Page 32 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

The tears won’t stop and his other arm curls around me. He’s embrace is so strong. Somehow both crowding and comforting as his biceps flex and tuck my tight against his body. It’s soothing in the same way heavy blankets feel when draped across the body. In the same way that Nan’s hugs used to be. Which only makes me cry more.

He sways as I weep against his chest. I wish I could tell him just how right he is. I wish I could tell him about the horrible rite I had to do just before Nan died. About the demon. About the curse and The Buried City. I wish I could spill my guts, but I know he’ll think I’m absolutely fucking insane if I do that.

“You didn’t ask for this,” I hiccup quietly. “You just wanted to kiss a nice goth girl at your show, and you got a weepy epileptic instead.”

I feel his cheek against the top of my head and his chest moves a bit with silent laughter. “Lucky for you, I’m super into weepy epileptics, and lucky for me, you are still a nice goth girl.”

In spite of everything, I let out a wet laugh. “You’re so fucking nice. And somehow also evil.”

“Hey, I thought you didn’t believe in evil,” he teases.

“Oh, I don’t,” I sniffle. “But you’re definitely evil. Bringing a mini blood choke to the function and then making me spill my guts right after until I ugly cry? That’s super evil.”

“I’m really sorry, sweetheart. If I’d known it was so upsetting I promise I would never have choked you without giving it my all. The next time I choke you, I promise to go all in.”

I laugh again and he loosens his arms around me. He props a finger under my chin to bring my gaze back up to his. His callused hands brush the wetness from my face. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty when you cry.”

More tears fall to replace the ones he’s wiped away. “You’re so fucking nice,” I blubber again.

“Right. Nice. And evil,” he says with a soft laugh, smearing the wetness away, completely unperturbed.

“I made you waffles,” I say stupidly.

“And we’re going to eat them,” he says. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I say, finding it in myself to heave in a shaky breath.

There’s a buzzing sound and Damien takes his phone out of his pocket and frowns before answering it. He hooks his free arm around me, hugging me against him. “Hey, Fletch, what’s up?”

It’s not on speaker, but I’m close enough to him to hear the other side of the conversation.

“Hey, you didn’t come back last night,” the Irish-accented voice on the other side says.

“Correct,” he replies. “Oren tell you what I texted him?”

“Yeah, he did. Little lass alright?”

“What do you think, little bird? You alright?” Damien asks me.

“Yeah, I am,” I say weakly.

“Good, ‘cause we need you to come back to the studio. Oren’s itching to record and he’s being a fecking arse about it,” he says.

My heart sinks as this bubble pops. Of course he’d have to go at some point today. I knew that intellectually. But anxieties seize me. I have to fix this before he goes. If he leaves me as a weepy mess, he’s never going to speak to me again.

And I realize that I want him to. I want him to speak to me again. Desperately.

“Alright. I’ll meet you guys in a little bit. I’ll head out from here in like an hour or so.”

“Yeesh, let the poor girl recover before you fuck her into oblivion,” Fletcher says on the other line.

Damien smirks down at me before sighing.

“I wish. We’re actually just about to sit down to some breakfast,” he says. “She made some waffles. And also I don’t want to rush out. She’s like... way prettier than you dicks are.”

“First of all, rude,” Fletcher says. “Secondly, I can’t wait to tell Oren. He’s going to be so sour about it.”

“Yeah, give him hell. See you later,” Damien says.