Page 92 of Damián

Damián rolls to his side, letting go of me as he moves to the edge of the bed. He sits up and scrubs his hands over his face.

“Fuck. I fell asleep…”

“We kinda both did…” I say, trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t work.

“Fuck!” Damián stands up, and within seconds, he is already scanning the floor and gathering his clothes.

And that’s when I see something on his face I’ve never seen before: panic.

Ouch…

Was waking up next to me really this bad?

It’s not like I’m a client or that he’s taken… Why is he so bothered by it?

“Damián…” I call, but he doesn’t look at me.

I stay in bed, watching him scramble around, and something tells me this is probably exactly what he does every time he wakes up next to a hookup he’s done with, and that makes me feel… empty.

“Carajo… así o más pendejo estás, Damián…” he mumbles to himself and takes a deep sigh. “…I fucked up…”

Double ouch…

My heart breaks at the words “fucked up” in a way I never thought would be possible. How can someone be the happiest they’ve ever been only to be miserable two seconds later?

I pull the sheets up, covering my naked body, because being alone in this bed is making me feel completely exposed and hurt.

But all Damián does is fix his clothes and apply makeup to his Harknett tattoo, looking at the door, the windows, everywhere but at me.

“Fuck…” he mutters, annoyed.

Ahhh… that word again…

I feel rejected, unwanted, and used.

Because apparently, even if he’s so damn special to me… for him I’m just someone he fucked-up with…

He bends over to pick up his shoes near the nightstand, and my heart completely stops. Tucked neatly beneath the edge of the nightstand is my small silver tray covered in dusted white powder, next to a small, half-empty bag of cocaine.

Please don’t see it… Please don’t see it.

I really don’t have the mental capacity to explain all this shit to him, and I don’t want him to think I am a fuck-up and a drug addict.

Luckily, he grabs his shoes without looking under the table and sits on my couch to put them on.

“Fuck… I fucked up.”

Okay, now I’m just pissed.

“Oh, God, Damián, just shut up!” I snap.

He finally looks up at me, and the panic is still there in his eyes… If anything, it’s actually worse.

“I get it. What we did last night was a mistake,” I say, throwing the covers off. I get out of bed, grab a pair of underwear, and shove them on. “Can we just move the fuck on now?”

“No, Ollie, listen—”

“No, you listen. I don’t know if this—” I gesture at him “—is how you freak out every morning after you have sex, but you seriously need to stop it. It is one hundred percent unnecessary.”