at me.

“It’s not her I’m worried about, man,” he says.

“It’s them. It’s her fucking family. You almost got out of their web and now you’re falling deeper into their shit. You’re practically signing your own prison sentence, Damien,” he says, and I can’t help but sigh, because he is somewhat right.

But I have bigger things to worry about than the Fairchilds.

“They’re not my biggest problem, Adrian,” I say, hating that I feel guilty for keeping this from him. This secret I’ve had for the last twenty-three years.

I also hate that I have a fucking conscience now. And I blame it on Lucy. I blame it on her ability to crack open parts of me and rip them right out of my chest.

“What have you done?” Adrian asks in a low tone with skeptical eyes.

“My father works for the CIA,” I admit and I swear, Adrian almost throws his chair against the wall.

In fact, he does.

It slams hard against the wooden door, splintering it with a loud crash.

I don’t flinch.

“Are you fucking kidding me man?” he shouts, practically pulling his hair out of his head as he screams.

“Chill out-”

“No,” he waves a finger in my face and I think about breaking it right in half.

“Don’t you fucking tell me to do that. It’s not just your ass to worry about here, Damien. You have a team of people working for you. People with families, wives, kids. People like me, asshole.” He growls and I scoff at him.

“And you knew that you would risk your life and well as your family’s by signing on to this. I was transparent about that,” I hiss, and he rolls his eyes.

“You weren’t transparent about your father working for the fucking CIA,” he barks, and I rub my forehead once more, the headache still present.

“He’s not after me, as far as I know. I just wanted to be transparent about this too, asshole.” I groan and he sighs as he drops his head to look back at the ceiling.

“One year. That’s all I need man. One year until these contracts are up and I can sell these companies for triple the price and we can both retire before fifty,” I say, and he scoffs.

“You’ll never retire,” he says, knowing damn well, that despite all of the stress, I love the fucking thrill of this life.

And I gave both Eduardo and my mother my word.

“I’ll be in Mexico, but you’ll be free. Free of me, and free of this bullshit,” I say as I stand and sign the paperwork on the desk before walking out.

“You have my word too, asshole. As much as you stress me out, I gave you my word in Afghanistan, and you still have it here,” he says, even though he’s angry with me.

We experienced a lot in the war, but we made a pact. And we’ve both stuck to it.

“Go home to your pregnant wife, Adrian. Take a vacation,” I say as before I shut the door and head to my office on the opposite end of the building.

When I step inside, I freeze. Because the headache doesn’t fucking end. In fact, it grows even stronger.

Because Megan Fairchild is sitting on my desk with a dark red dress that resembles the devil she is.

“Who let you in?” I growl and she smiles wickedly at me.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” she whines as she walks to me.

She places her hands on my chest and I notice that her nails are the same shade of her dress, something not like her.

She usually remains quite plain. Because her personality is anything but that.

It’s fucking infuriating.

“I still have the key card and code, remember?” She winks as she flashes her key card at me.

“This isn’t technically my office, Megan. It’s in Adrian’s name. I can have security here throwing you out on your ass as a trespasser in a millisecond if you don’t get your fucking hands off me,” I seethe, sickened by her appearance.

She pouts at me, but it’s so forced, so fake, that it makes me want to rip her hands from my body, but it’s pointless because she’s already dropping them to my cock.

What the fuck-

“I know you miss me, Damien,” she whispers in my ear after she grabs the back of my head.

“I can feel the kind of mood that you’re in. The stress of your little hidden life weighs on you more and more each day. Remember how you used to fuck me when you would get stressed like that?” she says in a fake, sultry voice.

I do remember.

I fucked her like I hated her. Because I did. And most of the time I did it with her facing away from me, or blindfolded so I that I didn’t have to look into her cold, heartless eyes. And I almost never came.

I’d go to the shower after every time and stroke myself to completion.

Sometimes, with Lucy’s face in my mind.

A lot of the time actually.

It’s exactly why I didn’t tell her that yesterday. I couldn’t admit that I had done the same thing she had for seven years. Touched myself to the forbidden girl, the outcast girl.

The girl that’s ten times sexier and smarter than this demon before me.

I push her to the ground then and she falls right on her flat ass. When I look down at her shocked face, I’m tempted to squash her with my shoe like a bug.

She glares up at me before she gets up and sneers.

“Get the fuck out-”

“I know you’re fucking her,” she growls, cutting me off.

I glare at her, wondering how she knows I’m with her sister. Because I can tell from the venomous look in her eye that is exactly who she is referring to.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I growl, and she scoffs at me.

“Oh, cut the bullshit, Damien. I saw her leave with Bruno the other day,” she says and I feel my spine freeze.

“Where?” I hiss and she smiles at me, cocky because she’s right. Which she fucking loves to be.

“At the university in the bathroom. Are you giving her a free ride for riding you, Mr. Reed?” she snarls, and I want to slap her clean across the face.

Fucking Lucy. I knew she was hiding something.

I should have never let her go to that school.

“She’s fucking worthless, you know. You’re wasting your time. She’s dirty, and mindless and-” I wrap my hand around her throat and squeeze so hard that her eyes start to bulge.

“Shut your fucking mouth now before I rip out your tongue,” I hiss, and she stares at me with so much fear, so much terror, that I have to back away.

Even though she deserved it.

“Don’t tell me that you fucking care about her, Damien,” she chokes out, trying to pull as much air into her lungs as possible.

Lie.

“Oh, but I do,” I smile, a sinister grin, even though I want to punish Lucy immediately for exposing herself so soon.

I had a plan for all of this and she fucking ruined it.

She fucking lied.

“I’ve cared about her for quite a while. Especially when I started fucking her in our bed three years ago.” I grin and all the color drains from her face.

A speed start to the plan, I guess I have to release Michael’s blackmail sooner than intended. Which means the wedding needs to get here ASAP.

“You don’t mean that,” she sneers and I press the button for security.

“Oh, but I do, sweetheart. Because you don’t hold a candle to that woman, I can assure you,” I growl, all truth coming out then, even though I’m so immensely pissed at Lucy for lying to me.

Even though I’ve been doing it to her since day one. Because I’ve been doing it to protect her. Just as I did that night three years ago when I ripped that slimy monster from her screaming ?bottom? and beat him until he was lifeless and dumped into the Hudson river.

Something nobody knows about.

“I can press charges for this, you know,” she growls as she rubs at the red marks on her throat.

I shrug as soon as security shows up.

“Not really, you’re trespassing. Technically, it was self-defense. I’m sure you know all about that right?” I narrow my eyes on her as she sneers.

“Get her out here and bar her from the premises immediately. She’s on the do not enter list anyways,” I say with a wave of my hand.

Security grabs her as she bitches and struggles the whole way, cursing at both them and myself until the door slams behind her.

I sigh as I pour myself a glass of whiskey and drain it in one gulp.

I’ll need half of this bottle before I go home and confront Lucille. She has no idea what’s coming for her.