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He tenses and goes to put the leggings back, but I stay his hand. “Yeah, we’ll take these. And any others he might want.”
The store employee gives Damon an appraising look and I see it makes Damon uneasy. I think he might bolt, but she says, “I think these will be really cute on you. With your smaller frame, you can really pull them off. Here, let me show you some shirts that can go with them. You can mix and match so you’ll have more outfits.” With that, she moves to the back of the store to the shirt racks.
“You heard her,” I tease, and Damon gives me a dry look before he follows.
We leave that store with three complete outfits and the store associate showed Damon how to mix them up so all of the shirts can go with different leggings.
From there, Damon is more confident as he shops. He picks out a few pairs of tighter jeans, some with rips from the upper thigh to the knees. As we shop, he gets bolder with his choices, and I can’t erase my lingering smile. I love how he’s moving around, pulling things down and looking excited about the prospect of a bunch of new clothes that fit who he wants to be.
I’m pissed at his family for making him feel like he couldn’t be himself. Damon shouldn’t feel bad about wanting to dress more fem. There’s nothing wrong with him expressing himself through his clothes.
Now that we’re shopping and Damon knows he won’t be stuck in the clothes he hates, I can tell it’s like a weight lifted from his shoulders. His eyes are bright, and he beams at me whenever he picks up something he likes. He fidgets every time we get to the register, but I just kiss him and tell him not to stress. I also remind him that I’m taking care of him for these two weeks so he needs to get used to it.
I see we’ll have a battle when I have him in my life for good.
Banking on Damon wanting more from me after these two weeks are over is probably foolhardy, but I can’t stop thinking that he’s it for me. How he felt in my arms when we napped, how he seems to be more emboldened around me, how he seems to be trusting me more, that’s what gives me hope. Every time he smiles at me, I realize I want to find ways to make him smile like that forever. Damon belongs with me.
He is mine.
By the time Damon has visited all the stores he wanted, we’re laden with bags. Well, I’m laden with bags. I wouldn’t allow Damon to carry any and he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s almost skipping by the time we step outside to get into the ride share I ordered.
After I have the bags packed in the trunk, I slide in beside Damon and he immediately pastes himself to me. I sigh, loving that he’s way over being afraid of me.
“Thank you,” he murmurs into my chest. “That was … thank you.”
“Anytime, baby.”
Damon looks up at me and opens his mouth, but before he can speak, his phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket, and I watch his face pale. He moves away from me quickly, putting his back against the door. Raising a shaky finger to his lips, he gestures for me to be quiet. If it weren’t for the frightened look on his face, I would have snatched the phone to see who the fuck has him so afraid.
Sliding his finger across the screen, Damon answers with a meek, “Hey, James.”
I hear a man’s strong and stern voice coming through the speakers and the idea of snatching the phone comes back over me. It’s only with a lot of restraint and the pleading look from Damon that holds me in place.
“You’ve been gone for less than six hours and I already see I should have sent one of the boys with you. Did you forget that I told you to check in?”
“James, you told me not to bother you, so—”
“I told you not to bother me when you left. But you should have told me you arrived. I swear you’re so fucking worthless. Won’t listen to what the fuck I tell you. Don’t make me tell you again. Check in with me every day or I will send Conrad there.”
Damon winces and I ball my hands into fists on my lap, face burning with the urge to tell whoever the fuck is on the phone to go fuck themselves and no one needs to come for Damon because he’s with me.
“Okay,” is all Damon says, then the phone beeps, this James having hung up.
Sagging against the seat, Damon’s lip trembles and he pulls his glasses up to wipe his eyes. “I’m sorry about that,” he tells me in a small voice.
My blood boils with the need to fuck up whoever made him feel this way. My palm itches with the need to stab or shoot or just beat the shit out of the person that was on the other end of the phone. It takes massive effort to keep that away from Damon.
Dragging him over to me, I pull him onto my lap and Damon breaks down. I didn’t expect him to cry, but he does, shoulders heaving and breathing uneven. Our driver has the good grace to only glance in the rearview mirror once before their eyes go back to the road.
By the time we get back to the apartment, Damon is mostly hiccupping and taking deep breaths. I tell Damon to go upstairs while I get the bags. He drags his feet, shoulders slumped and head down. James is a fucking dead man, I don’t give a fuck if he’s his family or not. No one has the right to make Damon feel like shit from one conversation.
Setting everything down inside the door, I sit on the couch and pat my lap. Damon curls up to me and tucks his head into my neck. I don’t ask him anything just yet. I let him hold on to me and get himself together.
After we sit for a few minutes, I nudge him and ask, “Who was that?”
Blowing out a shuddering breath, he says, “My stepfather.”
“Tell me what’s going on with your family. You’ve mentioned your family isn’t kind. How bad is it?”
