Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 27: The Caged Bird

"Overreacting? Given what you just said, I think my reaction is exactly as it should be," Damon grunts, wrapping his hand around my wrist. His grip is firm, solid, unflinching but so fucking gentle. Yet it makes me feel trapped, like a bird in a cage. I can't handle any more cages. "Do you want to fuck him, Emery? Is that what you want?"

"Let go of me," I say, and he drops his hand immediately. "You need help, Damon." I rub my wrist, shaking my head at the sad man standing before me. "Professional help."

"I'm sorry," he mutters, ashamed and small. "I—"

"Are you though?" I ask. "I get that you and Quin have problems, but I'm not an idiot, and neither are you. Whatever elicited this reaction is something bigger than just a necklace." I sigh. "You told the reporter earlier that you spent the last two years grieving. Well, grief has stages, Damon and I— I don't think you ever left anger behind. Because this—" I motion around him. "This is some unresolved grief, in one way or another."

"I—"

"I'm done talking to you," I say, picking up the train of my dress. "Figure your shit out, Damon, because I have no desire to carry your baggage. Either unpack it or I will pack. I'm going to check on Quin." I flash him a stern look. "Do not follow me."

As I make my way toward Quinton, a wave of guilt crashes over me. It feels like I am abandoning a wounded child, one who is unable to articulate their feelings. But he's not a child. He's an adult, a grown-ass man who throws tantrums when he doesn't get what he wants.

Perhaps it's a result of his upbringing, or maybe his inflated ego is to blame. Or, the explanation that haunts me with an unshakeable guilt, is that he fears losing me to the sea that swept away all those he dared care about.

My sympathies are with him, they really are, but I am not a solution to his problems. I am not a remedy, a cure, a magical concoction that heals all his wounds, his scars, his pain. I'm also not a distraction. And that is what it feels like sometimes. That he uses me to forget. I'm a hypocrite, I know. I use him too. But soaking in pleasure is always so much more attractive than soaking in pain. But his pain fuels mine, and mine his. There's only so much agony a human body can take.

"You need ice," I say to Quinton. He looks up at me, the cloth napkin in his hand dotted with blood. I glance down at his ruined white tuxedo. "And that's going to stain."

"You're still here," Quinton muses, standing up. He gives me a crooked smile. "I'm pleasantly surprised."

"No, you're an idiot." My gaze darts to the service doors that lead into the back kitchen. "This way. Let's go." I look back over my shoulder at Quin and lift an impatient brow. "Do you want a bruise?"

Quin chuckles, following me. "I wouldn't mind a bruise. I feel like it would make me look rather dashing, wouldn't it, darling?"

"Don't darling me," I state, slipping past the waitstaff as we sneak through the swinging doors. I ignore the puzzled looks from the cooks as I zero in on an ice machine. Grabbing a fresh cloth napkin from a nearby tray, I flip open the lid and stuff it with ice cubes. "Here. Put it on your nose."

"You're quite bossy, aren't you, little Emery?" Quinton presses the ice pack on the side of his nose and leans against the prep table. "There. Happy?"

I roll my eyes, jonesing for a cigarette. "Am I happy that my boss got caught in 4K socking Time's Man of the Year in the face? No, can't say I am."

Quin smirks. "Yes, that was terribly unfortunate."

I shoot him a knowing scowl. "Really? Because it seemed like you knew exactly what was coming." I tilt my head. "What did you say that pushed him over the edge? I didn't fully understand."