Page 67 of Dirty Little Secrets
“About what, darling?”
“Me.” The word trembles off my tongue. “That he’s wrong about me.”
“What about you?” His breath tickles my skin, warm and soothing and borderline prescriptive. Like asedative. A drug. A synthetic combination of chemicals.
With a shaky breath, I push him away, unwilling to let more toxins into my body. “I should find Damon. I need to…”
But I don’t find him.
All evening I search for him, avoiding Quinton as I mingle with the appropriate people, as I glance over my shoulder every chance I get. He left. He left and didn’t say goodbye. It shouldn't bother me. I told him to stay away. He opened my cage.
But I’m still inside.
THE BROKEN DAM
DAMON
My chest achesas the sun beats down on rows of headstones. It’s unsettling for warmth and light to fill such a solemn and eerie place. The trees surrounding the cemetery rustle gently in the wind, the sky overhead a deep shade of blue. It's peaceful here. Serene. But I can taste death in the air. That’s all there is—death.
As I stand before the graves of my family, I am hyper aware of the stillness that settles around me. It's as though time itself has slowed down, the entire universe holding its breath in anticipation of the words I’ll finally say. It’s been too long. I’ve been too scared.
A bird chirps in the distance, and that one sound reminds me that there’s an entire world just beyond these cemetery gates.
A world they’ll never see again.
Because of me.
Because I started it all.
“Jesus Christ, Damon!” My father barks. I can barely see him through my tears as he paces in front of me, Charles Marquis by his side. “Do you realize what you’ve done?!”
“He’ll be okay,” I mutter, more so to myself. “He’ll be okay.”
“Maybe he will but?—”
“I will handle it,” Charles interjects, clearing his throat. “Take him to your house. He was there all night, yes?” He turns to his son. “And you say nothing, understand? Not a word.”
“I want nothing to do with this,” Quinton says. “Leave me out of it.”
“Not a word,” Charles grunts. “I mean it.”
“I’ll make it right,” I whisper. “We’ll make it right.”
“Get up,” my father demands, grabbing me by the arm. He winces as he smells me. “Jesus, you need a shower.” My limp body follows my father out of Charles’ office. “Your mother is…”
“Don’t tell her,” I say meekly. “Don’t?—”
“She knows.”
I swallow. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix everything, son. Get in the backseat and sleep it off.”
“I’m so sorry…”
Whether you call it fate or karma, there's no denying that the universe has a way of realigning itself. The consequences of every choice, every action, may not always be immediate, but it is inevitable.
Always inevitable.
