He bangs again, and I jump as the sound thunders through the empty space.
“All right, I’m coming,” I yell as if he can hear me.
Powerwalking through my gallery, I unlock the front door and come face to face with the man I was trying to forget. Before I can say anything, his black and blue eyes and cut lip leave me speechless.
“Hey, stranger.” He smiles, but it’s empty. Hollow. It’s not the Damon La Rue megawatt smile I’m used to. I’ve never seen this smile before.
“What the hell happened to you?” I outrightly gape.
“This?” He points to his face. “Nuthin’,” he blows it off. “Just a run-in with the wrong side of a fist. You should see the other guy.”
“Um, I can imagine. Is the other guy still breathing?” I remember all the fights my father got into running with the club. Usually, he came out okay, but whoever he was fighting? Well, let’s just say, I felt sorry for them. Bloody doesn’t really describe it, and when the posse joined in? It’s like a school of piranhas were unleashed.
And if there’s one thing the patriarchs of the MC hand down, it’s how to use your fists. Even my sisters and I were taught how to fight. I can still see my dad dancing around the living room with me throwing jabs. By the time I was sixteen, I could throw a punch as hard as any of them.
“Yeah, unfortunately.” Damon invites himself inside. I do nothing to stop him, either. He does a little spin, checking the place out.
“So, this is the famous Animar.”
“I would hardly call it famous,” I retort.
“Where are the pictures and stuff?” He takes notice of the bare walls.
“I don’t have any bookings for the next few weeks,” I explain, my heart fluttering a mile a minute. His abrupt visit has all my motor functions working overtime.
“Cool. I have no doubt this place will be on the map in no time.”
“It would be nice,” I admit. “Damon, what are you doing here?” I cut to the chase.
He brings his battered blue eyes to mine as he walks backward farther into the gallery. “I wanted to see you.” His answer is plain as day.
“Why?” I follow him in my bare feet. I kicked off my shoes while I was working earlier, like I always do.
He stops in the dead center of the room. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“That must be annoying,” I respond satirically, my mouth once again getting the better of me.
“It’s infuriating,” he echoes my tone.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Damon reaches up and touches my neck. Right on the fading hickey. He stares at it longingly.
“Damon, what’s wrong?” It’s clear something heavy is weighing on his mind.
He’s quiet for several long heart beats, which is so unlike him. The Damon I know always has something snappy to say. When we were kids, it was hard to shut him up.
“I have to go away, and I don’t know if I’m coming back,” he reveals dispiritedly.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I bring my hand to where his is resting on my throat.
“There’s some shit I have to take care of. And I just wanted to see you one last time.”
“What shit?” I search his bruised expression and black-and-blue-rimmed eyes for answers. “Does it have something to do with the person who used your face as a punching bag?”
“No,” he smirks.
“Damon, you’re worrying me. Should I call Ky? Gerard? What kind of trouble are you in?” I press.
