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"Yeah, he's an asshole, but deep down, he knows he fucked up. And we can remind him a little."
"How would we do that?"
"Do you trust me?"
"No," I say.
His laugh is easy, but there's something else in his eyes. Disappointment. "Fair enough. Let me show you next time. He'll be at the pitch, right?"
The one in six days. I nod.
"Tell me as much as you can, and I'll fuck with him the best I can."
"As long as it's good for the deal," I say.
Damon nods. "The music comes first. I know you, Cass. If you could get off the music before you came, you'd do that too."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Not all of us are lyricists."
My chest warms too. I'm pretty sure he's buttering me up, but it's working. A long time ago, Damon appreciated me as a person and a musician and a writer. He respected me as an equal. As a superior talent, even. The same way I respected his composing skills. He was way better than I was. He still is.
Okay. I'll share something. Enough for the ruse, at least.
"It's kind of hard to explain to someone who's never been in a long relationship. Something happens after a while. The initial passion fades. The honeymoon too. Things are hard sometimes. Not always. But sometimes."
He nods.
"Maybe you've had phases in your relationship with something. I know I have times when the words come easily and when they don't."
"When I struggled to connect with music?" he asks.
"Have you?"
"Yeah." His lips curl into a frown, but he doesn't elaborate.
I want to ask. I want to know. I want to share the way we did, once upon a time, but that's a lost cause. "Think of it like that. If it makes sense."
"It does." His eyes fix on me.
The attention makes me flush, but I push on. "At first… well, at first, things with Frederick and I weren't that good. I was on SSRIs when we started dating."
"You couldn't come?"
"You've taken them?"
"A few times, yeah. I had that problem once."
It's hard to imagine Damon with a sex-drive issue. But maybe that helped his reputation. The guy who lasts forever. "Did you still want sex?"
"Yeah, but it was never about that. It was a fun thing to do." There's something in his voice, something I can't really place. He continues before I can figure it out. "I only stayed on them a while. Didn't like the other side effects."
Or that one, probably.
"I was on them for the first year or so." It was terrible. Sure, I felt calmer, I felt more even, and I completely lost touch with the sexual side of myself. I couldn't come. I could barely get excited. I wanted to feel close to my boyfriend, and I wanted to want sex, but I didn't. So I faked it. And that… it was easier when I switched meds. I finally found my libido. "When I switched meds, I found something that gave me a little more oomph, and I found the spark again." Sort of. It was too late. We were well past the new relationship energy. And I'd let him believe I was interested in all sorts of things I didn't really like. But there were a few things that fit. We hit them often enough. And those times were good. Great even. "It was a little awkward at first, but I got there. I found all that desire. And we were good together. Really good. Then, one day, we weren't."
"From sixty to zero?"
"No. It happened more slowly, but it felt sudden. Like I woke up one day and I finally saw it."
He nods without judgment.
I blush anyway. This is more than I've shared with anyone. Even Daphne. We've never been the type to share dirty details. Only rough sketches. "I tried to talk to Frederick, but he denied the problem. He said he was stressed. I let it go for a while, but it started to nag at me." I wanted to replay the rush of our first few months so I could really feel them. Or at least, I wanted to get as close as I could. "So I tried to bring the spice on my own. I bought lingerie. I sent flirty texts. I seduced him."
"How did you seduce him?" Intent fills his blue eyes.
My stomach flutters. I like the interest in his expression. I like it too much.
He's only my fake boyfriend. He's not my real fuck. Daphne would never forgive me. At least, that's one benefit of this subject; it kills the mood.
I can't sleep with him.
It doesn't matter how sexy his v-lines are or how much I want to trace his ink with my tongue or how real our kisses feel.
I can't fuck him.
I try to make my voice neutral. "Normal stuff. I'd send him a picture. Or tell him what I was wearing under my dress." I don't want to remember how desperate I felt, so I skip over that part. Even so, the feelings rise to the surface. The sting of rejection. The thrill of success. The voice asking am I really so abnormal? "It worked sometimes. Other times, not so much." I don't give him a chance to respond with snark or sincerity. I push on. "I tried to up my game. I guess I felt competitive." Like I needed to beat my best efforts. "So I suggested bigger things. Public sex. BDSM. A threesome. That was the one he wanted to try."
