Hotline Fling

41: Edged

Juneau's POV

With my dress top puddled at my waist, my bra on display, my nipples mutinying to poke through the red lace, and my hands on Damian like I performed the world's clumsiest pat-down search, I pulled back. Involuntary trembles shook my fingertips. They traced the black, four-inch script under his top left rib. His tattoo read 'In Valor there is Hope,' but he hadn't mentioned its date stamp.

August 21.

My lower lip quivered. I rolled my left wrist and lifted the same date into view, my script to his block font. A heavier, deep ache filled me. "D-Damian?" His name came out in a broken whisper. "Why?"

"Because it affected me." His response was blunt and direct but also simple. Stuck in his matter-of-fact, no-nonsense, and casual tone, his words were too good to be true. Timing the most horrific event of my life into a beautiful crash of fate was a lot to absorb.

Damian's hand left my back, and his index finger stroked the numbers of my wrist tattoo. The gentle, reassuring touch sprung tears into my eyes. His gaze softened, and his kiss on my ink fluttered my pulse beneath it.

"Not like you." His throat bobbed and rolled in a hard swallow. "But I was forced to make a lot of changes that day. Most were for the better, and I'm still working on some, but I grew up as a cop that day. Stupid to get the date inked 'cause I'll remember it, but...I did."

Speaking wasn't an option. My voice lodged in my throat because he looked so sad. "I went to their burial service. I didn't see you but stood off on the road."

Prompted by his words, I retreated to that gray, cloudy day. The sky was thick with threatened thunderstorms. Aunt Margaret and Uncle Joseph came up from Clinton with Alec, Jax, and Gage, filling the house with noisy distractions.

I was supposed to start my senior year at William Dickinson the Friday after the accident. Once my aunt and uncle were my legal guardians, they kept me home for the funeral and burial, then transferred me to Clinton High. I dreaded the looks of pity. It was bad enough to be the new girl; worse was being the new girl with the dead parents.

When the NYPD called Aunt Margaret to identify my parents' bodies, she broke into a mess of raspy sobs. Numb with shock, I barely processed their death. Thankfully, she went to the morgue because I couldn't handle seeing why a closed-casket service was arranged.

At the funeral, Aunt Margaret stood on my right in a full-length black dress and her long brown hair bound in a tight bun. Her normally makeup-covered face was bare and raw, and her red, bloodshot eyes were hidden behind black sunglasses. One hand clutched mine, and our trembling fingers interlocked. Her sister was lowered first, then my father.

Uncle Joseph's bald head shone despite a lack of sunlight, and his belly protruded out of his too-small black suit. My three cousins and new roommates stood behind us, all three tipped their brown-haired heads down and stifled yawns.

My other hand clutched one of Mama's prized orchids to my stomach. Dad bought them instead of flower bouquets, and she cared for them so lovingly. It felt appropriate that I removed the white flowers and tossed not its petals on their lowered caskets but the entire plant–leaves, stems, even roots.

No words were spoken that day that I remembered. People blurred around me, dropped their condolences, and moved on with their lives. While my aunt and uncle cared for me and opened their home, I'd never felt so alone. None of my 'friends' or ex-boyfriend from my old school attended the service.

Beyond it all, Damian was affected. Reinforced by his stoic, somber expression, he was present and very much impacted. Not in the same context, but my parent's passing held significance in his life. With that sad look and his gesture, he warmed and touched me beyond words. Beyond lust and attraction, warmth glowed in every corner of my body. His stoic, sad sympathy warmed and touched me beyond words.