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  He tilted his hips until the tip was nestled between my folds. He held himself there, the tip just at my entrance, waiting.

  "Please," I whispered.

  "Please, what?" he asked, teasing me, darkly amused.

  I growled and wrapped my legs around his hips, pulling him toward me. "You know what."

  "Say it," he ordered. "I want to hear you say the words."

  "Fuck me," I said breathlessly, giving in to him again. "I need you to fuck me."

  With one single thrust, he pushed into me. We groaned in unison. I fluttered around him, trying to accommodate his size. He slowly withdrew, the blunt head scraping against my inner walls. Pleasure shot through me with every inch of withdrawal. He pushed back in, parting me again. I squeezed him, pulsing wildly.

  "Fuck," he cursed. "So fucking sweet."

  I tilted my hips sharply, changing the angle, sucking him in deeper.

  He groaned again as he bottomed out. "Sweetness, you're killing me."

  "More," I demanded.

  He obliged, thrusting in and out, speeding up the pace. My nails dug into the skin of his shoulders as I clung to him. He crashed his lips back onto mine. His tongue mimicked the motions of his hips, darting in and out.

  His movements soon became wild, uncoordinated. I knew he was close. He reached down and pressed a thumb to my still sensitive clit. I gasped. He rubbed in circles, pressing down hard. It was enough to send me over the edge. I shrieked, but his mouth on mine muffled the sound.

  His hips sped up, jerking and snapping against mine. With a final thrust, he let out a choked moan. His cock twitched and pulsed inside me. I shook and trembled from aftershocks just as his arms shook with strain.

  We panted into each others mouths, eyes locked, until our muscles relaxed. I lowered my legs from his hips and removed my nails from his back.

  He lifted himself from me, kneeling above me on the bed. He was still wearing his shirt, his jeans only pushed halfway down. I was still wearing my bra and shirt, my skirt having been pushed to my waist.

  "That was…" I huffed out an exhausted breath, not able to continue.

  "I know," Damon said, still sounding equally breathless.

  We stared at each other, basking in the afterglow until our breathing slowed.

  He grinned suddenly. "I worked up an appetite. You want dinner?"

  Dinner at home, with Damon. My heart thumped. Was he going to cook for me himself?

  "I can order a pizza or something," he offered.

  I laughed inwardly. Sometimes Damon surprised me, but other times he was exactly the guy he seemed to be.

  "You like Asian food?" I asked. "Maybe some Chinese?"

  His eyes lit up. "I know just the place. They've got amazing take-out, and they're fast."

  Damon was right. We barely had time to wash up, put on our clothes and get the plates and cutlery ready, before there was a knock at the door. Damon was in the kitchen getting paper napkins so I went to answer it.

  A man stood in the hallway. I paused, taken aback. He didn't look like a delivery boy, and he didn't carry any bags in his hand. He was older, with greying hair. He narrowed his dark eyes at me.

  "Can I help you?" I asked politely, wondering if he was some sort of solicitor or canvasser.

  "You can let me in," he said. His breath smelled of whiskey. Warning bells sounded in my head.

  "Is the delivery guy here?" Damon asked as he came out of the kitchen. "Let me give you some cash for a tip." Damon saw the man in the doorway. He froze.

  The man spotted Damon at the same time. He pushed his way past me roughly, forcing me to step aside. I was too shocked by the rude behavior to say anything.

  "Nice place," the man sneered, looking around. "Still doing well for yourself?"

  This wasn't the delivery boy.

  "What are you doing here?" Damon replied.

  Shivers went down my spine at his voice. Cold, chilly, but with a simmering undertone. Damon's fists clenched at his side, shaking.

  The man pinned Damon down with a frightening familiar smirk.

  "That's no way to speak to your father."

  Chapter Eighteen

  When the rude man identified himself as Damon's father and I saw Damon's reaction, it might have been the right time to be confused.

  Instead, I remembered our previous conversation over greasy burgers. We'd talked about turning into our parents. Damon's expression had grown dark. I'd asked him if his dad was the reason he'd left home.

  "My father… is not a good man."

  I backed away from the door. I didn't know exactly how not good was not good, but I didn't want to take any chances.

  "I asked what the fuck you're doing here," Damon said again. That same darkness was back in his eyes.

  My heart was in my throat, gaze darting back and forth between the two of them, waiting. Anticipating. I didn't know how awful this was going to get, but I knew it wouldn't be good.

  "Can't I visit my eldest son without needing a reason?" His father wandered further into the apartment, walking over to the living room. He touched everything, trailing his fingers along the back of the sofa, picking up a magazine from the end table and pretending to flip through it. As if he had every right to be here.

  He tossed the magazine haphazardly back on the table. Damon growled. His father whistled when he saw the collection of vinyl on the wall. "Impressive."

  "How much?" Damon asked. I didn't know what he meant, but from the tired tone in Damon's voice, I could tell this was a question often asked.

  His father turned his attention back to Damon. He ignored me completely, as if I wasn't there. I preferred it that way. Damon's father, with a sneering curl to his lip, made me apprehensive. As unpredictable as Damon was, I had a feeling this man could be set off by the slightest thing.

  "One hundred," the man said, not pretending he wasn't aware of the meaning of Damon's question.

  "Are you fucking with me?" Damon snorted. "I'm not giving you a hundred thousand dollars."

  My mouth dropped open, aghast.

  "You're going to give me exactly what I want," his dad said.

  "And why would I do that?" Damon retorted.

  "You're not the only son I can ask," the man pointed out.

  Damon's eyes turned deadly. "You go near Ian and I'll kill you." Damon's voice was terrifyingly cold.

  "More threats?" He narrowed his eyes at his son. "You've always been disrespectful, boy. I see time hasn't changed anything."

  "Respect is earned," Damon spat. "And its not a threat. It's a warning. You go near Ian and I will beat the shit out of you."

  A shiver went through me at Damon's words. It didn't sound like a boast or an exaggeration. In that moment, I had no doubt Damon was itching to do just that — put his fist through his father's face.

  Damon laughed incredulously. "Get the out of my house or I call the cops."

  The man smirked. "You tried that once already, remember? Didn't work out so well for you, if I recall."

  Damon grunted, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "What is it now? Gambling? You in debt?" It was Damon's turn to sneer. "Or do you just need to support your addiction?"

  "Does it matter?" he replied. "You give me the money and I'll go away."

  "Right," Damon said. "And how many times have you promised that?"

  "Do you not have the money?" His father raised an eyebrow. "Spending it all on fancy condos and cars?" For the first time, he looked at me. I shrank back, my skin crawling at the sinister look in his eyes. "Or all you spending all your money on whores?"

  Damon sped across the room and grabbed his father by his shirt collar, cocking back one fist. He got right up into his face. "Get the fuck out of my house or I swear to god—"

  "You'll what?" his father taunted. "You never learn your lesson, do you?"

  With every muscle in his back and shoulders tensed, Damon slowly lowered his fist. His didn't ease his grip on the collar.

  "Fine," he said
through gritted teeth. "But this is the last time."

  His father put his hands up, conceding. "Last time," he promised.

  With his grip still on his father's collar, he briskly walked him backward towards the door. Damon shoved his father through the doorway. "After I wire the money, I never want to hear from you again."

  "You give me what I want, and this will be the end of it." He straightened his shirt and pretended to brush off his clothes.

  Damon slammed the door. His breathing was rough and heavy, as if he'd been through a marathon.

  The both of us were silent for long moments. Damon didn't say a thing. I approached him carefully. I laid a gentle hand on his back. He didn't turn.

  "So that was your father?" I asked slowly.

  Damon chuckled darkly, head bowed. "Yeah. That was Gareth Drake. Great way to meet the in-laws, right?" he said, voice hoarse.

  My heart didn't even flutter at the implication. It just squeezed in my chest, aching for Damon.

  "Has he been doing this for long?" I asked. "Asking for money?"

  "Years," he said. "When we left home I thought I'd never see him again. Then we started getting bigger and more famous. The fucker appeared one day with an ultimatum. When Ian saw him…" Damon leaned his head back. "I nearly killed the bastard," he admitted. "Cameron and Noah had to pull me back. I don't know how I didn't end up in jail for assault. August took care of it somehow. Our father disappeared. For a while."

  Damon finally turned. His green eyes were pained. "Don't tell Ian," he said. "I don't want him to know."

  "He doesn't know your father is back?" I guessed.

  "No. And I want to keep it that way."

  It sounded like blackmail. His father threatened to go to Ian. Was that all it was? Damon protecting his brother? Just like I was protecting Faith? I could understand where Damon was coming from.

  "Fuck." Damon exhaled noisily. He went quiet for a moment before shouting. "FUCK." He slammed his fist against the door. I jumped and startled back a handful of paces.

  "It's okay," I said quietly, shaken.

  "It's fucking not okay." Damon stormed toward the kitchen, then stopped and stormed toward the living room, prowling back and forth like a jungle cat, agitated and on edge.

  I hesitated, staying back. I'd never seen Damon this upset. His eyes blazed with fury. It was alarming.

  "What if Ian were here?" His voice raised loudly, arms gesturing wildly. "What if he were visiting instead of you? What if that asshole showed up somewhere in public when we were together?"

  "Your brother's a grown man," I said. "I'm sure he—"

  "You have no fucking idea," Damon cut me off, seething. "None."

  "Damon—"

  He growled and whirled around, punching the wall. I jumped again, heart pounding, this time more frightened than startled. My stomach twisted, rising to my throat with panic. As passionate and impulsive as he was, I'd never seen Damon get violent.

  "I am not going to let that fucker ruin our lives again," Damon shouted. His knuckles were red, bleeding. Before I could make a move toward him, to try and calm him maybe, he cursed again. "Fuck this shit." He marched toward the front door.

  "Where are you going?" I didn't want him following his father. Who knew what he might do in this state.

  "I need to talk to August," was all he said.

  He stormed toward the door. I flinched back unconsciously. I didn't think he'd hurt me. Not really. But seeing him like that was scary. I didn't know what he might do.

  Damon brushed past, not giving me a second look. He stalked out the door and slammed it shut, leaving me trembling and shaken.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I looked at my phone with a sigh. No new messages or voicemails. I was disappointed, but also relieved. I still hadn't decided what my response should be when Damon finally contacted me. It had been days since I'd last seen him.

  Damon's behavior had been distressing. I hadn't known he had that kind of a temper. When he'd slammed the door behind him, I'd been more than shaken. I'd been almost frightened. Punching walls and shouting… He'd never acted that way in front of me before, and I was sure if Hope had seen him that way, she would have warned me.

  Then again, I'd never heard someone threaten his brother in front of him like that. It was his protective instinct. I felt the same way about my sister. If someone had ever threatened Hope in the same manner, I probably would have been just as eager to give them a beat down.

  But it wasn't only that.

  Damon was keeping a secret from his brother. If their father had been blackmailing him since they first hit it big, Damon would have been lying to his brother for years. The fact that he could keep something a secret for so long was troubling. Did Damon regularly lie to his brother about other things as well? He was such a straightforward person. Damon didn't seem like the type who could keep a secret for very long.

  Then again, I was keeping something from my sister. The comparison between us made me vaguely uncomfortable. I'd never considered myself to be an exceptionally good liar — except regarding one thing.

  With a sigh, I flopped onto my living room sofa and mindlessly flipped through the channels, searching for bad reality TV. That bridezilla wedding show was on again. Good enough.

  I was five minutes in when I got another urge to check my phone. I'd been looking at it every fifteen minutes.

  I'd asked Hope about him, worried, but she hadn't heard from him, and neither had his brother. I hadn't wanted to say anything, to explain why I was worried. From what Hope had told me, they figured he'd gone on a bender somewhere and would turn up in a few days with the mother of all hangovers.

  I hadn't texted Damon, either. I hadn't known what to write.

  Maybe, Your behavior scared me and I think we should take a break.

  Or perhaps, I'm worried about you. Call me so we can talk this through.

  Or even, Please tell me you didn't follow your father and now you're sitting in jail arrested for assault.

  That last one was just as likely as Damon going on a bender.

  I stared at the TV screen. I tried to pay attention, but my mind kept wandering. Not only to Damon, but to my sister, and my dad. Seeing Damon confront his own father had been nerve-wracking in itself, but the whole scene had only reminded me of my own situation.

  My father wasn't blackmailing me, or threatening Hope. But his actions hurt the two of us nonetheless. Emotional abandonment, neglect, resentment… Telling your father you were nominated for Valedictorian, showing him your acceptance letter to your first choice college, asking him if he'll attend your graduation, only to have him stare right through you, as if you didn't exist, and walk away without a word…

  It hurt.

  I knew my father was depressed. That was a given. I didn't need an official diagnosis to recognize all the signs. I wouldn't have been able to get a diagnosis anyway. He refused to go to a therapist. Refused any kind of treatment. I really thought when my sister and I moved out, when he wasn't confronted with the face of the woman he'd lost every single day, he might start recovering.

  I'd been too hopeful. Naive. Depression as severe as my dad's rarely just went away on its own. If he would even agree to just see to somebody, a counselor or a therapist, if he just had some outlet where he could talk about his feelings…

  But he hated talking about Mom. He changed the subject every time the accident came up. I understood that it might be too painful for him, but it was unhealthy to let an emotional wound fester like that.

  And it was getting worse. In the last few weeks, I'd seen a downswing in his mood. He said fewer than a handful of words when I delivered him his food. He could barely look me in the eye, just like it has been when I was a teenager. I'd begun to dread my visits even more than usual.

  I didn't know why I still tried. Nothing ever changed. But that kernel of hope inside me just wouldn't die. I always thought that maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time he would look at me and
smile, pride in his eyes at one of my accomplishments. Maybe this time he would ask about Hope, wanting to know how she was doing. Maybe one day he'd put on a nice suit and take us all out to dinner, where we'd tell stories about Mom, and laugh and cry together.

  Instead, he sat alone in his house, refusing to interact with the world, unable to take care of himself, slowly withering away.

  And Hope knew nothing about it. I was the one to take on the burden of caring for him, even thought I was the last person on earth he wanted to see.

  That was okay. Hope didn't need to know. She didn't need to deal with all that. What good would it do for the both of us to be saddled with that responsibility? No, as bad as I knew it was, this was one secret I was more than happy to keep to myself.

  I'd just returned to my show when my phone pinged. My stomach both dropped and fluttered at the same time. I snuck a peak at it. It was from Damon.

  I'm sorry, was all it said.

  A million different answers flicked through my mind. I held my phone in my hand, staring at it.

  For which part? I finally wrote back.

  For storming out on you. For freaking out. I never wanted you to see me like that.

  I thought about my reply for a few moments.

  Are you often like that? I asked.

  No, he wrote back immediately.

  You scared me, I admitted. It wasn't just because you went off. It was also because I was worried about what you might do. Worried that you might have gone after your father and done something bad. And then you went silent for days. You didn't even contact Ian. You can't just do that. You need to talk things out when you're upset.

  I knew firsthand what happened what happened when someone refused to deal with their feelings.

  I know, he wrote. That's why I'm sorry.

  Apology accepted, I wrote.

  I want to see you.

  I hesitated.

  Even though he had scared me, I could almost understand it. Getting physical with his father to throw him out, that was reasonable.