Damaged: A Black Diamond Novel, page 2
Right. That was what we always returned to. Mom had made me weak. Mom had haggled away my manhood for the sake of cuddles and kisses. “Why am I even here?”
“You know why, Matthew.” The flat determination of his voice chilled me.
“Yeah, I know why I came,” I explained. “But I’m clean now. Why am I stuck at the resort? Why can’t I come back?”
Silence. It seemed to last a lifetime. He deliberately didn’t answer this question.
I grew uncomfortable, like I stood on glowing coals, and shifted my weight from one leg to the other. “Dad, I could…”
“Enough.” Gah. His fucking power-plays. “We’ve discussed this, Matthew. You’re staying another month. Relax. Rest. Socialize. This isn’t the time for you to return to the public eye. You need privacy. You need time to heal.”
The corners of my lips dragged down in disgust. I knew exactly what he meant. This wasn’t even about the partying. This wasn’t about my weakness for the snow, but my weakness for guys. This was about the cover of The Scoop where that security guard was pinning me against the wall and sucking my soul out of my mouth. Fun times.
He wanted me out of the public eye because he feared I’d get caught sucking a dick in the bushes in some park in the middle of the day. Oh, how the hateful minions voting for him would be angry if Senator Harris’ son was one of them queers. The shame and damage my behavior caused to his public image would be irreparable.
I held the phone in my hand so firmly that it was a wonder it didn’t snap. Rage erupted in me like a volcano. Just how much these few words I had exchanged with my father made me want to hit a line to straighten a little was terrifying, but it was equally as liberating.
Is that so, Dad? I wondered silently. You want me to stay out of the public eye so badly that you don’t care where you’re putting me? Even if it’s some random dude’s fucking bed? Alright. “Fine,” I said softly, sounding like I was giving up.
My father’s biggest fear wasn’t that I would return to Texas and fall nose-first into a pile of coke. His biggest fear was that I’ll slip and fall on a dick while I’m at it. And if he thought it was better for his image to not be sullied by my presence…well, I was happy to oblige and crash in that Adonis’s bed for a time.
“Fine? Are we good?” Dad grunted.
“We’re good, Dad. I’ll do what they do in the army,” I said softly, almost sweetly. Had he not been so self-satisfied and distracted by the rising size of his ego, he would have suspected foul play. I was never sweet. But Dad was too busy thinking about anything but his son, so he ate it up. “I’ll see if the company here can man me up.”
“Good. You’re doing well, Matthew.” These words came from him as an afterthought. I knew someone was already speaking at him and his attention was drifting. And with that, he hung up.
I handed the phone back to the receptionist, turned away, then paused. Reluctantly for the weight of my own embarrassment, I turned back to him and cocked my head a little. “Listen, I’m, ah…I’m sorry about snapping. I’m not myself.”
“Not a problem, Sir. I understand.” The words were polite. They were even spoken in a polite manner. They were spoken exactly how such words should be spoken so that nobody could possibly take offense or read some alternative meaning in them. And yet, the receptionist’s eyes were cold, untouched by the smile on his lips.
“Right,” I said. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
Feeling worse than before apologizing, I stalked through the resort without hurrying to return to someone else’s house.
The two months I had spent on the other side were a blur in my mind. I didn’t want to think about them, but I kept running into differences. There, I had been a walking zombie, shaking and shivering, sweating like a pig and spending nights in chills. Fever and fatigue, brain fog and lifeless meandering through daily routines. Conversations with Dr. Weaver in which I had grown so impossible that she had been exhausted of my company by the end.
Daddy issues. Always the same fucking thing. Every goddamn therapist wanted to ask about my daddy. “And how do you feel about your dad pretending you’re not gay?” the question inevitably came. “Fucking great. In return, I pretend he’s not going to run for president and act accordingly.”
The linen shirt I wore was light, pale cream, and with sleeves rolled above my elbows. A gust of wind that carried that strong, irresistible scent of salt off the sea lifted the bottom hem of my shirt and ruffled my black hair. Locks fell over my brow and I realized it had been too long since my last haircut. The shirt didn’t fit me so well as it once had. I had lost weight here as much, if not more, as when I had roamed freely with easy access to all that my addicted nose desired.
Not that it mattered.
Not that anything at all mattered.
My hair was overgrown and my weight was dropping with the lack of appetite. My muscles had gone soft from the lack of use. I was nothing like the person I had been a year ago. Two years? Unrecognizable. The young man who’d craved the attention of the camera lenses was dead, now. The one who’d shared easy smiles for magazine covers, done interviews like he was the king of the world, and always stopped with impressionable boys and girls for selfies. Yeah, that dude was a rotting corpse. All that remained was this pale scarecrow with an ill-fitted shirt and overgrown hair. It was unlikely I would start another trend and turn my washed out look into something fashionable.
I walked around, avoiding other people who lounged, snacked, and drank. The entire resort was a maze of services tailored for the absolute perfection of relaxation, but I found myself restless. I couldn’t relax if you paid me to.
Sighing, I headed back to the house. A couple familiar faces floated somewhere in the distance, though they either didn’t recognize me or didn’t care. I knew Masha, who had her arm around some guy’s neck, from the clubbing days. She hadn’t joined me in the rehab side, but was relaxing here in the privacy of the island. I was glad to see she still had a nose and a heart that pumped blood. I was less glad to see the way her gaze feathered over me and moved away like I was a ghost.
I felt like one regardless of Masha, but the confirmation was very much not welcome.
The house I was to share with a certain Mr. Alvarez was small, tucked away in the more nature-blending part of the resort. The lush greenery was all around it, somehow welling and bubbling and threatening to overtake the human-made structure. The house was mostly wooden, compact, with stylistic choices to make it blend in with the exotic backdrop. And here I was, giving zero fucks about it.
My suitcase had baked for long enough in the sunlight in front of the door, so I dragged it inside myself. Calling the desk over it evaporated from my mind when I decided firmly not to step on any more toes among the staff.
Inside, the AC unit hummed quietly, blowing cold air and giving me a moment of clarity and relief after the sweltering heat outside. I looked around and discovered that the bedroom door was shut and that my unwanted roommate was up in the loft.
Silently, I grabbed a dining chair and dragged it loudly against its screeching protests to the bottom of the loft. My muscles had weakened in the past few months, so I didn’t even think I could achieve this feat without the chair’s help.
I climbed up, then reached for the balustrade and began lifting myself slowly. I set one foot on the back of the chair and trusted it blindly as if it was my own father. Not unlike my father, it failed me and collapsed from under my foot. I remained hanging, clinging to the balustrade and fearing to let go else I tumbled over the chair and broke a bone.
“What the hell are you doing?” the guy in my bed demanded, crossing the room and leaning against the railing.
All my strength was focused on holding the balustrade and not dying. “Getting into my bedroom.”
The guy shook his head, then snorted. “For fuck’s sake.” He extended his arm over the railing and waited until I summoned the courage to release the balustrade from my right hand and try to catch him instead. When I did, our hands wrapped around each other’s wrists and he hauled me up like I was a sack of potatoes.
I tumbled over the wooden railing and onto the hardwood floor, rolled onto my back, and coughed with exertion. “Fuck. That looked a lot easier when you came down.”
The stranger snorted, which I supposed was a habit of his. “Next time, please use the door.”
I sat up carefully, rubbing my lower back and stumbling up onto my feet. “You said you’d lock it.”
“I lied,” he said innocently as he went back to the bed and crashed on the right side. “There isn’t even a key.”
I ignored how fucking amused he was by the whole ordeal. Instead, I scratched the back of my head and paced the room. “Alright. How do we do this?” The spite I felt for my father and the determination to simply slide into another dude’s bed for shits and giggles was leaving me now that I was faced with the said dude.
Still, I wasn’t going to sleep on the goddamn couch.
“Ah, I suppose I signed a piece of paper that lets you do whatever the fuck you want,” he said with a frown, flipping through a paperback book with a dog-eared cover and yellowed pages. “But then, I’m a stubborn fuck.” He shrugged.
That was another thing that annoyed me. “Why would you even do that?”
“Huh?” the stranger lifted his gaze over the top edge of the book.
“Why would you sign something like that?” I demanded. “Or even volunteer to have someone crash in your house?”
“I’m sorry. I thought it was obvious.” He cocked his head. “Taunting Matthew Fucking Harris is at least two and a half times better than having the boredom I paid for dearly. The train wreck himself.” He waved his hand at me as if to present me to an invisible audience. “How could I resist?”
My shoulders went down in defeat. “I see.” The words came out tired, which was probably the most honest I was the entire day. Well, then, the chance to taunt my father by sleeping in the same bed as this eye candy was better than nothing, I suppose.
It didn’t surprise me in the least that this was the stranger’s logic. After all, half the country hated my father. And half the country was going to vote for him. Meeting someone new was always a coin flip. His brand was tied to me my entire life and no amount of talking ever convinced people I was anything but my father’s son.
“Alright,” I said, a little more determined. “Since you seem to know everything about me, why don’t you tell me who the hell you are.”
“Tiago,” he said simply, then flicked a page in the book dramatically enough that I knew more words from my mouth weren’t welcome.
I sighed and walked out of the bedroom the boring way, climbed down the stairs, and decided to occupy myself by unpacking. It was obvious that the only upside of this entire month on the resort side of Black Diamond was falling through. I wouldn’t relax here. But that had never been anyone’s point.
I was far enough from the cameras and the prying journalists who wanted my father’s dirty laundry. I was one less liability so long as I was here. These were the critical days for his campaign-to-be.
And if I was relegated to being some guy’s punching bag, that was a small price to pay to have my way. The sheer power of my toxicity near Father almost made me pleased with myself. I’d done the thing. I’d become the nuclear reactor in a meltdown. There was no containing me where people could be in close contact. Why not, then, literally leave me on a distant island?
As I unpacked, I began to chuckle to myself. And I chuckled still as I rummaged through the stranger’s wardrobe and filled it with a few things of mine.
Well played, Dad, I thought, laughing like I was alone in the whole house.
Chapter Two
TIAGO
Not only was he the son of the founding destroyer of the fabric of society, but he was also mad.
Great.
So, the madman walked around the house and chuckled every now and then all the while my frown deepened. “You’re not gonna knife me in the middle of the night because voices told you so, right?”
Matthew Harris looked at me with confusion and cocked his head. “I mean…would you like me to?”
“Such a people pleaser,” I mused with dreamy sighs. “Truly, you are your father’s son.”
“What is this obsession with my father?” he asked, tucking his suitcase inside the fitted wardrobe. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a little crush on him.”
“Mm. You’d be right. My exact type are populist strongmen who blame the immigrants every time a child drops a gelato.” I shrugged. “Call it daddy issues, if you will.”
Matthew grunted and sat down in the recliner in the corner of the loft, kicking his sneakers off. I had seen him before, on TV and magazine covers. He had even been a meme at one point, when a paparazzo caught him looking particularly disgruntled and worried behind a club. I remembered in incredible detail the roughed black hair and panicked look in his dark eyes. He’d looked like he had danced his balls off on the floor, if I were being honest, but the memes were ruthless. ‘When you snort your weight off a hooker’s ass and can’t find your nose,’ was the caption that had gone viral.
I had enough shame to admit I’d found it funny at the time.
Now, Matthew resembled a wet towel more than the flashy brat he had looked like once. Gaunt and tired, his skin had a waxy quality and beads of sweat collected on his brow. His hair was still black and shaped to natural perfection, even if it was starting to cover his ears. He was skinnier than he had been on the magazine covers, but he didn’t look like a skeleton I’d have expected.
“What’s your deal, anyway?” he asked, letting out a tired sigh.
“What do you mean?” I asked, lowering my copy of Good Omens to my chest.
Matthew narrowed his eyes and scanned me. “It just feels like you’re a little out of place here.”
“In your house?” I taunted.
“At the resort,” he said.
I would have been offended if I weren’t thoroughly entertained by the nerve of this guy.
“There’s a hole in your undershirt and need I point out you’re wearing an undershirt like you’re at the Coney Island Beach. Your book looks like Noah found it in an antiquity shop after the flood…” I laughed out loud so abruptly that it shut him up.
“You’re kind of an asshole,” I said, laughing still. “Well done.”
He didn’t seem bothered. “So? What’s your deal? A charity case?”
“Oh, let me correct that. You are an asshole.” But he’d made me laugh and I traditionally gave zero fucks at my maximum capacity for fuck giving. “If you must know, Mini Me, I happen to be America’s Luckiest Guy,” I said. “Last year, I won the eleventh largest jackpot in history.”
“Eleventh?” Matthew asked, unimpressed. “Sounds like the eleventh luckiest to me.”
I pondered for a moment, my heart murmuring as if it was still alive. “Eleventh largest win. First cutest face. I’ve got a lot of leverage.” Hush, my heart. We don’t go there. Those words hadn’t been mine but I said them with the same cheekiness that inevitably reminded me of him. I smiled to myself, then wiped that smile away.
“You’ve got an ego,” Matthew pointed out lazily, stretching his legs out in front of him.
I shrugged. “Maybe. But hey, no war criminals in my family, at least. Just a first generation immigrant mother and father who worked two jobs each to raise me.”
Matthew let out a breath of air through his teeth. “That’s a low blow.”
“But fair,” I dared him just to see how far I could press him.
Matthew made an exaggerated gesture of zipping his lips up.
Laughter ripped through me against my will. “Fuck, man, I was hoping for some spine from you.” He glared at me, but it didn’t have the edge. “Seriously?”
He shrugged. “How the hell should I know? It’s not like I sat in his lap in the Situation Room. The White House doesn’t do any ‘take your kid to work’ days in the middle of a war on foreign soil.”
“Blah-de-blah. All I hear is you’ve got nothing to do with any of it.” I shook my head, smirking to myself. His father had been the Secretary of State for less than two years, sacked by President Sinclair for tanking the entire administration’s ratings. But, I suppose, they all let bygones be bygones. After he had returned home to Texas, he remained quiet for a while, then became a fucking Senator. And I wondered how many chances a guy could get.
“Well, yeah,” Matthew said with a frown, pulling me back into the present. “And I mean it. Blah-de-blah.” He got out of the chair and crossed the short space between us. Without a glance, he crashed onto the other side of the bed.
I snorted and chuckled before I could remind myself to hate his guts and revel in the fact he was sweating and twitching with nerves. “What a lovely specimen of human race you are. So invested in current affairs.”
Matthew shot me a look that was both amused and offended. It was as though nobody had ever spoken to him in anything but ass-licks and pampering. “You know, I love nothing more than being lectured about my privilege by the man in the ivory tower.”
I sucked my teeth. “Fair enough. But I’ll just point out that my tower hasn’t been ivory for that long.”
Matthew snorted and shook his head. “And you think that makes you better than me?” He seemed exhausted, almost dazed, as he spoke and scratched his upper arm. “Give your money some more time. You’ll be one of the pricks soon enough.”
“Hardly,” I said, glancing at my fingertips. “See this?” I thrust my hand over to him to examine it. “My prints faded with how many times I got burnt. You don’t just forget that when you become rich.”
Matthew held my hand in his and I realized I was deeply uncomfortable. He peered at my fingertips, his fingers brushing over my rough hand. “You’d be surprised what people forget as soon as they turn over their first million.”
