Page 41 of Dirty Little Secrets
I close my eyes and see Damon’s face. I see the sun. The heat kisses my skin, warmth coating every inch of me. Exploding through me like I’m a prism, a heavenly rainbow shooting out into the endless corners of my mind. Prisms are clear, solid, and full of nothing but glass. Ordinary without light.
My whole life, I knew something was missing, something that every person, whether they admit it or not, needs. Light. Is he the light? Or does he simply represent the potential of light? I can’t tell. I don’t trust myself to be objective. Not with him. Not when hiswords, his touch, his wicked promises, destroy and muddle my ability to think with reason, with logic.
He’s blackmailed me, he’s flipped my goddamn life upside down, and yet…I find my hatred for him dwindling with every encounter. I fear my brain, my trusted and authoritative ally, is losing its high-level position, and this stranger’s heart, this loud and growling beast, is climbing in ranks and on the precipice of complete and utter control.
I want to give in. I want to succumb to the burning desires no longer lying dormant. I want to break free of all shackles, of all restraints. I want to feel him inside of me. I want his lips to mark my skin, to brand me, to color me with light. But he has rules. He has a system. Because he’s done this before. It’s evident.
It’s a sad realization. I’m just another prism, another ordinary object he can shine his light into. What if I get accustomed to his light? And what if he grows tired of mine? What then? At this moment, I cannot fall any further into darkness, but if I decide to let him in, and he chooses to leave… I can plummet into a night so bleak that even the moon never rises.
I chase my tail for what feels like hours, weighing my options, flipping between the allure of day and the safety of night, until a clanking noise echoes from the kitchen and I sit up, my bones freezing. Someone’s in here.
Acting swiftly, I slither off the bed, wrapping the silk robe Damon had purchased for me around my body. Tiptoeing to the walk-in closet, I gently reach up and grab the iron from the top shelf. I laugh inwardlyat the idiocy. Right, ‘cause an iron beats a gun. Modern-day rock, paper, scissors.
Sucking in a deep breath, I poke my head out my bedroom door, frowning as inaudible feminine humming sounds from the kitchen. I straighten my shoulders and follow the noise. As I approach the kitchen, I tilt my head, lowering my makeshift weapon. Hovering over the stove is a plump elderly woman.
“Who are you?”
Bacon and a spatula soar across the room as she yelps. “Ah!” She grabs her chest, panting as she spins around. “Sweet Mary, you scared me.” She pouts, glancing down at the scraps of food on the floor. “Oh… I’ll make some more, don’t worry!”
I blink at the stranger. “I think you’re in the wrong apartment.”
The woman purses her thin lips. “Mmm, I don’t think so. This is apartment 4404. I wrote it down.” She mutters to herself, struggling to bend down and pick up the spatula and bacon bits. “Not that Ineedto write it down but his royal pain-in-my-ass insisted. He thinks because I’m old, I'm suddenly stupid.”
I clue in immediately.
“Damon sent you?” I ask, placing the iron on the dining room table as I approach the kitchen, squatting down to help the little old lady.
“Of course.” She looks up at me, frowning. “He didn’t tell you?” She clicks her tongue as I place the last strip of bacon on the counter and help her stand upright. “I do not understand that boy sometimes.” She wipes her hands on her apron, giving me a warm smile. “I’m Josephine, Damon’s housekeeper. I am here to…” She lets out a nervous giggle. “Make your breakfast…twice. Apologies again.”
“It’s fine,” I say, tightening my robe. Josephine's gaze flits to the middle of my chest, my scar visible in the plunging neckline of the nighty. She studies it suspiciously, and I clear my throat, uncomfortable. “I don’t really eat bacon.”
“My late husband,” she says, drawing a line down the middle of her own chest, “had a similar scar.” She tilts her motherly head. “I’ll make you an egg white omelet, yes? No cholesterol.”
Damon hasn’t seen my scar yet. I’ve made sure of that. In the last three years, I’ve mastered the art of cover-up. It took a lot of trial and error but now when people look at me, they don’t see a patient. They don’t look at me with sympathy. Often, they don’t look at all.
“Don’t tell him,” I whisper, wincing at my own insecurity. “He doesn’t?—”
“No? How did he not see…” Josephine’s brows perk up, cheeks flushing. “Oh, so you two have not…” She covers her mouth, embarrassed. “Oh, I am so sorry, I did not mean to?—”
Her frazzled expression unexpectedly causes me to chuckle, a hearty laugh that travels to my toes. Rare.
“It’s fine, please relax, Josephine.” I give her a friendly smile, hoping she’ll calm down. I doubt a woman her age can afford a spike in blood pressure. “No, Damon and I have not, you know….”
“I see,” she hums, turning her attention back to the bag of groceries. She gets to work, silently shooing meout of her way. I round the island and sit in one of the bar chairs, an odd sense of comfort permeating the air. She waddles to the coffee maker and pours me a cup, setting the mug down in front of me. “Here, drink this for now.”
I tap my nails on the ceramic mug. “So, Damon sent you down here to make me breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get in? I locked the—” She subtly nods to the keys on the corner of the counter. “Ah, of course. He has keys…to my apartment.”
Josephine cringes, cracking an egg and removing the yolk. “You must forgive Damon. He, uh, he has a hard time with boundaries and—” I snort, and she snaps her amused gaze at me. “So, you are aware?”
“I am.” I bite my lip. I wonder how long Josephine’s worked for Damon. She must know him well. As his housekeeper, she’s probably privy to many details of his personal life. “Does he do this often?” I ask. “Get you to cook for his…” I blank on a noun. Woman he wants to fuck seems inappropriate. “New employees?”
Josephine chuckles to herself, as if in on a joke. “No, it is not a common request.”
I swallow, attempting to sound casual. “When was the last time he, uh…made this request?”
