“I have a car, Asshole.”
He watches me as I get dressed. My limbs feel loose. Disjointed. I leave the panties he ruined on his floor and put the rest of my clothes on. I struggle with a wrist cuff. I can’t make it close because my hands are shaking too much. He takes the cuff from me. His hands are steady. He fixes it onto me a little tighter than I usually do it. It squeezes my skin, but for some reason, I like it. I look at his face and he lets me. He stays open. He doesn’t shut down. I feel a weird, deep pull towards him, like my chest is being pulled towards his. It’s a strange, intense moment that seems to stretch out. I reach out without thinking and run my finger lightly along the jagged bridge of his nose.
“Joseph St John,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move, but when I get up to leave, he curls a hand around my wrist and tugs sharply, stopping me in my tracks, making me look down at him. He considers me briefly. His eyes flick at me like a whip.
“People who know me call me Joey.”
Chapter 24
Saint
Icrankupthecoffee machine. It’s late. Midday, and I still haven’t got out of bed. I haven’t been for a run, and I haven’t eaten any breakfast. I’ve never stayed in bed this late in my life, but then again, I’ve never had a night like that either.
Holy fucking hell. That boy was on fire.
I admit I was shocked when I saw him. He surprised me by breaking into my place. Surprising me isn’t something many people have the ability to do. Or the balls. It’s ill advised. Dangerous, even. Obviously, that didn’t stop Damon. He started undressing before I had time to decide whether I was happy or angry to see him. After that, clarity of mind was in short supply.
God, he looked hot.
Black clothes. Dark blonde hair. Soft, luscious lips. Pale eyes, electric, and brimming with defiance.
The coffee machine splutters, hissing and frothing steam, then nothing. No heavenly aroma. No rich, dark nectar from the Gods. No crema. No caffeinated life-force to imbibe.
What the hell?
I press a few buttons. Red lights blink at me. I switch it off and then on again. It hisses and splutters again.
Oh, fuck. I can’t deal with this now.
I open the pantry cupboard to get the French press and ground coffee I keep for emergencies. I step back as if I’ve been slapped. The cupboard is a mess. Well, not a mess exactly, the cans are still neat, but here and there, they’ve been moved. Not enough to look obvious, just enough to make sure that the labels don’t line up perfectly.
Just enough to make me feel like I’m going to have a heart attack.
I straighten things up and then eye out the coffee machine. I know what I’m dealing with. I’ve been sent a message. A clear, simple message.
Demon was here.
I rip open the rest of the kitchen cupboards. The crockery and pots and pans haven’t been disturbed. The herb and spice rack is precisely the way I like it. Neat and tidy, but on closer inspection, I see that every single container of spice contains the same orange-brown coloured spice.The little shit has mixed them together.I open various containers in a frenzy.Aha!I think when I open the sugar. I taste cautiously. It’s normal. I thought for sure he’d have replaced it with salt. Dumbass missed a trick. I stalk through the rest of the apartment looking for things that are out of place.
My bathroom cabinet has been victimized. All my toiletries have been unpacked out of my toiletry bag, and I find a PostIt note inside the door which reads:
You need moisturizer, Asshole.
And dental floss.
Don’t make me say it again.
My wardrobe looks alright. He’s mixed my white socks in with my black and my work pants are missing, but it’s not as bad as it could have been. It doesn’t take me very long to straighten it out. I shower and get dressed. I’m skipping my run today. I’m beat. I might head out to get a decent coffee though, God knows I need it. As I walk down the hall, my eyes land on my bookshelves.
No.
He wouldn’t.
But that’s not the truth, is it? Anyone who’s known Damon for an hour or more, knows that he abso-fucking-lutely would. I spend the better part of the afternoon manually checking every book I own. He’s been clever about it. He’s switched books with the same color spines, so as not to draw attention to his act of tyranny. He hasn’t done many, which makes them harder to find. It takes hours. I find eleven books out of place.
Is that all of them?
