AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Daphne: You can call Damon yourself, you know.
Cassie: Do I have to though?
Daphne: You could just show up, if you want to do the dramatic thing. He's at the summer place. You have a key, don't you?
Cassie: I do.
Daphne: Go. Surprise him.
Cassie: Catch another man in the middle of fucking another woman?
Daphne: That's my brother, gross.
Cassie: Is it likely?
Daphne: No. He won't bring someone back there.
I want to ask why, but I don't want to open the door to mental images of Damon Webb naked.
It's bad enough he's the most annoying person on the planet. He could at least have the decency to be unattractive.
It's really not fair someone so horrible on the inside is so beautiful on the outside. But that might make it easier to pretend I find him bearable.
In theory.
Chapter Two
Damon
After four months, I should be used to the whole sobriety thing. I'm not. All day, my head goes to the same place: I need a distraction.
I tell myself any distraction is as good as the warm numb of whiskey, but I never believe it. Nothing is strong enough to dull the voice in my head screaming Damon Webb, fuckup.
It doesn't matter whether it says hey, you might as well numb the pain of being a fuckup. It's not like there's anything better out there. Or whether it says hey, you piece of shit, don't fuck up again. Your parents might forgive you but your sister won't.
At the end of the day, it's all the same.
Routine keeps me busy, but it's not enough. The days blur together. The bright light of morning, the drive to the gym, breakfast, books, lunch, the view of the ocean from the backyard, the deep blue water competing with the eight billion thoughts in my head.
The first few weeks of sitting out here, my ass on the concrete, my feet in the pool, I wanted to drown myself in the shallow water. That would have been better than sitting with my thoughts for another second.
Now, I can survive a few minutes. Half an hour even.
And I'm here. At my limit. Enough of the quiet afternoon. Enough of the beautiful sky and the bright sun and the awe-inspiring view of nature.
I head inside. I fix a cup of coffee. I turn on the TV and try to fill the big, empty house with something besides a desire to drink.
This place isn't home, exactly. It's my parents' second house. The one Dad inherited from his uncle a billion years ago. The uncle who gave me his name. The guy who taught Dad how to live and love and laugh and all that kitchen poster bullshit. As if Dad is some sort of bastion of sobriety and not a fuckup, the way I am.
I can't complain. Not about the house. It's more than most people have. A lot more.
A five-bedroom mansion in Malibu, perched on the top of a windy hill, with a view of the ocean, a massive pool, a grand piano, and too much space for any one person to fill with warmth.
This place is only thirty minutes from where I grew up, in Malibu Hills, but it still feels like it's a secret spot. Only for lazy summers, with my sister and her best friend, and Dad, watching us as he worked on a song, looking at us with pride and joy.
Back then, I wasn't Damon Webb, fuckup. Back then, I had potential.
Now—
Not going there.
I sit on the bench and play a scale. Then another. My fingers slip into the rhythm instantly. They know they belong here.
For a few minutes, I fall into the flow of the music. I play a warmup song.
Then I try to play the piece I'm working on and I freeze. There are too many things whirling inside me. Things I can't stand feeling. Things I can't stand hearing.
How the fuck does anyone do this? How does anyone live and breathe without numbing everything all the time? It's too much. Way too fucking much.
I play a few more practice songs, but I don't try anything of mine. Not now. I heat a TV dinner, I clean up, and I move on to my favorite distraction.
Sex.
Yeah, I'm a sober cliché. Sex and coffee. But I'm not doing it the exciting way. No other people involved. That's too fucking weird. I haven't had sex sober in a long-ass time.
No. I do the impossible uncool thing. I head to my room, I make myself comfortable, and I look for a video aide.
None of it moves me. It's all bullshit. Fake. Like so many people in this city. Like so many things. All this glitz and glamor and promise, but it's a facade. Worse, people buy into it. I used to buy into it.
Seriously. Who watches an actor jack-rabbiting an actress who's groaning like she's having the best orgasm of her life and believes it?
