ALEXA

After dropping the boxes off, Damon drives out towards Forest Lawn Cemetery, which is apparently close to his place. He drives way better than most people I’ve been in a car with, even if he does have to wear hooks and use the weird ring attached to the steering wheel. Making small talk the whole time, I wonder why he’s acting a little strange.

“Are you worried about me seeing your place?”

“Huh?” he asks, distracted from his current verbal outpouring about the history of the cemetery or some such. “No. Why?”

“You seem nervous. I thought maybe because you weren’t expecting company, that perhaps you’d left your place in a mess and now you’re worried about me seeing it.”

Turning on to Florida Street, Damon frowns a little. “I’m not that messy.” Looking sideways at me he shrugs. “I mean I’m no clean freak, like Bruno, but it makes my life easier if I’m tidy.” Slowing the car he reaches to a small black box stuck to the dash and hits the button on it with one of his hooks. A garage door opens in front of us and he pulls in. Turning the car off, he removes his hooks immediately and rubs his stumps under his armpits as if itching them. I look out the windscreen.

Tidy is right.

Everything in the garage seems to have a place, from the unicycle on its hook next to other hooks for other things like snow gear, helmets, assorted sports equipment, to the skis and snowboards resting in the rafters. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a huge collection of... stuff. He did say he liked to keep busy, but it looks as though he’d never have time to do so many things as well as school work. And seeing and tutoring me. Suddenly aware of how much time I’ve spent with Damon in the last twenty-four hours, I find myself breathing a little faster.

“Are you alright?” he asks, turning towards me more. “You’ve gone pale.” Looking out the window to follow my gaze, he looks around his garage. “It’s a lot. I know. I keep trying new things to see if it’ll help the pain.”

I look at him, wondering if I’m the latest thing, or if he sees me as something more. I used to think it was the latter, but I can’t tell anymore. I don’t know which is better and I can’t remember what it was that I wanted.

“Alexa?”

Closing my eyes as the shiver passes through me, I remember I definitely like that. And that’s a really big deal.

“Alexa, I don’t know what’s happening. I’m going to go and get my keys. You can come if you want, or you can stay here. I’ll be right back. You’re not going to run away, right?” he asks, moving an arm toward me, before pulling it back.

Blinking, I look at his face. Kind. Worried. Hurt? I shake my head. “I’m not running.”

Pressing his lips together, Damon nods slowly and gets out of the car, slinging his hooks over his shoulder before he disappears through the garage’s internal door, leaving it open.

Unclasping my safety belt, I get out and follow him. The door leads straight through a utility room and into a small, clean kitchen space. There is indeed a box of rhubarb and raspberry teabags on the shelf by his kettle, but the whole place smells of good coffee and Damon.

The living room is across the kitchen counter. Again, it’s smallish, though it seems smaller because of the stuff crammed into it. Books line the walls. There is a huge desk is in one corner, with room for its computer and a large work surface. An easel is set up beyond that, with two different looking seats near it - one of which is the reclining one he told me about. There is a small table with two chairs, a very modest television and a small couch loaded with cushions. Amongst the cushions is a very strange looking teddy bear. Apparently made from salvaged parts of at least five or six different bears, it looks a little Frankenstein-esque, but is cute all the same.

Damon appears from a doorway opposite the kitchen. Stopping when he sees me, he smiles a little with something similar to... relief, maybe?

He’s changed out of yesterday’s clothes, opting for a t-shirt instead of the slightly dressier polo he’d worn to the club. He smells good, even from across the room.

“So, this is my place,” he says, opening his arms in presentation. “The bathroom is there if you need it. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

I shake my head.

Pressing his lips together again, he nods silently and walks across to a loaded bookshelf. Taking a box from the end of a shelf, he keeps the books from spilling by tilting one sideways into the box’s place. Bringing the box to the kitchen counter, he rifles through it and frowns before flipping it upside down on the counter. Raising it slowly, as one might raise a bucket when building a sand castle, he keeps the contents from scattering everywhere. Setting the box to one side, he plucks a set of keys from what is now the top of a pile of bits and bobs. Putting them to one side, he carefully sweeps everything else back into the box and returns it to the bookshelf.

Nabbing the keys on his way back past, he pauses briefly in the kitchen, next to me.

“Do you know what’s happening right now?” he asks quietly.

I lift one shoulder. “Not exactly.”

“Are we okay?”

“I don’t know what we are,” I admit.

“Is that the problem?”

“Maybe.”

Nodding, Damon looks around. Pulling a bar stool out from under the counter, he sits on it in front of me so that our eyes are level.

“I like you, Alexa. Very much. Not just because you make me forget that pain is a constant in my life. I enjoy your company. I also very much enjoy the connection we seem to have on the physical side of things. I’m happy not to put a name on anything, if you feel like the word relationship is a deal breaker, but we have in fact stumbled into some type of relationship, as unconventional as it might seem. You can trust me not to hurt you, and with anything else you want to share, because I certainly wouldn’t dream of betraying that trust. I won’t demand anything from you, and will appreciate anything you give me freely. If I’d like anything beyond that, I’ll ask. I’ll also respect your response. Do we need to clear anything else up?”

“I think I like you too,” I whisper, unable to confess it any louder.

“Is that a problem?” he asks with caution.

“Maybe.”

Taking a deep breath, he exhales slowly. “Not with me. Come on,” he says, walking to the door. “I need to get your hands on my junk.”

Snorting, I shake my head at his grin as I head back to the car.

Ready in my seat, I reach over and open his door for him when I see his complexion paling dramatically as he dons his prosthetics. Smiling at me, he slides in and quickly busies his hooks by pulling on his seat belt. Despite his brave face, his breathing has picked up and his expression is strained. Placing my hand on his thigh, I see the lines leave his face. Looking at my hand a moment, his eyes search my face for an explanation.

“I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

His surprised face softens. “You don’t have to touch me every time I’m in pain, Alexa. I mean, I appreciate it, but I’m used to dealing with it. I don’t want you to feel you have to do that.”

“I want to.”

Studying me a moment longer, he puts the car in gear and begins reversing out of the garage.

“I’m sorry I had a minor freak out,” I say quietly, as we head back towards Main Street. “I’m just not sure I know where I draw the lines on us anymore.”

“Do we need lines?” he asks, watching the road. “I mean, they might just get in the way of a nice time. We already have rules. Do we need to add a rule?”

“I don’t know. This is all new territory to me. No-one’s been able to stick to the rules properly since I made them.”

“What?” His wide eyes snap to me, and he seems almost torn when he has to watch the road again. “Why not?”

“Guys like grabbing? I don’t know. It’s probably because I’m not very good at sharing my problems - because they screw my chances of having a normal relationship. I avoid the issue and settle for what I can get. Casual sex.”

“I’m not sure I like this conversation,” Damon says, spinning the wheel with one hook as he scratches his beard with the other. “Do I have to think about you and other guys? Why am I different? I mean, you haven’t told me about any issues in words, but I understand you have reasons for your rules.”

“I don’t know why you’re different.”

“Well,” he says, laughing a little. “I’m sure the other guys had hands.”

“Hands are definitely a problem for me. If I’m not brave enough to explain that to a guy, I have to be inventive to prevent him from touching me. Truth is, I never like them enough to try being honest with them. I didn’t want to share my secrets with them.”

“Inventive?” Damon asks, visibly paling. “Do I even want to know? Forget it. I don’t want to know. Oh crap, I’m imagining worst case scenarios.” Looking at me sideways, he shakes his head and stares at the road. “I need an example. It can’t be as bad as what I’m thinking. How do you keep them from touching you without telling them not to touch you?”

“What are you thinking?” I ask, laughing.

“Glory holes. Bodysuits made of thick leather with strategic openings. Handcuffs. Whips. Assorted methods of accidentally breaking a man’s fingers.”

Still laughing at glory holes, I shake my head. “Mainly I just chicken out before I go through with it and have to make up excuses! But I have tied a guy's hands before. And the most success I’ve had is with a mechanic that I convinced not to touch me because of the grease on his hands. The next time, he’d scrubbed them clean, so I had to let him go.”

Exhaling roughly, Damon adjusts himself in his seat, the tension gone from his shoulders. “Okay. Thank you.”

Cracking up again, I shake my head. “Glory holes? Really? Ew.”

“Don’t laugh at me. I have an over-active imagination,” he says, pulling up to City Storage. “It’s a curse.”

“Or a blessing,” I counter with a shrug. “You’re pretty inventive. Maybe I should pick your brain sometime.”

Turning in his seat, Damon scowls at me. “You want my ideas on how to keep other men from touching you?”

Unable to help myself, I laugh at the look on his face. “Why? You got any?”

His jaw tightens as his eyes travel my face. A fleeting smile touches his lips and a definite gleam hits his eye. “You won’t like them,” he says with a sly half-grin before getting out of the car.

Shivering a little from his slight suggestion of the ominous, I let it rest, trying not to think about how unhealthy it is that his being jealous turns me on. That’s a slice of the old Alexa. I’m not the girl who will do anything for protection anymore. I can be choosy. I can make the rules.

But can I stick to them?

Sighing, I give myself a reality check. I’m sure Damon wasn’t even hinting that he’d beat men away from me. That’s just my warped history causing me to misinterpret things; I think. He’s a lover, not a fighter. And what a lover. Oh dear. I’m drifting back to those thoughts again.

Trotting around the car to join Damon, I glance up at him. “You didn’t mean you’d beat other men away from me right?”

“What?” he asks, his eyes flying to mine. “No. Where did that come from?”

“The past. I was just checking.”

Damon keeps watching me until eventually, he turns to the garage-like door in front of us and holds out the key to me.

“What did you mean then?” I ask, taking the key.

“Not that, but I’m still not telling you, because you really won’t like it.”

“How do you know?”

“Just a hunch. I swear it wasn’t anything like peeing on you to mark my territory. I know you’re not mine, Alexa.”

Staring at him a minute, I try to absorb what he’s just said. I’m coming to believe that Damon Shermansky is a master of distraction and redirection. I can’t think beyond him peeing on me. “Gross.”

Turning to the lock, I insert his key and open up. The unit is huge; an actual garage sized space. Filled with stacked furniture and boxes and more sports gear and art and goodness knows what else.

“Holy shit. It’s huge.”

“That’s what she said,” he jokes, only to turn red. “Sorry. I guess that joke doesn’t really work with people who’ve actually seen my penis.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, I snort. “You know when you apologize about your jokes it makes them less funny, right? I was laughing until you said sorry.”

With a sheepish grin, he gives me a lop-sided shrug. “I forget sometimes what’s appropriate. I hang out with Bruno and Jenkins way too much and I know the humor doesn’t always transfer well to others.”

“And just how did you find that out?” I ask, trying not to laugh.

“Mom told me.”

Laughing again, I turn back to his stuff. “Where do we start?”

“Ummm... with anything that requires hands to use, I suppose. Most of this stuff is from my old place. The one I had when I had hands.”

Folding his arms, he exhales slowly and moves down a purposefully made channel of free space between the stuff. He disappears behind a tower of cartons and soon a light comes on in the back. Following the path, I find him standing in front of a jet-ski.

“I guess we should limit it to what will fit in the car for now,” he says in a flat tone, his eyes distant.

Looking around, I wonder if he’s remembering all the things he used to love doing, and how depressing that must be and if this is the first time he’s confronted the past since he locked it up in here.

“Do you come in here much?”

“I used to. In the beginning,” he says, pulling out a collapsed weight-lifting bench and wheeling it in front of me so I can take it to the car. Bending to stack a bunch of weights, he lifts them easily enough and waits for me to get moving so he can follow. “I stopped coming when I accepted that part of my life was over.”

“Must have been hard,” I say, parking the bench next to the car. “Having to let go.”

Damon shrugs. “Some things were harder than others,” he says, going back for more weights. Following, I carry the bars he would have used, wondering how much he would have lifted when he had hands. I guess we’re starting with the stuff that was easy to let go. After a few more trips, I’m wiping sweat off my forehead and Damon laughs a little.

“You should have a rest,” he says, pulling a sheet off a huge, brown leather couch that looks as if it belongs in the study of some distinguished hunting lodge. “Can’t have my number one helper flaking out on me.”

Climbing onto the sofa over the arm, because of the stuff blocking access to the front, I stretch out, amazed at how comfortable it is. Looking up at Damon, I find him watching me with a strange smile on his lips.

“It’s good, huh?”

“It’s amazing. Will it fit in your new place?”

“Oh it’s definitely coming. I have missed flopping onto that couch, believe me. You make it look even more appetizing than I remember,” he says, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. Blushing a little, he rolls his eyes at himself and disappears again.

Moving around on the worn leather, I roll onto my belly and peer into the box closest to me. It’s full of trophies. Pulling myself closer, I look through them. There are trophies for soccer, and science, and even a spelling bee.

Damon walks past with his arms full and stops. “Oh man. Don’t look in there.”

Laughing, I pull out a trophy for academic excellence. “Oh my God, you’re such a super nerd.”

“I know,” he says, frowning. “Break time is over. Stop slacking or I’ll find you a really hard job.” Picking up the two cases he was carrying, he heads for the car. Dropping the trophy, I scramble over the arm of the couch and rush after him as he sets them in the back of the car.

“You play guitar?”

Sighing, he tilts his head back, before rolling it sideways to look at me. “Not anymore, Alexa. No.” His voice is cold and he returns immediately into his collection of historical pursuits. Arriving with two more guitars, he disappears again, only to come back with two more. The back seat is full of guitars when I grab his arm to stop him from going back into the storage unit.

“Do you have any more guitars?”

“One.”

“Are you giving that away too?”

Damon looks from the back seat, to the storage unit. “No.”

“Good.” His eyes focus on mine, narrowing slightly at my tone. “Only someone who plays well would have so many. You clearly loved to play.”

He shrugs, sniffs and looks at the weights that still need stacking in the back. Moving around, he begins loading them into the trunk along with the bars and bench. “I have a few bikes to donate, but they’ll have to go on the roof rack. Do you think a wind surfer would be welcomed, or should I find an actual enthusiast? Maybe just leave it down at Canalside for someone to take?”

“Damon, stop.”

“Stop what?” he asks, lifting his head. “I can’t use this stuff. It might as well go to someone who can. I don’t want to take anyone’s money when I don’t need it, and I shouldn’t keep these things locked up when someone could use them. It’s wrong.”

Frowning at him, I grab the nearest guitar case and join him behind the car.

“Sit,” I say, pointing at edge of the trunk. Glaring at me, he sits. “Further back. And unfold these, because I might need some help,” I tell him as I tug against his resistant arms. “And wipe that sulky look off your face,” I instruct as I open the case and take out the guitar. As soon as he sees it his eyes become glassy and the sulky look is replaced by one of anger as he turns his gaze back to me.

I don’t care. Nestling myself in front of him, I hold the guitar ready to play. Closing my eyes, I try to remember where my fingers should be. Images of my father flash through my mind as I try to place my fingers as he taught me. With a test strum, I know I’ve got it wrong, because it sounds awful. Wiping my cheek, I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath.

Trying again, I get it right and strum a few times before changing my finger position. With a smooth transition and a few more strums, the song is recognizable, but when I try the third chord, it all falls apart, because I can’t get it right, no matter how many times I try. With a sudden desperation to hear it, I try again and again, failing every time and getting more and more desperate. Damon’s arms come around mine, keeping me from strumming again.

“Here,” he whispers. “Open your eyes.”

Looking down, I watch as he nudges my fingers over and up slightly, and carefully orders them again before dropping away. “Now try.”

I brush lightly over the strings. Finally hearing the right sound, my eyes close in relief. “Thank you.” My voice barely carries because my throat is so tight with emotion.

“No, Alexa. Thank you,” he says, with a voice as soft as the last chord I played. “I... May I hold you a moment?”

Keeping my eyes closed, I nod and feel his arms wrap back around me as he pulls me closer with such tender care that I can’t help but cry harder. Kissing my head, he presses his forehead to my hair as he holds me, rocking ever so slightly.

“I think we’re done here for today. You want to go get a milkshake? I know a great place not far from the drop off point.”

Nodding, I sniff and wipe my face before wriggling out of his arms and setting his guitar carefully back into its velvet lined case. I move to put it back in the car, but Damon reaches out to take it.

“I might keep this one too,” he says quietly, disappearing with it, back into the storage unit. The light in the back clicks off and he reappears, rubbing his forearm over his eyes. Wordlessly, he loads the last of the weights and wheels a bicycle over. Knocking down the lever at the front wheel, he spins it until the wheel comes loose, then he puts the frame on top of the weights and the wheel on top of that, before closing the trunk.

“You really can take a big load,” I say, wiping my face and trying to smile.

Smiling back, he raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. I can really pack it in. It’s impressive how full it gets back there. Sometimes it makes sitting really uncomfortable though.”

Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. “You’re incorrigible.”

“What?” he says innocently as he grins. “I simply mean sometimes I have to move the seats forward to fit it all in. It makes for less leg room and uncomfortable seating.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Alexa. Are you suggesting that I’m turning a completely innocent turn of phrase into some sort of sordid, sexualized statement? Now that really doesn’t sound like something a bright young woman should be downgrading her thoughts to. And I should know.”

“Because?” I ask, already laughing.

“My mom told me. Now get in the car. I want to get rid of this stuff so I can stare at you over fluffy milk and pie.”

“Pie?” I ask, opening my door. “You never mentioned pie.”

“Oh, there’ll be pie,” he says, slipping into his hooks and hopping in. “The best pie in Buffalo. Lots of it too, because I’m starving and I really like pie.”

Closing his door, Damon presses the start button and once his seatbelt is on, he shifts quickly into gear, and drives back out to the street.

***

WATCHING ME OVER HIS frothy caramel shake, Damon sucks slowly on his straw.

“What do you want to know?” I ask with a sigh, as I easily recognize his expression.

“Whatever you’ll tell me,” he replies smoothly, returning his lips promptly to the straw. I watch the level of his shake approaching the bottom of the glass. No wonder he ordered two for himself.

The loud slurping noise of him sucking in bubbly froth fills the air and he moves the empty glass aside and begins on the next.

“Seriously?”

“I really like shakes too,” he says with a shameless grin. “So?”

“So...?”

“Let It Be?”

Smiling I nod. “You probably should, yes.”

Rolling his eyes, he gets that mischievous half-smile of his and I sigh inwardly as he narrows his eyes. “I meant the song. The Beatles’ song. The song you played on the guitar less than an hour ago when I was having a tantrum. You know, the song? Let It Be. That song.”

Taking a long sip of my vanilla shake, I stare at him and his stupid smile that is way too cute. “Yes, Damon. I got it. I was deflecting.”

“I know,” he says with a shrug, before he continues to stare at me and consume his second shake.

“I only know the one song. Though obviously, I don’t know it very well,” I correct myself, thinking about my recent attempt to play it. “It was fitting to the situation, I thought.”

“Agreed. Who taught it to you?”

“My father.”

“He played?”

“It was how he paid the bills.”

“So he was good then,” Damon determines with a wary side glance.

“Very.”

Looking as if he’s about to say something, Damon returns his mouth to his straw instead.

“What?”

“When you say was, you mean -”

“That he no longer plays. Yes.”

“Did his hands fall off?” he asks, smiling a little as he sucks his shake a little slower.

“No. He’s in prison. Any other questions?”

Taking a small amount of pleasure in Damon’s slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression, I smile a little myself as I sip my shake. Smiling more politely at the waitress as she delivers our cherry pie, I thank her, clear my throat and kick Damon under the table.

“Ah, yes. Thank you,” he says in a rush before she leaves.

“I have loads more questions, but I don’t know what the answers will be, or if they’ll offend you. My mind automatically churns out worst case scenarios and calculated risks. Can I please have some guidelines?”

“Ask and if I don’t want to answer, I won’t. Or I’ll leave.”

“I don’t want to make you leave!” he says with a frown as he leans back in his chair and looks down at his pie. “Also, I just realized that I’m about to make a total dick of myself in front of you, because I didn’t think through what eating pie would mean.”

“What does it mean?”

“I have to wear my hooks, or strap a spoon to my arm like a weirdo. I prefer the spoon, but I don’t like eating in public.”

“You seemed fine with pizza.”

“It’s finger food.”

“Well it’s not like you have fingers! Just strap on your spoon and have at it, Mr. I really like pie,” I tease, putting a spoonful in my mouth and moaning. “Oh. It’s good.”

“You’re evil.”

“Suck it up, fraidy-cat. Or do you want me to feed you?”

Sitting up straighter, his cheeks flame red. “Not in public, no,” he says, surprising me. Giving me what I think is meant to be a harsh look of disapproval, he flips open his bag and rummages around in it. Pulling out a strap that looks like one of those stretchy tourniquets a nurse might use when taking blood, Damon slips the loop over his stump, puts a spoon in his mouth and feeds the stem through the loop too. Carefully resting it on the table, he leans down, takes the end of the strip in his teeth and pulls the strap tight. Spoon-hand, done.

“So what do you want me to feed you when we’re not in public?” I ask with a smile as I put more pie in my mouth.

“Whatever you want, as long as I can follow it up with you for dessert,” he says without pause, taking in his first taste of pie and moaning as much as I did. “Orrmigorrd. And pie. There should definitely be pie. And stop distracting.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, pulling out the pencil that’s holding the bulk of my hair up. Re-twisting my hair, I shove it back in.

“Of course you don’t,” he agrees sarcastically, muttering something about gorgeous hair flipping this and sweet smelling that under his breath. Finishing his pie with record speed, Damon releases his spoon and drops the strap back into his bag. “How long has he been in prison?”

Sighing, I chew another mouthful of pie, before lowering my spoon to the plate and pushing the half-eaten slice aside.

“Nearly a decade now.”

“How long is his sentence?”

“Life.”

I can practically see his thoughts churning.

“Did he kill your mother?”

“What? No! He loved her!” I say, pulling my milkshake in close. “She was hit by a car. It was icy and the driver couldn’t stop. Car vs human; car won.”

“Was it him that...” he trails off and can’t look at me.

“No,” I answer firmly. “He loves me more than anything else in the world and I couldn’t ask for a better father. He used to play Let It Be to me every bedtime before Mom died. And for a while after.”

“Why did he stop?”

“He had to work nights.”

“Who put you to bed then?” Damon asks, quietly. Now I can’t look at him.

“A family friend.”

From most support groups, counseling and therapy sessions I’ve attended, I’ve found that one of the most common responses to the ‘who-dunnit’ question is: ‘a family friend’. It’s practically universal code for child abuser.

“How long before your father found out and killed the guy?”

Looking up at the tone of his voice, I notice Damon’s head is bowed low to hide his face. He has no fists, but if he did I bet they’d be clenched so tightly they’d be turning white. As it is his forearms are pressing into the table so fiercely that they’re taking on a pale appearance.

“Three years.”

“Three-” Damon’s voice, barely a whisper, breaks off and he raises his eyes to mine. “There were no signs? Nobody knew for three years?”

“I’m sure there were signs. I was pretty good at math until he started helping. I went from an achiever to a sullen, withdrawn shell.” Shrugging, I glance around my surroundings to ground myself in the present.

“I’m sure they probably associated the change in behavior to my mother’s death, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to correct them. My lips were sealed after he threatened to kill my dad if I told a soul. I was young enough to believe him.” Stirring the remainder of my shake with its straw, I detach myself from that part of me, because it’s just better not to relive it in public.

“I’m so sorry, Alexa.”

Shrugging again, I drop the straw back into my shake. “At least I don’t live in fear of him anymore, because he’s dead.”

“Do you visit your father?”

I shake my head. “He won’t see me. For my own protection. In case someone inside finds out about me and decides to use me if they need to make him suffer.” Wiping my cheeks again, I push away the last of my shake. “Will you take me home please Damon?”

“Of course,” he says, standing up. Pulling a few bills from his bag, he drops them on the table and waits for me to stand, offering his arm to steady me when I take a while to move. Wrapping my arm around his, I wonder if this will be the end of our strange relationship. Because he’s right, it is some form of relationship, even if it’s not the kind I’d imagined I was trying to avoid. I’ll miss the way he looked at me before he knew.

Leading me to the car, he helps me get situated, yet somehow manages to do it without making me feel man-handled. I’ll miss that too.

He drives me home in silence and walks me to my door, where we stop. I don’t know if I stopped, or if it was him, but I spend a long time just staring at the door to Beyond.

Ha! The door to beyond. Just walk on in and move past your troubles. If only.

“Alexa?” Damon moves into my vision, his eyes full of worry. It makes me sad that I put it there. I told him at the start this would happen. I’m too messed up.

“I’m sorry I ruined things, Damon.”

“What?” He shakes his head, his eyes searching my face. “You haven’t ruined anything, Alexa. If anyone did, it was me and my big mouth. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“I would’ve wanted you to know eventually, I think. Even though it would spell the end.”

“End?” he repeats, shaking his head. “Please don’t push me away, Alexa. I want to stay. You may think I’m not, but I’m strong enough to carry it. I am.”

“You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry! But not at you! You’re innocent!”

I choke back a laugh. “I am definitely not innocent. You don’t even know the half of it.”

“So tell me. We’ll go upstairs and we’ll talk it through, because I can handle it. I will listen to anything you tell me and I will still love you.”

“Love?” I croak, my throat going as dry as my mouth. All bodily moisture seems to be needed for making my palms sweaty. I wipe them on my jeans. “Are you kidding me?”

“Not even a little,” he says, dead-pan.

“You don’t even know me!”

“I know enough!”

“I don’t want you to love me!”

Squinting at me, he raises his no-hands to his head, making me wonder if his hands would be pulling his hair out. “You don’t get a choice Alexa! It’s mine to feel and... It just... is. I can’t not. I love you!”

His face is completely serious. Shaking my head, I look at him again.

“You don’t want to run away screaming?”

“No.” Short, simple, clear. His resolve is unwavering. “May I please come upstairs?”

“Are you going to keep professing your love to me and make me kill you?”

“I can stop telling you, if that’s what you want. You know now anyway, so it seems cruel to taunt you with it when you clearly don’t want to hear it.”

“People who love me get hurt, Damon. They make sacrifices I don’t want them to make and I lose them. I don’t want you to be someone who loves me. If you could work on a retraction of your apparent love for me, I might consider allowing you to come upstairs.”

Studying me a long while, Damon sighs. “Should I just wait here until I don’t love you? Or would you prefer that I went home and loved you from there until it fades? It shouldn’t take more than an eternity,” he says with a shrug. “Maybe two.”

Narrowing my eyes at him I stomp on his foot. “If I’m mean to you will it fade faster?”

Hopping in a circle, he comes to lean on the door as he smiles down at me. “I don’t think so. Why do you want it to fade faster? Is it because then I’ll be allowed upstairs? You want me to come upstairs?” he asks, that sexy half-smile finding its way through my defenses. “Because if that’s the case, you could just open the door and I’ll come up now.”

“Stupid, word-twisting genius,” I mumble as I elbow him away from the doorknob. “Get out of the way!”

Unlocking the door, I hold it open for him. “You think you’re so damn smart. Well, you’ve ruined everything. I hope you know that. You’ll never look at me like you did before.”

“You mean before I told you I love you? I know. I used to have to hide my face when I felt it getting all gooey and lovestruck. Now I can let it all shine out at you,” he says, sounding very pleased with himself.

Jabbing my fingers at the number pad, I enter the code to open the door. Slipping through, I close it behind me, leaning against it for good measure. “How’s that for smart, genius? Now you’re trapped.”

“So this is where you want me to love you from?” he asks through the door. “Close, but not too close? I guess that puts me firmly into the friend category then. Are there still benefits on offer? Or is this more of a roommate kind of friendship? I suppose, technically I’ll be inhabiting the foyer of your apartment. Should I pay rent? Alexa?”

“What!”

Unbelievable. What the hell am I going to do with him now? Send Bruno down to chase him off? I can hear him moving on the other side of the door, as if he’s pressed up against it.

“Alexa, I don’t want to be your roommate-friend,” he says quietly. “Your roommates are your family, which I’d like to be, but not in that way. Bruno says you’re his little sister. I don’t want to be your brother, Alexa. That would be bad. I don’t love you that way - as a sister. Alexa?”

“What!”

“I love you as a woman,” he says in a tone that makes my heart ache. “One that makes me feel like a man. Alexa?”

I don’t answer. What would I say? That I love the way he makes me feel like a woman? Even though I’m broken.

It’ll all be different if we go upstairs and talk.

“I know you’re still there,” he says after a while. “I think you should know that when you open the door I’m going to hug you. You should prepare yourself for it, because I won’t be able to stop myself. I won’t put my no-hands on you, but I’m going to pull you close and hold you. I won’t do anything else unless you tell me I can, but I’m definitely going to hug you the next time I see you.” There is a brief pause and it fills with the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

“The hug will last a while,” he adds, “So don’t open the door unless you have the time for it. I’ll just be here, okay?” There is a scuffling sound as I hear him slide down the door, settling in for the wait.